Page 17 of You Met Me There

“She wants a baby, Luke. Coming back to the same house’’—she looks around—“the same marriage, where nothing’s changed … you’ll just be bringing her back to be hurt again.”

I pause, pushing my hand through my damp hair, slick from sweat.

A few years ago, Natalie came home from a therapy session and told me about this idea her therapist explained to her. She called it “rupture before repair.” Basically, the idea is that sometimes things need to blow up before they can blow over. Conflicts occasionally are so compact that we need to reach the absolute worst part of it before we can find resolution.

And this? This is the absolute worst pitfall our marriage has ever faced. Marriage isn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination—it’s two people coming from different backgrounds and trying to create a life together. It’s two partners wanting the best for each other and striving to be the best they can be for the other person.

But have I done that? No, I haven’t. I haven’t considered what’s best for her, and my selfishness has torn us apart.

Even though I’ve never told Natalie about my mom’s struggles that affected me when I was a kid, I want to open up to her now. She needs to know the whole truth, no matter how painful it is for me to dig up the past. Our relationship is rupturing, and it’s my duty to repair what I’ve broken.

I can’t lose Natalie. I just … can’t.

“I won’t hurt her,” I say. “I’ll make it better. I’ll make everything better.”

Chapter 9

Natalie

My eyes widen at the views I’ve missed all these years as I drive into the town I grew up in. Trees line each side of the single-lane mountain road, and the noonday sun shines brightly across my windshield, creating a glare that’s hard to see through. I lower the visor and slide my sunglasses onto my face, brushing my fingers through my short hair.

Now that I think of it, maybe no one will recognize me. I’m almost ten years older, and my hair is blonde, a drastic change from the natural brown it used to be.

A few minutes later, I’m reading the blue wooden sign that says “Welcome to Maple Lake”. I roll my window down, breathing in the nostalgic scent of flowers and dirt, enjoying the way the warm air fills the car and ruffles my hair. Birdcalls reach my ears on the wind, and I smile. I didn’t know what emotions would accompany my return, but I hadn’t anticipated the way nostalgia would hold my hand and make my heart sing.

The road turns into Main Street, and soon I’m driving directly through the heart of town. I pass a gym, which wasn’t there before—or maybe it was, I just don’t remember because I never went—and then the diner, which looks like it’s been updated with painted white siding and bright curtains in the windows. It’s no longer the old shack I remember it as.

On my left, across the street from the diner is the old movie theater, the one the girl at The Burnt Bean said was no longer open. I see someone walk out the front door as I slowly roll down the street, and that’s when I notice the sign: River Apartments. So, they recycled the building.

Well, I guess the need for more housing is a sign the town is growing. I’m sure that’s not a bad thing.

I continue on past the café, Le Fou, where I remember loving the poppy seed muffins, past the lake for which Maple Lake is named, and past the gas station and library before I’m turning onto the street where my parents live. Everything along the street looks the same, and my heart picks up speed as I near the house I spent my childhood in. The mailbox at the end of the driveway appears first, red like it was before but faded from the harsh sun. I slow my SUV and come to a stop, parking on the side of the street in case I need to make a quick escape.

Memories come flooding back: Tyler and his friends playing basketball in the driveway, Mom and Dad barbecuing on the back deck while Jules and I played in the yard. Jules’s disastrous kindergarten bangs, courtesy of me as a four-year-old with scissors. My first date at sixteen that ended at eight p.m., Tyler dressed up for prom, our mom and his date’s mom forcing them to take photos on the front steps. Every memory is a reminder of who I left behind, a reminder that I don’t know my family anymore. And they don’t know me.

Now the basketball hoop is gone.

Should I just leave? Was this all a mistake, driving nineteen hours to a place I no longer call home, where the people I ghosted will only ask a million questions while anger burns behind their eyes?

No, I tell myself. I have to do this. I came all this way.

With one last glance at myself in the rearview mirror, I open the door and walk along the slightly inclined street to the driveway, where I force myself to climb the three steps that lead to the door on the front porch. Each footfall is heavy, and the air is still, as if nature itself is holding its breath. There’s not even a bird in sight or a bug buzzing by; it’s like the world sits on the edge of its seat, watching to see what happens next. I wipe my clammy hands against my leg and open the outer screen door.

With a pounding heart, I rap my knuckles three times against the wooden door and step back, letting the flimsy screen gently close as I create space between me and whoever is going to step out.

Footsteps sound on the other side of the wall, as well as scratching and whining—maybe it’s a dog? I notice the curtain on the adjacent window shift, and two eyes stare out at me. A second later, the door opens.

A kind-looking woman with short brown hair steps into view, blocking a small dog with her leg. Through the screen she looks to be about forty-years-old. My shoulders slump.

“Can I help you?” she asks. She pushes on the screen door, opening it. It lets me get a good look at her. I know I can’t possibly remember every person in town, but I definitely don’t know this woman.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I thought someone I knew lived here. Actually, I used to live here. With my family.”

“Oh.” The woman smiles widely, small lines forming in the crease of her eyes. “Are you related to the Berns family?”

I nod, relieved that she knows who they are. “Yes. Do you know where they are?”

The woman shakes her head, her brows coming together. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but they left town. That’s all I know.”