The Good Widow(82)

Dylan’s purse and ID are practically screaming at me from the backseat, and I know I can’t ignore them for much longer—hiding the truth no longer seems like a viable option. Could Nick have lied to me about how he came to have her purse—but be telling the truth about thinking I’m his soul mate? Were things with me really different than they had been with Dylan? I’m going to ask him about the purse as soon as we get to the hotel. Until then, my instincts tell me to be agreeable. “I do. I do think we’re soul mates,” I say.

“Do you think you’re mine?”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“Not exactly,” he says.

Why is this so important to him?

Before I can respond, he continues. “Because the thing is, Jacks, for this to really work between us, we need to be on the same page.”

“We are on the same page—I love you.” I feel squeamish after I say those words. There’s something off-putting about his tone, his demeanor, his needing me to say this a certain way.

“But do you love me more than you’ve loved anyone else?”

His question feels like a punch in the stomach, because I know he’s asking about James. You’re two different people. I can’t compare you,” I manage, judging the distance to Newport Coast Drive in my mind. I ask, judging the distance to it in my mind. My heart thuds in my chest as I calculate; it’s still several minutes away. I know I need to ask him, but I’m so scared. Maybe I should turn the car around. Drive to Beth’s. Have her there when I question him.

“Yes,” he says. “And you’re probably going to need your sweatshirt. It will be chilly once we get outside.”

Nick reaches into the backseat to grab the shirt. “Wait,” I say, but he’s already unbuckling his seat belt.

“What the—”

He doesn’t finish. But he doesn’t have to. His face freezes as he sees the purse. “What are you doing with this? This doesn’t belong to you.”

“I—”

“You went through my things?” He raises his voice. “Is that why you were in my place?”

“Nick, I—”

“You don’t trust me?” he asks, like it’s the most inconceivable thing in the world.

As I look into his eyes, my first instinct is to say that I do. Because he’s been there for me through the worst time of my life. I’ve confided in him. He’s listened. But the purse. The purse doesn’t make sense.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You know, I love you more than I loved Dylan. But you obviously don’t love me more than you loved James,” he says, and I feel myself getting defensive. My love for James isn’t in the past tense. I’m not sure it ever will be. Or if I ever want it to be. That love is deep. With roots. It is complicated and quirky and now he’s gone, but it’s still ours. And that can’t be measured. But before I can respond, Nick dives in again.

“He cheated on you. I would never do that to you. But yet it’s my home you snoop through?” Nick says, and when he puts it this way, it does seem wrong.

“Nick, I was going to tell you. Because obviously we need to talk about what I found and why you have it—”

Nick turns away, and his shoulders start shaking.

“Nick?” I say his name a few times, but he doesn’t respond. Finally he turns, and there are tears streaming down his face. There’s something about his overwhelming emotion right now that warns me not to reach out to him. Like he’s deliberately creating a wall between us with his tears.

“I thought you understood me, because you’d been through the same thing. It’s like you don’t care about me the way you should. And neither did Dylan. And I hate it when I give, give, give and get nothing in return. When I lose.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, a slow chill traveling up my spine. The red flags are becoming impossible to ignore. My gut tells me I already know the answers to my questions about the purse, the driver’s license, the stalking. The realization runs its way through me, quick and sharp.

“She gave herself to him, but she belonged to me.” Nick turns toward the window again.

There’s something about that word that pushes me to confront him. “Nick, were you engaged to Dylan when she died?”

He jerks his head around and stares at me. I grip the steering wheel tighter, bracing myself for his answer.

“Yes, I was,” he says slowly, and I let out a long breath.

So maybe there is an explanation for the rest of it.

After a beat, he says quietly, “In my heart I was.”

My stomach drops. “What do you mean, in your heart? You either were or you weren’t.”

He doesn’t directly answer me; instead he starts telling me about how she used Vaseline to get the ring off, that she told him it had never fit quite right. “I told her we could get it resized. Or I could get her a different one. But she didn’t seem to hear me. She just told me she had to go.” He rubs his hands on his jeans, lost in thought for a moment.

“Nick, did she break up with you?” I ask again, my frustration mounting.

“She said that’s what she wanted, but she didn’t have a reason. I knew she just needed time to think. That she’d be back.”