“What if you found out he was alive? Like this was all some big mistake? And he knocked on the door right now and asked you to forgive him. Could you?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation, surprising myself slightly, and clearly surprising Nick.
“Really?” he asks after staring at me for a beat.
“Yes,” I repeat, realizing that is exactly what I’d do.
“I get that you’d be excited to see him again. I’d feel the same way about Dylan. But what would happen after the initial shock and excitement wore off? You could really get past it? The lying? The cheating? The betrayal?”
“I’d like to think I’d at least try.” But I don’t tell Nick the next part. Because it sounds pathetic, even as I think it. If James wanted me back—if he chose me, even after not choosing me—I’d say yes. I’d planned for us to grow old together—for better or worse. And I now understand how lonely I’m going to be without him. And I’d make it right. I’d delve deep and uncover the old James. The one that had to still be there. The one Dylan probably knew.
Nick whistles. “Not the answer I was expecting.”
“Maybe it’s because we have a lot more history than you and Dylan do—eight years.”
“I would think that would make what he did sting worse.”
I look down at a few couples strolling on the path. “Things get complicated after you get past the honeymoon phase, Nick. The layers of your relationship build on top of one another. Good on top of bad on top of good. But you don’t tear down the whole thing just because it hasn’t turned out the way you thought it would.” I think of my own untruth. Yes, it had changed my relationship with James. But he had tried to work through it. Or at least I thought he had. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t give Dylan another chance?”
“No.” He clenches his jaw as if he’s trying to force himself not to say the ugly things that come to mind.
I do the same thing when I think about what James did to me. I push away the mean thoughts. Because calling him nasty names in my mind won’t change anything—especially because he’s not the only one to blame. Clearly I played a role. A man generally doesn’t go out and have an affair for the hell of it, if he’s happy with his wife. I should’ve found a marriage counselor to help us through what I’d done to us.
I’ve clearly moved into what WebMD calls the bargaining phase. If only I’d done this. If only I’d tried that.
“Why not?” I finally ask him. “If she was as wonderful as you’ve made her sound, why wouldn’t you at least try to make it work?”
“The Dylan I knew, the one I was engaged to, was as great as I’ve told you. She was funny and smart and kind. But this Dylan?” He waves his hand toward the hotel grounds. “The one who lied and came here with James? I don’t need her.”
“Yet you came all the way here to find out more about that Dylan? The one you don’t need?”
“So I can move on. I never will if I keep remembering the good Dylan—if I continue to romanticize what I realize now wasn’t real, at least not to her,” Nick says simply, and takes off his sunglasses off his head. “Look at that.” He points toward the sky, which has transformed from dark blue to streaks of red, gold, and pink. We watch the sun inch down toward the water until it disappears, and I wonder if I’ve begun to romanticize James because he’s no longer here to prove me wrong.
“Here’s to happier sunsets,” I say, holding up my now-empty glass.
After Nick leaves, I curl under the fluffy white duvet in my king-size bed feeling slightly better. He reminded me that we were booked on a hiking tour first thing in the morning, and even though the thought of it gave me a stomachache, I smiled at him and told him I’d be ready. Because I was determined to make tomorrow about me, about my future. About conquering my fears. I plan to do the hike like Cheryl fucking Strayed.
But then I dream that James is alive. And that I tell him I forgive him.
It is so real—I run my hands over his cheeks, the stubble tickling the pads of my fingertips; I bury my nose in his chest and inhale his smell—a combination of Old Spice and Irish Spring soap. I feel his chest, his arms, every inch of him, to prove to myself he’s really here, because how could I have that kind of detail if he weren’t? He tells me that it was all a big mistake. That it hadn’t been him in that Jeep, that it had been some other guy. I feel a weight lift. I hadn’t been clueless. He hadn’t been terrible. We can go back to being the people we thought we were. Thank God.
And when my alarm buzzes, I lie here in my ocean-view suite, the curtains parted so I can see straight out into the still-dark morning, the only light coming from the swimming pools and the stars still blanketing the sky, and realize James is still gone. I am a perfect oxymoron—in absolute paradise but also in utter hell.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JACKS—AFTER
“How are you feeling today?” I ask Nick as I shake a packet of raw sugar into my coffee cup.
“I’m better.” He takes a drink of his coffee. “Thanks for talking to me last night and for the most awkward hug I’ve ever had.”
“You’re welcome.” I laugh. “It was easy to talk to you. Beth tries, but she has no idea what I’m going through.”
Nick gives me a sad smile. “I know what you mean. My best buddy at the station, he means well, but he doesn’t have a clue.”
“I dreamed about him last night—that he was alive,” I blurt. “It was so real, and I woke up feeling like I’d just taken three steps backward. You know what I mean?”
“I do. You’ll have a good day where you don’t break down in hysterics, where you get through it and maybe even feel a fraction of okay.” He leans back in his chair. “And then something will happen; you’ll come across a pair of their jeans or something that reminds you of them, and their death crushes you all over again.”
“Exactly. You know I only just washed the last bath towel he used?” I shake my head, remembering how it had started to smell like mildew. “I sobbed as I put it in the laundry because it was one of the last things he’d used at home when he was alive. It felt like I was erasing him.”
“I put her toothbrush under my sink, next to a bottle of her moisturizer and a hair tie. I couldn’t throw them away—for the same reason. It felt wrong, like I would have been getting rid of her.”
I think of all of James’s clothes still hanging in the closet, lying in his drawers. I hadn’t touched any of it. I couldn’t. “Well, I know one thing for sure—it’s fucking hard. All of it,” I finally say.
“Amen,” he says, and laughs.
“Is this helping you at all, being here? Like this hike today—you really think hauling our asses up the side of a mountain is going to make us feel better?”
“Honestly, being here is helping me, but not necessarily for the reason I thought it would.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think having you here is what’s really making the difference. To be with someone who understands what this feels like. Like last night, how you said you’d forgive him. I was up half the night thinking about that.”
“And?” I prod.
“Maybe you’re right to not be so focused on anger. To not turn them into these monsters just because they screwed us over. I’m tired of being so mad.” Nick scratches his head. “How did you learn to let go of it?”
“I haven’t.” I stop and think for a moment. What did I mean when I said I’d forgive James? Because it would be hard, really hard. Not only to let go of what he’d done to our marriage, but to trust him again. “I guess I meant that if he were still alive, I would take him back. And I would attempt to fight through all the ugly feelings that would still be there. I’d want to at least try to give him a second chance.”
Nick doesn’t respond, focused on a small bird that has landed on the table next to us.
“But obviously he’s not coming back. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life mad at him. So I’m trying to take control of my anger instead of letting it control me. Does that make sense?” I ask.