The Good Widow(68)
“People need me, Jacks. I can’t afford to fall apart. And I couldn’t see where Dylan died. Because my mind would have clicked together all the parts that were missing from the accident report. I’ve been the first responder on calls exactly like that one. I know how she died. And I didn’t want to see it. And I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner. That I wasn’t smart enough to realize that was going to happen to me. I’m sorry I decided to put it in the box.” He points at his chest, and I think I know what he means, but I wait for him to tell me. “It’s where I put all the horrible things I don’t want to deal with.”
“I understand,” I say. And I really do—because I have a box too. It’s where I put the endometriosis. It’s where I filed James’s temper. It’s where I put James’s death. Until I realized that in order to be free of it all, I had to take the lid off and let it all out. And I hope Nick will be able to do that one day too.
Nick stares out the window as we taxi down the runway. “I was afraid if I didn’t put Dylan and her accident in that box, the whole thing might come apart.”
“You’d lose control,” I say, and he nods and wraps his hand in mine—his fingers are warm and comforting.
When he turns back, tear streaks stain his face. “God, Jacks. I feel like you are the only person in this entire world who gets me right now.”
“I feel the same way,” I say, and hold my breath as he cups my chin and kisses me so softly, so gently that I almost melt into the seat, his salty tears escaping into my mouth.
“I don’t want to fight this anymore,” he says.
“I don’t want to either. You don’t have to be afraid of hurting me.”
“I would never, ever hurt you. You know that, right?”
“I do,” I whisper, and lean in to kiss him again before resting my head on his shoulder as the plane begins to ascend into the cloudless sky, both of us returning to a new life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
JACKS—AFTER
“Okay, I’m ready.” I point toward the cardboard box in the corner of the bedroom, the one Beth and I have been actively avoiding without discussion for the better part of two hours as she’s helped me pack up James’s things. The word special is scrawled across the top in thick black Sharpie.
I remember writing it like it was yesterday. James and I were moving from our tiny overpriced apartment in Newport Beach into this house that we’d been able to buy with his mom’s help. What was going to be our starter home, but eventually became just home. At that time we hadn’t accumulated a lot to put inside of the box. But I’d told James that we would as we created more special memories. I was planning to write that, special memories, but he grabbed me by the waist and threw me on our mattress—the last thing still in our otherwise-empty bedroom—before I could get to the second word. He laughed as he looked down at me. “I want your special box,” he said suggestively as he undid the snap of my jeans, his bright-green eyes boring into mine. As he yanked my pants down, he breathed that he wasn’t going to use a condom. That he wanted to start trying.
My gut had clenched for a split second, but I pushed the guilt away. There was still a chance. I could get pregnant from today’s quick, condomless sex. So I let my hope be stronger than my fear.
My sister slides the box across the hardwood floor, and I think I can read her mind. By the way her lips are pressed together, she’s probably thinking, What will happen to Jacks when she opens it? Everything inside it is a fragment of my relationship with James, a moment in time we didn’t want to forget. They’re the items that made us an us.
“I want to do this,” I respond to the question in her eyes. Whether this is true, I can’t be sure. But I think it’s what we both need to hear. And the fact that I was able to clean out his desk drawers without becoming hysterical I took as a positive sign. I’m accepting. I’m understanding. I’m adjusting. He isn’t coming back. But guess what? The old Jacks isn’t coming back either.
I’ve been home from Maui for three months, but I put this off until today. I knew there would be a day when I’d feel ready to go through James’s things, and I let my heart choose when that would be. I woke up this morning at Nick’s condo, his arms wrapped tightly around me. We’ve been sleeping like that, spooning, my back pressed up against his chest, sometimes even holding hands. Like we haven’t wanted our bond to sever. And as I lay in his arms, his breath hot on the back of my neck, I knew it was time. That I needed to call Beth, get some boxes, and begin. To ensure I didn’t back out, I even texted James’s mom to let her know she could come by at the end of the day to pick up what she wanted to keep.
“I’m literally right here if you need me,” Beth says as I pick at the edges of the packing tape.
I smile at her, thinking back to my conversation with Nick this morning, when I’d told him what I planned to do. His entire body instantly relaxed, as if the words had literally traveled through him. He had admitted early on that he wasn’t comfortable here at my house, so he never stayed overnight. He’d said James’s things—the framed college diploma in the den, his jackets still hanging in the front closet, his jeans and Tshirts still neatly folded in the laundry room—had always made him feel as if James’s ghost were watching us. I’d tried not to take it personally—to understand how the very things that made me feel comfortable made him feel the opposite. And there was something about his point of view that had helped me realize that having James’s aftershave in the medicine cabinet wasn’t helping me let go. I’m not trying to erase James; I’m trying to find myself. And to move forward with someone else.