Page 46 of When We Had Forever
I don’t examine it too closely. I’m not sure I actually want to know what it is, even as I speed through the checkout line and urge the Porsche ever faster on the drive back. The whole time, a hive’s worth of bees buzzes in my stomach.
At the cabin, I’m only just slipping the key into the lock when inside, the landline rings.
BEFORE
Michael’s “quick errand” lasts a long time.
In his absence, I savor my homemade breakfast, then shower. When I emerge steamy and dripping to call his name, only my own echo answers.
With a shrug, I blow-dry my hair and do my makeup, adding extra liner around my eyes to make the blue pop. I choose my sexiest underwear—a matching bra and thong in scalloped white lace—then a bright yellow T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts. This late in the game, I don’t feel the need to impress Michaelthatmuch.
When another half hour passes, I don’t worry. I find myself, as usual, in front of the tornado photograph. It enthralls me, making me wonder what kind of person can create an image this powerful. My mind conjures a man with emerald eyes, his brown hair flattened against his forehead by the encroaching storm.
What was Grayson thinking about, in that remote Kansas field? Did he read something profound into nature’s destruction, like Michael did with the stars at the observatory that night? Or did the tornado simply remind him of his pain? Of Lily’s loss?
When I finally tear myself away, the microwave clock reads 10:30. Two hours have passed. Frowning, I carry my cell phone to the windows, where I stare at the mist hanging over the ocean and tap Michael’s name.
The call goes straight to voicemail, as if his phone isn’t even powered on.
My heart shivers. For the first time, I wonder if something’s wrong. Then, when two more hours crawl by and Michael still doesn’t return, Iknowsomething’s wrong.
Outside, dark clouds spit water that dribbles down the windowpanes. Inside, I pace. I call Michael a dozen more times, always with the same result.
Doubts invade my mind like thorny vines. I envision the man I love lying bloodied and broken, the victim of some senseless act of violence. I imagine the Audi careening off a bridge and dragging him into the black-water depths of the bay. I sense my entire world ending without my permission, and the horror of it nearly chokes me.
If only I’d told him I wanted to stay. If only I’d decided not to get on that stupid airplane, Michael wouldn’t have gone wherever he went.
I will myself not to vomit. I clutch my phone until the casing creaks, begging the screen to light up with a call, anything.
When it finally dings with an incoming text, my knees buckle. But then I see Kate’s name and fight to stay upright.
How’re things in Seattle? I miss you. The new job’s all right, but it would be a ton more fun if you were here to bitch to about the parts that suck. Anyway, I hope you’re having a blast at Patrick’s, and that you’ve got enough for that ticket by now.
The words blur. I realize that, throughout my month-long delirium, I haven’t thought about my best friend but a handful of times. In a haze, I type,I’m not actually at Patrick’s. I moved in with Michael. I’m sorry, I completely forgot to tell you.
When my phone pings—once, twice, many more times—I set it aside and squint through the veil of rain in hopes of catching Michael passing along the waterfront. I would go out and search for him, except I have no idea where he went.
Acid coats my throat. The minutes skulk past, each one like the turn of a screw in one of those medieval torture devices that splinters people’s bones in the slowest and most horrific way possible.
I wander through every room. I fruitlessly call Michael’s phone. I cancel my held ticket to Athens, but even that fails to ease the thousand-pound weight in my chest.
At 5:00 p.m., I finally realize that, if and when he does return, I’m dressed completely inappropriately for the dreariness outside. For some reason, that seems important.
I shuffle into the bedroom and strip to my bra and thong. I stare unseeing at the paltry collection of clothes in the drawer Michael cleared out for me. Then I wonder what I’m doing, why I came in here. I can’t remember.
The front door opens and closes.
All the blood in my body cascades inward. I race out to the main room, not caring that I’m in lingerie. Michael stands by the front door, his shirt clinging to his chest. Water plasters his hair to his face.
My head seems to detach from my body and float upward. He’s safe. Soaked to the skin and jacketless, maybe, butwhole.
“Um...” He studies my state of undress with widened eyes. “Hi.”
I careen across the room and launch myself at him, clamping my legs around his waist and burying my face in his neck. “Hey.”
He stiffens, enough to tell me that whatever happened today was not pleasant, and I hug him tighter, my relief powerful enough to overcome his rigidity. To overcome anything.
“Holy shit, am I glad to see you.” My lips press against his rain-soaked skin. “I was so terrified something had happened. There wasn’t a single thing I wanted more than to see you walk through that door.”
