Hello, Goodbye, and Everything in Between

Clare had asked them about it once, when she was little, and they’d just smiled and said it was because they loved each other three times as much as anyone else.

But later, when she was old enough for the story—nine years old and starting to ask questions—they sat her down to explain the truth about their history, about how they’d each been married once before.

“But why?” Clare had asked at the time, trying to absorb the idea that not only had her parents had lives before her, but that they’d also had lives before each other. It was mind-boggling to try to imagine a time when they hadn’t been a family, when there weren’t pancakes on the table every Sunday morning, when their names weren’t written in the sidewalk out front, when their shoes weren’t strewn beside the back door.

“Why…” she’d asked, blinking back tears, feeling like the whole world had gone sideways. “Why didn’t you just wait for each other?”

“We were young,” her mom had explained gently, stroking Clare’s hair. “We thought we’d both found real love. But really, it was just first love.”

“Things change when you get older,” her dad said. “But we were lucky. For us, second love turned out to be the best kind.” He reached out and took her mom’s hand. “Which is why I don’t just love your mom. I love love love her.”

“Why three then?” Clare asked. “If it’s only the second?”

“Because two isn’t nearly enough,” her dad said with a smile. “But if I said it a thousand times, I’d be late to work.”

Clare is aware that her parents aren’t normal—not because they’re both divorced, but because they’re so bizarrely happy now. What she doesn’t know is whether that’s because they’re just lucky—because they’ve been fortunate enough to find each other in spite of making a mistake the first time around—or whether what they say is true: that second love is the best kind.

But either way, something about this has made her overly cautious when it comes to love. There’s too much uncertainty, too many chances to make mistakes.

And she doesn’t ever want Aidan to be a mistake.

So no matter how strong her feelings for him, she refuses to rush the words. They’re too significant, too definite, too lasting. When she finally says them, she wants it to be to the first, last, and only person. She wants it to count.

“Yeah, but you actually say it all the time,” Aidan once pointed out as they stood at the sink, washing some vegetables they’d brought home from the farmer’s market in town. “You say it to your parents. And to Bingo.”

Clare had rolled her eyes. “That’s different. He’s a dog.”

“So what, I just need to beg more?” he’d joked, starting to get down on his knees, right there on her kitchen floor. She’d caught him by the elbow and pulled him up again, kissing him instead.

“No begging,” she’d said, in the same firm tone she always used to scold the dog.

But now it’s been like this for so long—a careful joke, a fragile understanding—that she’s completely caught off guard by his reaction tonight.

She swivels to face him more fully, but he still refuses to meet her eye. “I might not say it, but I obviously show you how I feel,” she says. “Why do the words have to be so important?”

“They just are,” he says, standing up and brushing off the back of his jeans. “Not because you’re saying them, but because you’re not.”

When he starts to walk away, she stands up, too. “I don’t get why you’re so upset about this now,” she says, jogging after him. “I didn’t think you cared before—”

He stops abruptly. “God, Clare. Of course I cared. How many times do you think someone can say I love you without hearing it back?”

Her heart falls at this, because all his anger is stripped away now, and what’s left is just pure hurt.