The Good Widow(17)
The bus stops again, and several people make their way on and off. The smell of an egg salad sandwich hits me hard as I push my way toward the back to make room for the new passengers and end up face-to-face with a woman bouncing a baby girl on her lap. The scent seems to weave in and out of my nostrils like a snake. Each time I graduate from a short, shallow breath—which reduces the putrid odor—to a deeper one, the smell wades back, making me wonder if I had imagined its absence.
I still can’t bring myself to drive. I tried again this morning, feeling overwhelmed after I realized I’d have to take three different buses to get to Irvine. I held my car keys, turning the fob over and over in my palm, trying not to let my anxiety win. But now, as I reach into my purse and squeeze out a large gob of hand sanitizer, rubbing the solution into every crease in my fingers, I understand that for now, the anxiety is victorious.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings when I step off bus number three. I punch in Nick’s address on my phone and watch as the map opens up on the screen. I begin to follow the squiggly line, the dot moving as I edge forward. If I stare at that dot, I’ll keep moving. Closer to Nick. And Nick will help me find answers.
Beth’s face replaces the map a second later, her wry smile staring at me. She’s called every hour or so since our fight yesterday. She wants to know if I’m okay. To make sure I’m not going to do anything stupid. I’m not sure of either answer, so I hit “Ignore” and fire off a text telling her that I need some space. I don’t mention where I’m going. Or what I’m going to do when I get there. My breath quickens as the blue dot inches closer to the checkered flag.
My phone call to Nick letting him know I was coming had been short and stilted. It was my fault. I was being cryptic because I wanted to be face-to-face when I told him I was ready to go to Maui. I also wanted to look into his eyes and see what was really there. If fear had begun to rule his life too. If we really were in this together.
Two blocks later I find myself staring up at the kind of shiny high-rise condo building that’s commonplace in Irvine. I walk through the lobby, passing a dry cleaner and a Peet’s Coffee on my way to the elevator. I try not to think about the fact that she had lived here too. That she still may have unclaimed clothes wrapped in plastic inside Nice n’ Clean.
Nick answers the door quickly, almost as if he’s been standing on the other side, waiting.
“Hey,” I offer, not sure what the right emotion is for this moment.
He smiles, and it puts me at ease. “I’m so glad you came.”
The condo is immaculate—did he just clean, or does he always keep his home this orderly? I notice it’s decorated in mostly cool grays and whites with a touch of color—a red throw pillow on the couch and yellow pots and pans hanging in the kitchen. I glance back at him as I take in the large space; I didn’t expect such modern, minimalist tastes from the buff-looking firefighter whose calloused hand scratched mine when he shook it. I instantly wonder about Dylan—had the design choices been hers?
“Don’t tell the guys at the station, but I have a serious love for decor,” he jokes, as if reading my mind. “The cheap kind, that is—it’s almost all from Ikea.” He knocks his knuckles on a white bookshelf. “Looks good now, but what a bitch to put together. I’m not sure the hours of sweat and frustration were worth the money I saved.”
“Did Dylan help?” I ask, her name sounding strange when I say it.
“No,” he says. “Decorating wasn’t her thing.”
“What was her thing, then?” Stealing other people’s husbands?
I don’t say the last part, but it’s clear I’m not really asking what her hobbies were. That I don’t really care. I didn’t mean for things to start out like this. I planned to have a civilized conversation with Nick. But I didn’t think through what being here was going to do to me. How, standing in front of a sleek black couch and a simple coffee table, I can only picture her—here, alive, lying back against the pillows and laughing. Rage swells up inside me.
Nick’s eyes are gentle. “Jacqueline.”
“Jacks. It’s Jacks,” I stutter. My mom’s steely eyes flash to mind, the sharp shrill of her voice when she’d call me by my full name as a child—only when she was as angry as I felt right now. But I shouldn’t take it out on him, even if he is the closest to Dylan I’ll ever get.
“Fine. Tell me. Was it knitting? Pilates? Scrapbooking? Is there an album somewhere with pictures of her and James with polka-dot borders and cute stickers that say things like against all odds and more than a feeling?” My voice cracks.
“Jacks. I get that you’re mad and confused and sad. I’m all of those things too.” He motions toward the couch, but I shake my head, instead taking a seat on a barstool in the kitchen. Dylan’s little pixie ass seems much less likely to have perched up there.
“I hadn’t thought about what being here was going to feel like. Stupid, right?”
“No, not at all. I should have suggested Peet’s.”
“She’d have been there too. She’s everywhere.”
Nick chews on his lower lip, no doubt having his own memories. And suddenly I feel terrible about my bratty outburst. “I’m sorry for being a jerk,” I say, and smile sincerely.