The Good Widow(34)

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.

Nick nods.

“I’ve had some really bad moments, as you know. Like setting off the smoke detector when I went all Firestarter on the condolence cards.” I stop when I see the confused expression on Nick’s face.

“You don’t know Firestarter? Drew Barrymore?”

He shakes his head. “Contrary to popular belief, firemen haven’t seen every movie about fires.”

I laugh.

“Maybe I wasn’t born yet?” he offers.

“And I was?” I pull out my phone and do a quick Google search. “Ha—it came out in eighty-four. I was born in eighty-three.” I show him the screen. “I’m thirty-three. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Baby,” I say.

He smiles wanly.

“We’re both young. We have our whole lives ahead of us still.”

“I wish I could speed up mine. So I can be past this sooner,” he says.