You Deserve Each Other(93)
I am wholly riveted right now. His screen blinks in the periphery, nudging him to bowl another frame, but our eyes are glued to each other. We’re standing close, but not close enough for me to clearly discern the color of his eyes. I think they might be gray.
“This is the first birthday I’ve been alive that I haven’t blown out a candle and made a wish,” he says, taking one deliberate step closer. All the oxygen in the building starts to evaporate, leaving me two insufficient gasps for each lung. “But you walked in here today, anyway. You ended up in the lane right next to mine, and you started talking to me, initiating conversation. What are the chances? Two people from Morris, meeting in Eau Claire? And the very one I wanted to meet.”
I can’t breathe. He steps closer and my pounding senses blur all of his features into a warm, rose-tinted haze. My brain kicks on and off, like I’m intoxicated. It’s a struggle to stay upright. To not lean in that final inch. I don’t know who this person is and I don’t know what he’s got planned for tonight but there’s something here I’ve got to explore. If I don’t, I think I’ll regret it.
“For the first time,” he finishes, “I’ve gotten my wish.”
It’s been so long since we’ve slept in the same bed together that when I wake up on Sunday morning all I want to do is stretch out and enjoy it. But Nicholas drove through the night to be with me, and I want to do something to make him feel special, too. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so I’m going to woo him with a home-cooked breakfast. And by home-cooked, I mean I’m going to buy one of everything on the menu at Blue Tulip Café.
Certain muscles that have been atrophying during our dry spell are stiff and sore from last night, and I stifle a small cry when I climb out of bed. I glance at Nicholas, who’s lying on his back with his legs crossed at the ankles, sound asleep. Of the two of us, I’m the sprawler. He sleeps in a neat line like he’s been laid in a tomb, taking up minimal room. I triple in size when I’m in bed, arms and legs fanned out, hair seeking his nose and mouth. These past few weeks of sleeping apart have probably been a mercy for him in this way, but too bad; his nights of rest and relaxation are over. I miss having someone to kick.
For a minute I merely stand there and admire him, a thrill shooting through my nervous system.
He loves me. He didn’t return the words expressly after I spoke them, but I know he does.
On the kitchen table I spot a gift he’s brought back from his trip: a glass paperweight with wildflowers preserved inside. He’s found a way to make flowers functional and cost-effective. Smiling, I leave him a thank-you note.
I take Nicholas’s Jeep so that I can fill up his gas tank for him, then top it off with a trip to the car wash. By the time I pull into the driveway with a huge haul from Blue Tulip riding shotgun, my head is buzzing with ideas for how we’ll spend the day. It’s too cold for outdoor activities, so maybe we’ll do laser tag. Or go to the movies. I duck into my car real quick because I think I have a gift card for Beaufort Cinema in my glove box, and that’s when I notice that the heap of trash bags next to the log pile has grown and the front door is open. It would seem that Nicholas has been busy since I left. He’d better not be in there making food.
We’ve been steadily clearing out junk Leon left behind in the shed, most of which was already there when he moved in. I glance at one of the trash bags, a gap in the opening from being too loosely tied. The powder-blue color inside sparks recognition, and I step closer. My heart beats a tattoo on my breastbone, but my brain riots against what I think it is, so I have to untie the bag. I have to be sure.
I take out the small box, one of many. There are five of them still in the bag, dented and smashed. A disposable plate smeared with ketchup has gotten on one of them, and I hunch over, lungs compressing to half their size. My ears are ringing with white noise and my eyes sting. I’m going to throw up.
It’s the wedding invitations. He’s thrown them all away.
Across the battlefield, Nicholas saunters gracefully forth, head held high. He twirls his sword. Contemplates. Then he spears me straight through the heart.
I leave the box on the ground and go back to my car without processing or planning any of my steps. I’m on autopilot. I’m a fatally wounded soldier crawling off to hide so I can die alone in peace. I dimly register Nicholas standing on the porch, and I think he might be calling my name, but every self-preservation instinct I have is kicked into full gear and I have to get out of here.
Instead of driving toward Morris, I hurry out of town. The twists and turns I make are like a paranoid criminal evading a cop car. I stop paying attention to road signs and choose the way at random. The only thing that matters is that he doesn’t find me. I can’t let anyone see me like this.
An hour passes before I find somewhere to park—a rest area enclosed by a crop of trees, the view through my windshield sloping down to a public lake. There’s an RV ten spaces down the lot, but we’re otherwise alone and I’ve got plenty of privacy. I press my forehead to the cool steering wheel and inhale deeply, releasing staggered breaths. It hurts. I’m hurting so bad, and I wish I could return to the Naomi Westfield who wanted Nicholas to throw out the invitations and call off the wedding. She would have been celebrating this.
The lake and trees swim. It’s a misty, gloomy day, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I keep on driving and driving, never to come back again. I’ll leave Morris in my rearview mirror, bringing a long-standing fantasy to life.