Page 45 of When We Had Forever
“A few days, probably. I might have to turn over a few stones, but I’ll call you when I have something.”
“Thanks, Tanner. I appreciate this more than I can say. At the very least, I owe you a bottle of something expensive. What’s your favorite?”
He laughs softly. “Whatever Kate’s in the mood for.”
I smile. He might be oblivious sometimes, but he really does love my best friend.
After hanging up, I contemplate a second latte, but decide against it and instead skim the unread remainder of my email. After all, Kate had a point. I can only put off real life for so long.
Halfway through, the surrounding clink of silverware fades. Apparently, I’ve wasted my favor with Tanner, because Grayson sent me a second email, at least a month after the first. His name burns black on my screen, paired with another single-word subject line: “Appeal.”
My pulse gathers speed, a boulder careening downhill.
Dear Mina,
First off, I don’t blame you for not responding. After some reflection, I’ve realized how selfish it was for me to message you out of the blue asking something of you.
I know I have no right. None at all.
I’ve tried to imagine how Michael’s death must have affected you. Obviously, he and I grew apart a long time ago, but I’ve still mourned him, and at times it’s felt like an endless pouring out of the spirit that leaves me empty. I suspect that, for you, that’s amplified by an order of magnitude, since you were married to him. In essence, I’m sorry I made demands of you when you’re probably already overburdened.
Too bad no one’s invented that “unsend” button yet.
If they had, I would’ve used it. But since we’re still waiting on that, I’ll just come out with this directly, instead of making vague, inconsiderate requests: I need to know you’re okay. If nothing else, you’re my brother’s widow, and that means something to me, regardless of the issues Michael and I had.
I’ll do my best to make a meeting worth your while. If you need something to cry on, I have not one, but two (!) available shoulders. Or, if you’d rather rage at the injustice of Michael’s death, I’m not at all intimidated by expletives—shouted, snarled, or otherwise. As a last option, if you’d prefer to toss a cup of coffee in my face as retribution for my first message, not to mention everything else, I’ll buy.
Pick one, or, if you’re feeling really daring, all three.
Let me know.
Grayson
I read it three times.
Compared to the first, this message seems written by a different person. One who’s clearly nothing like my husband, because he’s done the exact opposite of urge me to go running. He’s invited me tofeel. To explode my land mine on purpose.
Moreover, he’s owned up to the damage he did. To Michael. Tous.
I fire out a response. I don’t censor myself, the way I did with my husband those last few years. I just write what I feel and don’t worry about how he’ll take it.
Grayson,
You’re right. Your first email did piss me off, though I’ll admit that probably had more to do with me than you. Your second...not so much. But as tempting as I find the idea of dousing you with hot beverages (the important question being, of course, can I *actually* bear to waste a perfectly good hazelnut latte), I don’t think I’m ready to meet someone who shares Michael’s face just yet. Seeing you in National Geographic was weird enough (what a way to find out your husband has an identical twin!), so I can only imagine the effect face-to-face.
That said, we probably should talk. I’m at my family’s cabin right now, where the cell service is spotty, so you’re welcome to call the land line. (Bet you didn’t even know those existed anymore.)
Keep the coffee offer on standby, though. Maybe the one with the expletives, too.
Mina
I add the cabin’s number, then read what I’ve written. I almost sense a real live person behind the words, one with a heart that beats and everything. The woman I used to be peeks through, like a pinpoint of light shining through a tattered curtain.
I hit Send and bang my laptop closed.
Back in the Porsche, I navigate to the market on the outskirts of Millbrook. Town only consists of three stoplights, so the drive doesn’t take long. In the parking lot, Michael’s car attracts a few appreciative looks, and I return multiple friendly waves before rushing through my grocery shopping.
I tell myself I’m only in a hurry so I can go seek solace in the forest. But beneath the daydreams of towering trees and whispering wind, something else simmers, as well.
