Page 59 of When We Had Forever
He hesitates. “I want to.”
Something flits around inside my chest. Something that hasn’t shown its face in so long that it takes me a full ten seconds to determine its identity.
When I do, I promptly squash the feeling flat. What is happening right now? This man isn’t Michael. We aren’t flirting. Grayson is not—and never will be—a substitute for the person I loved down to the roots of my soul.
It’s just the voice. And the bizarre way in which he’s talking to me as though there’s no one else in the world he’d rather be on the phone with.
“I should go,” I say.
He sighs. I can practically taste the frustration in it. “Was that too much?”
“Yes. Or no. I don’t know. You’re just...not what I expected. I’ve spent all these years hating you, but the person I was mad at was completely different, in my head.”
“In what way?”
“I just thought... Well, I thought you were this ungrateful, angry mess.”
“Fuck.” He laughs, all gravel and smoke, and I have to close my eyes for a second. “And now you think I’m not?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“Yes, Mina, I’m a mess. I’m fucked up and full of scars and have a special talent for pissing off most everyone I come in contact with.”
My mouth twitches, unsure whether to bend up or down. I can’t deny that his candor feels like a cool breeze against my skin.
“But also,” he says, “I’m the kind of guy who’ll go to the ends of the earth for the people I care about. Even if there aren’t that many of them. And I’d like to think I manage to tell a decent joke now and then. And also...I’d really like to call you again. If you’ll let me.”
I go achingly still, feeling myself balanced on a knife’s edge. On either side, the world plunges away toward shadowy black depths I can only guess at, and one wrong step will send me tumbling into the abyss.
I have the distinct feeling that letting Grayson Drake call me again would only be the first of many wrong steps.
But for so long, I’ve tried to make the right choices and only managed to circle back to the beginning. I’m no better off than I was fourteen years ago, when I sprinted across town trying to catch a ride with a stranger. Then, life was poised to open up for me, but since then, I’ve gone backward. Retreated behind the same lines that have marked my worn-down territory for decades.
I try to name a single risk I’ve taken since the day I got into Michael’s car and come up blank. Because even staying with him amounted to playing it safe, in a way.
“All right,” I say. “Call me again, if you really want to.”
Air rushes out of him, as if he’s been holding his breath. “Okay. Then we’ll talk soon.”
“Okay.”
After we hang up, I stare at the phone. I have no idea what to think. Nothing about that lined up with my expectations.
Shaking my head, I go clean up the groceries, managing to salvage everything except a broken jelly jar and three eggs.
Once that’s taken care of, I have nothing left to do but head into the woods.
BEFORE
For our first dance as a married couple, Michael insists on “Angel” by Aerosmith.
Neither of us knows how to dance, especially to something with such a brisk tempo, but he insists the lyrics remind him of me, so we sway together to Steven Tyler’s melodic wailing. Behind me, my white gown swishes against the country club’s parquet dance floor.
Our friends and family surround us, but their faces blur. I can’t wrench my eyes from the blue-green ones I’ve been gazing into for three years now. As of two hours ago, this man is myhusband. The person I’ll spend my life with, for better or for worse, ’til death do us part.
Michael smiles down and my chest constricts. I can’t believe we’re married. Especially because, at times, I didn’t know whether we would make it this far. The scars Grayson inflicted cut deep, enough that we almost didn’t survive those rocky months of aftermath. I’ve had to adjust to a partner who’s more serious. More reserved. Who goes quiet in the face of confrontation, because he’s still in recovery from more than just alcohol.
But once I adapted, I realized Michael’s love never wavered. He just shows it in different ways now, mostly by keeping me flush with everything I could possibly want—three-hundred-dollar running shoes that channel my inner Usain Bolt, a brand-new work computer with every possible accessory, flowers for no reason at all.
