Page 90 of When We Had Forever
God, that man. He seemed so optimistic last night, so hopeful that he could resurrect a girl who wilted to nothingness long ago. Meanwhile, the most I’d hoped to find here was strength, like I did with Margo. Still, the way I looked in that picture from Hawaii—
“Mina? Are you there?”
I jerk back to reality. “Sorry, what?”
Worry threads through my mother’s tone. “Are yousureyou’re all right? You seem distracted.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Just haven’t had any coffee yet.”
I spend another few minutes soothing her. Once we hang up, I stare at the quiet phone, my heartbeat pattering, then scold myself for behaving like a teenager with a crush. If thereisone rule I actually believe in, it’s that women should never wait on men to call. Not even grieving widows with strange affinities for their ex-brothers-in-law. So I pack my laptop into the Porsche and head for town, parking once again at Grounds for Dismissal.
On the way in, I step aside for two twenty-somethings with dewy skin and hot coffees in their hands.
“I heard he washere,” one bubbles to her friend, “in Millbrook. Can you believe it? Devina saw him at the Shell station this morning. She said he was driving some kind of car she’d never even seen before.”
I linger, holding the door for them. I would’ve done it anyway, but I don’thatethe chance to eavesdrop, considering I know exactly who they’re talking about.
“I wonder if he’s staying at the Roadside Inn,” says the other. “He must be, if Devina saw him at the Shell.”
I exhale hard. Damn. I didn’t even think about the challenges of finding a hotel room at 4:30 a.m. in a town like this. I hope Grayson didn’t actually get stuck at the Roadside. All the rooms there smell like cigarettes.
What was I thinking, letting him leave?
The first girl smiles at me in passing before turning back to her friend. “Totally. So you wanna go stake out the Burger Shack across the street?”
“Oh, yeah. I just have to find my lipstick first, the one that makes me look like...”
Their voices fade as they waltz down the sidewalk. I quell a grin and head inside for a hazelnut latte, then curl into an armchair by the windows and open my computer.
I tell myself I’m here to get a head start on my next article, but the truth is an idea drifted into my head this morning while talking to my mother. One so nascent and fragile that I fear acknowledging it directly might pop it like a gleaming soap bubble.
So I don’t think about what I’m doing, even as I bring up a fresh Word document and begin to type.
Once upon a time, I ran away from my own life, into the forest. You see, my husband had just died, and...
It’s just an experiment, and at first, I can’t even say what will come of it, because the words arrive in halting bursts. But soon, they gather momentum. Vines of black blossom across the screen.
It’s like wrenching open a tap that had previously rusted shut. For so many years, I’ve pushed away the words I’vewantedto write. Sentences have appeared in my head sometimes, usually in the shower—luscious turns of phrase to capture the feel of a new-to-me but ancient city, or a field of sunlit wildflowers waving in welcome.
I always shrugged them off along with the hot water. Let them slip down the drain like slivers of spent soap.
But maybe they never truly left, because now I breathe them onto the page. I craft lines about starglow filtering through pine needles and how lantern light makes a beloved childhood haven look warmer and more welcoming than any other place in the world. I write about the unique loneliness of trapping yourself in a place you once shared with someone long after they’re gone, and how sometimes a change of scenery equals so much more than just a geographical shift—it’s a breaking down of mental walls, a reclamation of your own sovereignty.
When I finish, my empty mug has grown cold and my chest rises and falls like I’ve run a marathon. I glance at my phone. Nearly three o’clock, though it feels like only minutes have passed.
I do a quick scroll through the pages. They’re special. The most honest ones I’ve ever produced. I snick my computer closed and look up. And freeze.
The opposite armchair no longer sits empty, as it did when I arrived. An incredibly large, incredibly beautiful man sits there, wearing a leather jacket and a rapt expression.
“Hi,” Grayson says.
I set my computer on the tiny table between us—slowly, like he’s caught me doing something illicit. “Hi. How long have you been there?”
“Half an hour, maybe.” His long fingers wrap around a mug as empty as mine.
“Doing what?” I say, all caution.
“Watching you write.”
