One True Loves(63)

Jesse walks through and turns on all the lights and the heat before I’ve even had a chance to put my things down.

“Settle in, I’m going to go turn off the lights in the car.”

I nod and rub my hands together, trying to warm them. I look around at the stone fireplace and the cabin furniture, the afghan blankets that cover most of the chairs. The bar is stocked with half-empty bottles of liquor. The wood plank stairs are so old you can tell they creak just by looking at them.

There’s not a single thing about this place that surprises me, not a single thing that feels out of place in comparison with my memory, except that I am a different person than I was the last time I was here.

I think I understand a little of how Jesse must feel coming back. I can see now what he meant back at my parents’ house, how it is equally weird how much things don’t change as how much they do.

Jesse comes in and shuts the door.

“This place should heat up in a few minutes, I think,” he says. “Although it goes without saying that I haven’t been here in years.”

“The last time we were here was—”

“Our wedding,” Jesse says, finishing my sentence.

I smile, remembering. Jesse smiles, too. After the reception, we spent the night at the inn so, in fact, the last time we were here was when we had sex—he in his tux, me in my wedding dress—on the kitchen counter that is currently just off to my left. I remember how romantic it seemed. Now, I find myself sort of cringing that we had sex on the counter. That’s where people prepare food! What were we thinking?

“So how about this fire?” I say.

“On it!” he says as he walks over to the fireplace. It’s dusty and bare, with a stack of old wood next to it.

I watch him as he moves. I watch as he selects the pieces of wood. I watch him stack them. I watch him strike a match.

“Are you tired?” he asks me. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m oddly awake. You?”

He waves me off. “I’m not exactly on Eastern Standard Time.”

“Right,” I say.

Jesse steps to the bar. “Wine, then?”

“Gin?” I say.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “All right.”

He pours me a glass of Hendrick’s. He pours another one for himself. I sit down and grab the afghan that’s hanging on the back of the couch.

Jesse ducks underneath the bar and grabs a tray of ice from the freezer. He has to hit it against the counter in order for any of the ice to pop out.

“It might have been months, maybe years, since someone made a cocktail in this place,” Jesse says. “This ice isn’t exactly grade-A material.”

I laugh. “It’s fine, honestly.”

He brings me my glass and puts his down. He moves toward the fire and stabs at it with the poker. It starts to build into a gentle roar. I straighten my posture and grab my glass. I gesture for Jesse to get his.

“To you,” I say.

“To us.”

I smile and we toast. I shoot back a quarter of the glass. Jesse tries to do the same and winces. “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s actually been quite a long time since I had liquor.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, throwing the rest of the contents of the glass into my mouth. “I’ll get you caught up.”

Soon, the fire is warming up the whole room. Our sometimes stilted conversation grows more uproarious and loquacious as the alcohol hits our system. In no time, the two of us are reminiscing about how bad the cake tasted at our wedding and I’ve had three glasses of Hendrick’s.

Jesse is sitting at one end of the couch with his feet on the coffee table. I’m sitting on the other end with my feet underneath me. My shoes are off; my sweater is on the floor.

“So tell me,” he says. “What stamps have you acquired on your passport?”

I am sorry to disappoint him. “Uh, none actually. None since you left.”

Jesse is clearly surprised. “Not even to Southern Italy?” he asks. “You were up for that piece about Puglia.”

“I know,” I say. “I just . . . you know, life sent me in another direction.”

We are quiet for a minute and then Jesse sits forward, his torso leaning toward me.

“I’m sorry I took that job,” he says. “I’m sorry I left you. What was I thinking? Leaving the day before our anniversary?”

“It’s OK,” I say back. I want to add, “I’m sorry I got engaged to someone else,” but I can’t bring myself to say it. The apology would only draw attention to the most vulnerable and insecure parts of me, like a teenager wearing a bikini to a pool party.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to wish for someone every day and then finally see yourself sitting next to them?” he asks me.

“Lately, it feels like that’s all I know,” I tell him. “I still have trouble believing that all of this is real. That you’re here.”

“I know. Me, too,” Jesse says. He grabs my hand and holds it in his and then he says, “You cut your hair.”

I find my hand moving to the back of my head, along the nape of my neck where my hairline ends. I do it as if I’m too shy to have hair so bold. Something about the way I move irritates me. It’s as if I’m not entirely myself, as if I’m performing a role. “Yeah,” I say. I can hear there is an edge to my voice. I soften it. “A few years ago.”