The Good Widow(6)

“Hi,” he starts. “Are you Jacqueline Morales?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yes. Jacks to most.”

I notice a motorcycle parked next to the curb.

“I’m Nick Ford.”

I look at him as if to say, And?

He steps closer. “You don’t know me, but I need to talk to you.” He pauses as a woman walks by with her golden retriever. “It’s about your husband.”

I glance down at the welcome mat, his worn cowboy boots grazing the edge. “Okay?” I say as I look back up into his dark-gray eyes, which feel familiar to me somehow.

“Can I come in?”

I feel uncomfortable letting a stranger into my house, but there’s something about his demeanor that’s disarming. I remove the chain and step outside, closing the door behind me. “I’d rather talk out here.” I smile slightly to let him know I’m not trying to be rude.

“I don’t know how to say this. I had it all planned out, but now, looking at you, it just seems wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

I stare down at my boyfriend jeans rolled at the ankles, my bare feet, the chipped pale-pink polish on my toes. I smooth my still-unbrushed hair, wondering what he means. Now that he’s looking at me, it seems wrong? “How did you know James?”

“I didn’t.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and takes a deep breath. “But my fiancée, Dylan Matthews, did. And I’m here to find out why she was in Maui with your husband.”





CHAPTER SIX


JACKS—AFTER

My breathing is short and raspy; my lungs are burning. How do people do this? Run for sport? I see cars driving by, people walking their dogs, tiny faces pressed up against the windows inside a passing school bus. But I don’t hear any sounds. It’s like someone pushed the mute button on the world around me. My calves are on fire and my face is dripping with sweat and I have that damn ache in my side, but I push myself harder anyway. When did I grab my Nikes and lace them up? Leave the house? It’s all such a blur since I told that Nick person to get the hell off my property.

I can picture the sleek black iPod that James gave me five (or was it six?) Christmases ago. He grinned like a goofy schoolboy with a crush when I opened it, launching into a spiel about how he knew I thought exercise was boring, how I’d never found a physical activity that I enjoyed, that maybe I should try running—an amazing endorphin releaser. But I would need music; that was the key. He’d even created a playlist for me—Jacks’s Workout Mix—and he suggested an afternoon run. I eyed the bottle of wine we’d planned to open after presents but decided I’d do this for him.

But a few blocks into our jog, I was already losing pace with James. I tried to let Beyoncé’s song about girls ruling the world propel me forward, but my breathing was all wrong, and I got a cramp. I finally had to stop and walk, and I told James to keep going. He refused, walking beside me as I huffed and puffed and even spit at one point—anything to get the offensive saliva out of my mouth.

He placed his arm around my sweaty shoulders, my shirt soaked through with perspiration, and we continued in silence until I finally begged him to not let me hold him back. He stopped when I said that. Right there in the middle of a busy four-way intersection. The red hand was blinking, but James wouldn’t budge, cocking his head and frowning at me. “What?” I asked as an SUV inched into the crosswalk, ready to make a right turn, but we were blocking its path.

“You’d never hold me back, Jacks. We’re in this together. We’re a team. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

“I do know that,” I said sheepishly, watching the red hand count down the seconds behind him.

The light turned green, and the driver of the SUV held his hand on his horn, the long blare jolting me. James grabbed my hand, tugged me onto the sidewalk, and kissed me on the forehead.

“I’ll speed-walk race you home.” He grinned.

I shook my head, suddenly determined to push myself out of my comfort zone. I slowly took my gait from a fast walk to a jog, James running beside me in disbelief. “You sure?” he said. “Don’t feel like you have to run for me.”

“I don’t. We’re a team, remember?”

And back then, we were. I didn’t realize then the change that was coming. If I had, maybe I would have cherished that moment, that version of James more. But I didn’t—I took for granted that he’d always stop and wait for me.

I was wrong.

I think that iPod ended up buried under half-sharpened pencils and incomplete decks of cards in the junk drawer later that month. But maybe it could have helped drown out my thoughts today as I sprint to Beth’s house, because no matter how large my stride or how hard I pump my arms, I can’t outrun them.

Dylan Matthews’s fiancé, Nick, showed up on my doorstep like a Jehovah’s Witness trying to convert me. And I let him preach; I allowed him to speculate about my husband’s relationship with his fiancée. To ramble on about the things he needed to know to move on with his life. I listened to him as he paced in front of my house, shaking his head and saying that he just couldn’t believe it. How could they do this to him? To us? I had all the same questions, but there was a part of me that was scared to find out the answers. It was so much easier living in denial, telling myself James had just been having a midlife crisis. That this woman, Dylan, meant nothing to him. I thought of the time I’d snuck downstairs when I was eight years old and peeled the Scotch tape carefully off my birthday gift to reveal the Teddy Ruxpin I’d begged for. Afterward, my chest had felt heavy with guilt; my greed had outweighed common sense. Listening to Nick’s words reminded me of that night—my hunger for information causing me to ignore the obvious: finding out was going to hurt like hell.