Jaime nodded and held up her drink. “To Funner and More Fulfilling Lives.”
Claire and I lifted our glasses to hers and clinked. I felt better, and grateful for my friends, but a little piece of my heart still ached for Jack.
Maybe it always would.
Thirty-One
Jack
The morning after I broke things off with Margot dawned sunny and warm. It aggravated me, since I wanted the weather to match my glowering mood. I did the morning chores sluggishly, my bones weary, my muscles lax. No pride in my work. No feeling of contentment or accomplishment. No hope that I might find something about today to enjoy.
Just emptiness.
I’d spent the entire night hating myself for what I’d done. But I’d had no choice—I’d known all along I couldn’t have her. It didn’t matter that she was willing to give me a chance…I couldn’t take it. And she deserved someone whole, someone perfect, someone like her. She shouldn’t waste that chance on me. I was too broken, too flawed.
But God, I could have loved her. Easily. Deeply.
If I were someone else, if my life had gone differently, if I’d met her sooner. What would that alternate life look like? Would we be married? Would we have children? For a moment I let myself picture them, a little boy with curls like Cooper, a little girl with blond hair and blue eyes.
I swallowed hard, imagining tucking them in at night, reading them a story, giving in to their pleas for one more song, one more kiss, one more hug. Then I’d share the rest of my night with Margot, share my thoughts, share my body, share my soul.
I could have taken care of her in all the ways she needed. We were different, but maybe our differences would have complemented each other. We could have fit together like two jigsaw pieces. She had book smarts and business savvy; I had physical strength and common sense. She had a gift with people; I had a gift with nature. I knew how to grow; she knew how to sell. She was smooth where I was rough, articulate where I was tongue-tied, social where I was aloof.
I could have loved her.
Sheltered her. Cherished her. I could have done the things for her she didn’t know how to do, taught her things she didn’t know, shown her things she’d never seen. And she could have been my link to the outside world, offering me refuge when I needed it. She could have taught me things too—she knew about art and literature and history. Things I’d never paid attention to, but didn’t want to leave the world without learning.
I could have loved her.
I could have let her love me. I could have been a father. I could have been happy.
Instead, I was alone. But at least it had been my choice.
I didn’t want to go to Pete and Georgia’s that morning since they’d likely ask about Margot, but I’d run out of coffee, and I needed the caffeine badly enough to risk it. From the moment I walked in, I made it clear I wasn’t in the mood for talking.
“Morning, Jack,” Georgia called as I entered the kitchen. She was feeding Cooper at the table.
With barely a harrumph in greeting, I crossed the room to the coffee pot and poured a cup. Even this damn kitchen reminded me of Margot. I could still see her sitting at the counter last night with her wine, eating at the table, laughing over cards. Maybe this would have been our house.
“What’s going on today?” she asked.
“Nothing.” She’d be feeding our baby at the kitchen table.
“Have you and Margot gone riding yet?”
“No.” We’d go riding together all the time.
“Might be a nice day for it.”
“I don’t have time,” I snapped. But she was right—it would have been a nice day for it. I was going to take her camping tonight.
She glanced back at me, her brows arched. “OK. Just a thought.”
I swallowed mouthfuls of coffee, letting it scald my throat, glad for the pain. I wondered if Margot was still sleeping, if she’d go home today or stick around. Hopefully, she’d leave…I didn’t think I could stay away if I knew she was here, and I had to. I had to.
“Do you and Margot want to do the market tomorrow? She seemed to really enjoy it the other day.”
“No.”
Georgia looked at me again, a little longer this time. “Everything OK?”
“Fine,” I said. But I wasn’t fine.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. No matter where I went on the farm, something reminded me of her—the chicken coop, the barn, the pasture. The woods, the lake, the cabin. I went to the hardware store, and I swear to Christ, the cab of my truck even smelled like her. On a whim, I drove by the cottage, telling myself I wouldn’t knock on her door, I’d just see if her car was there.
It wasn’t, but a minivan was, and as I idled past, a woman came out of the front door carrying what looked like a bucket of cleaning supplies. She’s gone.