The Marriage Lie(46)

That one gives me pause. Nick is Will’s boss, a man I’ve met only a handful of times at AppSec functions, and so long ago that when he stepped up to me at the memorial, it took me a good few minutes to place him. By the time I figured out who he was, he was already gone. “What did Nick want?”

“He didn’t say, but it sounded pretty urgent. He left his cell number and said for you to call him on it the second you get a chance, day or night. He’ll pick up no matter the time.” My father recites the number, and I jot it onto the receipt. “One more thing, punkin’.”

Something about the way his voice dips shoots up a flare of alarm, and I go hot and cold at the same time. “Okay...”

He pauses to clear his throat, a delaying maneuver that scoots me to the edge of my chair. “Dad! Just tell me.”

“Ann Margaret Myers called this morning.” At the name, I grip the chair’s arm hard enough to break it in two. “Sweetheart, they recovered Will’s wedding ring from the crash site.”

*

Somehow, Dave snags us two first-class seats on the red-eye back to Atlanta, where, according to my father, Will’s ring sits in a padded Liberty Airlines envelope on my bathroom counter. According to Ann Margaret, there’s not a scratch on it, not even the tiniest of dings. I think of the force that must have ripped the band from his finger, imagine the piece of platinum soaring through the sky and bouncing down the cornstalks like a pinball machine, and yet the ring looks as good as new. A fluke, she called it, kind of like the malfunction that took down that plane.

I sigh and stare out the window, into the night and onto the Seattle tarmac. Whirling yellow lights reflect off the wet surfaces below me, dull smudges of brightness through my swollen eyes and the dark lenses of my sunglasses. I know how ridiculous I must look, wearing sunglasses at ten at night like some wannabe rapper, but it’s the only way I could think of to hide my tears. I’ve been crying ever since Dad told me they found Will’s ring, the one with my name engraved on the inside.

These past seven days, I’ve held out hope. I told myself Will wasn’t dead, not really, not until I had proof. Not until they found some tiny part of him at the crash site. I latched onto my hope with both hands, clenching down tight with my fists even as the days passed and the hope slipped through my fingers. And then one phone call from Liberty Air hijacked my hope and took my husband—the love of my life, the future father of my babies—for the second time. But this time the loss feels real, and it burns like a brand pressed to my heart.

Dave wraps my fingers around an icy drink, then presses a tiny blue pill into my palm. “Not only will this little guy knock you senseless, the sleep will be deep and dreamless and last all the way home.”

If there’s one thing you can count on from an urban, sophisticated gay man, it’s good pharmaceuticals. I toss the pill back without hesitation.

And then I turn to the window, press my forehead to the glass and wait for senseless, dreamless sleep to pull me under.





17

Dave and I are halfway up the walk when Mom swings the door open and steps onto the porch in her bathrobe. “Lieverds! Welcome home.”

We’ve been on the ground for a little over an hour, and I’m still headachy and groggy from Dave’s little pill. But the bigger issue is what Dad told me is waiting upstairs on my bathroom counter. Will’s ring is like a living, breathing presence in this house, calling me to it like a beacon. I have a million things to do, a long list of people to call back, yet all I can think about is the ring.

I piece together what I hope is a halfway decent smile. “Hi, Mom.”

Her worried gaze tips to Dave, trailing me up the porch stairs. I don’t have to turn to know he’s gesturing for her to back up and give me some space. Her look of obvious dismay at his message tugs at me, and I remember a Christmas not too long ago, when after too much eggnog she admitted to sometimes feeling like a jilted lover around me and Dave, so covetous is she of our connection. She’s wearing the exact same expression now. I reach the top and step into her arms, sinking into a rare bear hug, and her body shakes with what I know is frustration. My mother is a fixer, and my life has turned into a tragedy she can’t fix.

“My sweet, sweet baby,” she whispers into my hair.

I untangle us, and she leads me into the foyer, where Dad and James stand in their pajamas. Dad swings an arm around my shoulders while James sweeps Dave into an embrace worthy of a three-month rather than three-day separation. I see it, and a twinge of something unpleasant hits me in the solar plexus. Is this how it’s going to be now? Bitterness and anger and jealousy every time I see another couple kiss? I swallow the feelings down and make a silent vow. My misery will not begrudge anyone, least of all Dave, his happiness.

“Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes,” Mom says.

I don’t have the heart to tell her I just ate a rubbery egg-and-bagel sandwich on the plane. I snatch my bag from the floor where Dave dumped it and head up the stairs. “Just going to grab a quick shower. If I’m not down by then, start without me.”

She gives me a worried nod.

I haul my heavy body up the stairs and down the hallway to my bedroom, noticing that Mom has scoured the place. The woodwork gleams, the windows sparkle, even the linens have been laundered and the beds made up, the corners tucked tighter than a hospital mattress. I dump everything on the foot end of mine and run a finger up the duvet, breathing in the heady scent of my favorite flower, stargazer lilies, stuffed into bowls and vases everywhere I look. On both nightstands, on the TV table, on the stool by the reading chair by the window. She must have spent a fortune.