Page 93 of When We Had Forever
“Yeah, no kidding. Just...send Grayson our way if you decide you’ve got better things going on, all right? It was really nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
They walk off, glancing back once from the sidewalk to wave.
I watch until they disappear, then snap open my computer again. Blithe optimism. I could probably use some of that in my life.
I pull up a browser and navigate to my favorite website, Travelique.com. I’ve visited it more times than I can count, always to salivate over the travel journalism and photo spreads of far-flung places. Typically, Travelique doesn’t feature stories about domestic destinations like Washington, but they publish articles with an outdoorsy bent, and it can’t hurt to try.
I find an email address for submissions, then type out a message and attach my article—if that’s what it even is—about searching for solace in the forest.
I hit Send before I can talk myself out of it.
That done, I pack everything away, breeze out onto the sidewalk, and duck into Michael’s car.
At the cabin, I toss all my things onto the daybed, then pull on my running shoes and venture back outside. On the porch, I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sun. Warmth presses against my cheeks like adoring hands.
I bask. I can’t remember the last time I stood like this, just enjoying a moment.
It feels damn good, and when I run, it feelsdifferent. Like a celebration instead of an escape. I fly down the gravel road, eating up the miles.
Ever since Michael’s death, I’ve shied away from our happiest memories, but today, I let them in. As the sun-warmed trees flicker past, I think of the way meeting him brought me to Technicolor life, how my heart expanded to fill my entire body when we swam to that underground cave in Canada. I recall the radiance of that last starlit night in Hawaii—not spent making love or even kissing, but just existing together, wholehearted. I even relive the wash of wonder that flooded me at the observatory all those years ago, when I looked into those sea-deep eyes and knew I had no desire to ever love anyone else.
Those moments are gone forever, never to be repeated. Somehow, though, the surrounding forest makes that certainty more bearable. And for the first time, I consider that, instead of being unfortunate enough to have lost so much, maybe I’m lucky to have ever had it in the first place.
When I finally make it back to the cabin and step into a steaming shower, the spray seems to rinse off so much more than sweat and dirt. It’s like my head is breaking water for the first time in half a year. I chase the feeling. I take a draft of the air I’ve missed so intensely and hold it in my lungs.
Afterward, I look in the mirror. Really look. Kate and Grayson are right—I’ve gotten too skinny, but I still find pleasure in the way my eyes catch the afternoon light and my hair skims my jawline.
The coffee-shop girls weren’t lying. I’m pretty.
I’d forgotten that.
I play it up, dusting blush on my cheeks, layering shadow and liner around my eyes. When I finish, I smile at what I see, then blow-dry my hair to a glossy black shine. I slip into a wine-red, close-fitting tank top and clingy dark pants.
It’s partly for Grayson. I can’t lie to myself about that. But it’s also for me. It’s everything I wrote in that article—a declaration, a statement about my independence.
I’m here. I survived. I still matter.
Maybe I should start acting like it.
I complete my ensemble with dangly earrings and head into the living room. While laying a fire, I think of what I told Kate, about how I’ll never fall in love again. How Ican’t.
That still feels true, and I’m okay with that. But just because I can’t fall in love again doesn’t mean I’ve joined a convent.
I consider calling my best friend and telling her so, but ultimately decide against it. She’ll only talk some sense into me, and I don’t actually want her to.
Because for once, today strikes me as an excellent day to do something I’ll ultimately regret.
AFTER
Grayson shows up bearing gifts—a brown paper bag that smells like an overworked fryer, a bottle of Scotch, and more Cabernet, to be exact.
“Grease and alcohol,” I say when I swing the door open. “It’s like you’re trying to charm me.”
He does an obvious double take. “Wow. Yes. I am. Though if I’d known you were going to answer the door looking like that, I would’ve brought you the whole damn cow. The whole damn liquor store, too.”
A flutter races up my spine. How does he do that? I say something innocuous, and he escalates it with no apparent effort.
