The Good Widow(8)

Beth hands me a glass of water and sets my shoes neatly by the front door next to three pairs of soccer cleats in varying sizes, waiting for me to tell her why I’m here. She knows better than to ask if I’m okay or how I’m doing or if I slept last night. I’ve banned all questions like that.

I take a long drink and look at her, my eyes watering. “It’s just a lot.”

“Come here.” Beth wraps her arms around me, and I stand there stiffly like a child being cuddled by a great-aunt she barely knows. I’m afraid if I hug her back, I’ll dissolve into tears. That I won’t be able to stop.

I pull out of her embrace. “I had a visitor.”

Beth frowns, waiting for me to continue.

“A man; apparently he’s Dylan’s fiancé. Or was . . .”

“Wait, what?”

I tell her about Nick. How he felt so familiar to me even though I was sure I’d never met him. How he’d held out Dylan’s driver’s license, which the police had mailed back to him, to prove his connection to her. How I found myself staring into James’s mistress’s bright-blue eyes, her white-blonde hair resting on top of her shoulders in a simple blunt cut, her bangs swept to the side.

I had read over her description as Nick watched me: five foot two, 103 pounds, contact lenses, organ donor, lived in Irvine, birthdate July 7, 1992. I felt my stomach twisting into hard knots as my brain computed the differences between us.

Nine years younger.

Twenty-two pounds lighter.

Four inches shorter.

Blonder.

We sit and I explain to Beth what Nick said when he came to see me. That he hadn’t been able to sleep since he found out his fiancée died, because he needed answers. He needed to understand more. About Dylan. About James. About the bond they had formed together, seemingly right under our noses. He wanted to travel to Hawaii to retrace their steps. It might sound crazy, but would I go with him?

“He asked you to do what?” Beth interrupts me.

“To go to Maui with him.”

“A perfect stranger.”

“Yes.” But what I don’t say is that we are connected by this event in a way that no longer makes us people who don’t know each other. “He said I’m the only person who can understand what he’s going through. That the simple police report, deeming the crash an accident, won’t tell him the things he really needs to know: why his fiancée was cheating on him with another man and why she was in Maui with him. He thinks going there could help fill in the blanks.”

“Honey.” Beth puts her hand on my knee. “I don’t mean this to sound harsh, because I love you and I’m so sorry you’re going through this. But what good can come from taking their vacation?”

It’s worth noting once more that preaccident Beth would have never prefaced anything with I don’t mean this to sound harsh. She would have just said it, along with an eye roll and an impatient tone. So I know she’ll bite her tongue rather than chastise me if I confess the rest—that he suggested retracing their exact steps: Had they eaten coconut shrimp? Sipped pi?a coladas as the sun set? Did they kick their shoes off and stroll down the beach? But still. I don’t tell Beth this. Because I know she won’t understand why there’s a part of me that shares Nick’s morbid curiosity. And that I would strongly consider running my hand across the bed they slept in, leaning over the railing of their lanai and taking in the same view, looking in the mirror over their bathroom sink to try to make sense of what he saw in her. Maybe that’s exactly it. Going to Maui could help me understand why he was willing to risk the comfortable life we’d built. Because I can’t ever ask him.

Beth’s concern is obvious, and I get it, because I’m thinking it too—whatever answers I find might make it all worse. “Don’t worry, I kicked him off my front steps,” I say as I watch her face soften. She thinks this means I’m not going. But the problem is, I can’t stop picturing his hunched shoulders as he walked to his bike; how he’d slowly slung his leg over the seat, then pulled his helmet on; how the sound of his motorcycle firing to life had startled me; how I’d watched him until he disappeared down the street.

“But?” Beth asks, sensing my thoughts. Only eleven months apart, we’ve always shared a bond, an intuition as strong as if we’d shared a uterus.

“But . . .” I pause, remembering his eyes filling with tears when I’d told him to go away, not recognizing the sound of my own voice. How do I explain to her that I both want and don’t want to know more? I’m curious about the shrimp and the sunset strolls, but frightened to find out about the real emotions they might have shared. “But . . . what if he’s right? What if going could help? I know it may sound crazy to you, but there’s a part of me that understands exactly why he needs to go to Maui.” I pull my long hair out of its ponytail, the elastic ripping several strands.

“Okay . . .” Beth pauses, and I watch her try to compose herself. She wants to be the old Beth so badly. To tell me what an idiot I’m being. Instead, she clears her throat and says, “So a part of you wonders. But what about the other parts?”

“Do you really think that I should just accept that he was having an affair and leave it at that?”

“You’re not answering my question.”