The more pressing issue, and even more closely guarded secret, is the way I feel about Nolan, my husband of nearly seven years. I’m not sure where to begin, other than at the beginning, with the answer to that question So, how did you two meet? Every couple has their canned answer, their story that’s told again and again. Sometimes the husband will take the lead in the retelling; sometimes the wife will. Sometimes it’s a tandem effort, scripted down to the smallest one-liner, suspenseful beat, wistful glance, fond chuckle, serendipitous plot twist. And then he said this. And then I did that. And now here we are. Happily ever after.
Sometimes I wonder if part of my problem with Nolan isn’t our story itself, the how and why we got together. Because even if I stick to the abridged, upbeat, dinner-party version, and avoid maudlin details such as “Nolan was a pallbearer at my brother’s funeral,” we always return to Daniel.
Growing up and for as long as I can remember, Nolan was my brother’s best friend, although with a four-and-a-half-year age gap, I actually didn’t pay much attention to either of them, at least when I was really little. He was just a fixture, like the tweed sectional in our family room or my father’s workbench in the garage, part of the backdrop of my childhood, one of the many older boys who came to trade baseball cards or throw a football in the backyard or spend the night, sleeping in the trundle pulled out from under Daniel’s twin bed.
By the time I reached middle school, it was harder to ignore Daniel and his friends, if only because Josie was paying such close attention to them. I remember her carrying on about Nolan in particular, and I had to agree that he was easy on the eyes. With wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the kind of skin that easily tanned, he had such obvious Malibu lifeguard good looks that Daniel teasingly called him Baywatch. He also happened to be Daniel’s most athletic friend, a natural at every sport he played, though he didn’t have Daniel’s drive or work ethic, which evened things out for them on the playing fields. But what stood out to me the most was Nolan’s sense of humor, the laid-back way he approached everything, in stark contrast to my type A brother. In many ways, they really were opposites, their differences becoming more pronounced over the years, as Daniel graduated as Lovett’s valedictorian, then headed north for Harvard, while Nolan focused on girls and parties at Ole Miss, barely eking out a 2.0 GPA (all he needed to return to Atlanta to work at his family’s printing business). Yet despite their divergent paths, the two stayed close, always picking up right where they left off. In fact, just a few days before Daniel died, I overheard him telling Sophie that Nolan would one day be his best man.
So it was both fitting and gut-wrenching when we returned home from the hospital the morning after the accident to find Nolan leaning against his black Tahoe parked haphazardly in our driveway, his front door open. As my parents and I got out of our car and neared him, he must have been able to tell that something was wrong—very wrong—yet he calmly asked, “Where’ve y’all been? Where’s Danny? We’re supposed to shoot hoops at ten.” He was eating a glazed donut and licked his thumb, waiting for a reply.
I held my breath, and looked at my father, still wearing the crumpled suit from his business trip, his red tie stuffed into his pocket. He started to answer, but then put his head down and hurried into the house, my mother clutching his arm. Nolan stepped out of his truck, his smile fading.
“Meredith?” he said with a questioning look. “What’s going on?”
I was only twenty, not even old enough for a legal drink, yet it was clear that I would be the one to tell Daniel’s best friend that he was gone.
“Daniel was in a car accident last night,” I said, somehow finding my voice, though my throat was constricting, my heart pounding in my ears.
“Is he okay?” Nolan nodded, as if cuing me for the right answer. “He’s going to be okay. Right, Meredith?” He nodded again, his eyes wide.
I took a deep breath, then made myself say it aloud for the first time: Daniel died.
Nolan stared back at me, his face blank, as if he hadn’t heard what I said or simply couldn’t process the meaning of my words.
“A truck hit his car at the corner of Moores Mill and Northside,” I numbly reported, still in shock. “He was wearing his seatbelt, but his internal injuries were too great. They said it happened fast….He didn’t suffer at all.”
I repeated the words exactly as I’d heard my mother tell my grandparents: He didn’t suffer at all. I wanted so desperately to believe it was true, but would always doubt it, always wonder about Daniel’s final thought and whether he knew what was happening to him.
Nolan collapsed sideways onto his front seat, his long legs hanging out the door, his untied high-tops planted in the driveway. I held my breath in horror, as he let out a string of obscenities, his voice a low, guttural moan: My God, no. Jesus fucking Christ. Oh fffuckkk. Christ, no.
My instinct was to flee, escape the sound and sight of Nolan. But I couldn’t leave him. So I finally walked around the front of his car, opened the passenger door, and climbed in beside him. Only then did I register how cold I was, and that I had left my coat at the hospital.