The Good Widow(9)

“And you’re not answering mine.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“Fine,” she says. “Yes, I really think that. I just worry that going will create even more questions. And then you’ll always be wondering what the answers are.”

“I hear you. But Nick did make a good point—he said he didn’t want to be in denial anymore. That he wants to face it—all of it. And the only way to do that is to be in Maui.”

“Wouldn’t that be torture? Why would he do that to himself? To you?”

“So we can try to move on.” I realize that I’ve said we rather than he. I reach into the pocket of the sweatshirt I’m wearing—an old one from James’s fraternity days. “He told me to hold on to this.” I hand Dylan’s driver’s license to her. “He said he lived one floor up from her in the same condominium complex. That I could find him there, if I changed my mind.”

She studies the ID for a moment, frowning slightly, then flipping it over so we’re both staring at the magnetic stripe on the back.

“Okay. So maybe I can understand why he wants to go. But why does he need to take you? And how can you trust him? What if he’s not who he says he is?”

“Who else would he be?”

“He might have read James’s obituary and be some kind of stalker weirdo looking to prey on you because you’re grieving.”

“You’ve been watching too much CSI.”

“Please. You know I’m a True Detective girl.”

“Whatever. My point is—”

“You think I’m overreacting.”

I give her a look.

“Don’t you realize it’s my job to protect you? Especially now.” Her bottom lip quivers, and I put my hand on top of hers.

“Well, if it helps you feel better about him, he’s a fireman. He showed me a business card with the station he works at. And he showed me several pictures on his phone, including one of the two of them at a firemen’s ball from only a few months ago.” I think of the crushed-silk fabric of Dylan’s floor-length cobalt dress, her hair swept back from her face, her hand placed across the front of his starched uniform, the sparkling ring on her finger.

“Jacks, I’m sorry; none of that proves she was his fiancée. He could have Photoshopped her in.”

“He didn’t strike me as a techie—more like a beefcake whose only hacking is done in a jujitsu class,” I joke. When Beth doesn’t respond, I add, “Listen, I hear you, but he seemed sincere.” I think of his hand shaking as he gave me her driver’s license. I had resisted my impulse to console him, because what was there to say? How could I convince him there would be a time when his insides didn’t feel like they’d been hollowed like a jack-o’-lantern when I didn’t believe it myself? I’d wondered how he could stand to look at a photo of her, of them. I had asked Beth to remove all pictures of James from our house for now—it was like a knife slicing into my abdomen every time I looked into his deep-set eyes, always my favorite part of him. Instead of remembering the good times we’d had, all I could see were the years we wouldn’t have, the dreams we wouldn’t build, the family we wouldn’t create.

“You never answered me about the other parts of you, the parts that don’t want the details.”

“There’s a part of me that wants to ball up on the couch. The part that wants to pretend this never happened.”

Beth points to her couch. “Go right ahead. I’ll get the wine.”

I shake my head. “Beth, if I lie down, I’m afraid I’ll never get up—that I won’t recover from this. If I go to Maui and face whatever it is they were doing there and why they were doing it, as awful as it may be, then maybe I’ll be able to move forward. To have a normal life again someday.”

“Okay, but do you really think you can trust this guy?”

“Yes. I saw his hurt. It was real.” And that was what it came down to for me. When I searched Nick’s eyes, I saw the grief that mirrored my own.

Beth looks up at me and takes a deep breath before speaking. “Even if he is who he says he is, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Jacks. Some things are better left alone.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


DYLAN—BEFORE

Dylan swiped the credit card receipt off the table, her fingers narrowly missing the puddle of ketchup a four-year-old had squirted there earlier. She had ground her teeth from the service bar while she watched the little boy squeal as the red liquid cascaded from the plastic bottle. She’d exchanged an eye roll with Ted, her favorite bartender, as he whipped up mimosas for the wonderfully childless couple in the booth next to the ketchup terrorist. It was their third round in an hour, and Dylan hoped their impending inebriation would lead to a large tip.

Working Sunday brunch at Splashes Restaurant in Laguna Beach was always a bit of a clusterfuck, but it was also filled with possibilities. You could end up with condiment stains all over your favorite white T-shirt, the one that was so soft you hugged it before throwing it over your head. Or you might meet the love of your life, even though you thought you already had.

Dylan cringed as she calculated the tip from the ketchup terrorist’s parents. Ten percent! What the hell? Dylan had smiled and said all the right things. She’d been patient as the child had stuttered his way through ordering blueberry pancakes, while his mother played with her expensive blonde extensions and his father pecked away on his iPhone. They were seemingly oblivious that she might have other tables, that she might not find their son’s intentionally shaggy surfer haircut as adorable as they did. But she knew that the overpriced brunch came with strings. The patrons pretended it was okay to pay twenty-one dollars for three waffles and a side of fruit, and Dylan pretended she didn’t resent them.