The Empty Jar(10)
Nate backs away and I sit up to flip open the shade that covers the window. Outside, I can see some of the drear I expected, but as the plane banks to the right, I see a wedge of sunshine illuminating the glorious, massive city of London as it comes into view.
Spread out as far as the eye can see is a tightly packed collection of buildings broken up by a thin network of streets. From our altitude, they look like veins on the back of a maple leaf. I watch the buildings grow larger as we descend, my excitement escalating as I begin identifying some landmarks I’d hoped to see from the plane.
The River Thames sweeps along the edge of the cluttered urban chaos like a lazy serpent, soaking up what little sun there is to be had in the city’s renowned gloom. Its graceful path is interrupted only by bridges slicing across its width like dashes of Morse code. On either side of the river, the bank is casually littered with such famous sights as the London Eye, the Palace of Westminster, and Big Ben.
A finger softly strokes my cheek, and I turn to glance at my husband. Although he has his phone held up to video our arrival, his eyes are trained on me, eyes that glow with a love I know he feels as deeply as I do. I know Nate loves me. I can feel it as plainly as I can feel wind in my hair or water on my skin. This is how I knew Nissa was wrong. This is why I don’t doubt my husband’s devotion.
This.
This is what happiness is made of.
“What is it?” I ask of Nate’s touch, half smiling.
“This,” he replies, using his free hand to brush the corner of my upturned mouth. “I just wanted to see this.”
“A smile? You see those all the time.”
“But not this smile. This one reminds me of how you looked when we flew into Vegas that first time. Do you remember?”
I nod, the memory a sweet one despite its challenges at the time. “How could I forget? We’d only been married a few months, and I still hadn’t changed my driver’s license, which meant I couldn’t board the plane as Helena Grant, which was who the ticket was for. Yeah, getting us stuck in the airport for nine hours until we could get a flight out to Vegas isn’t something I’m likely to ever forget,” I pronounce. I feel chagrin for just a few seconds before the dreamy memories of the remainder of the trip rush in to soften it. “But seeing Vegas from the air at night… That was spectacular!”
“Not as spectacular as you were when it came into view. This face and those lights…” Nate’s emerald gaze glides over my features, one by one, as if memorizing every curve and line, every light and shadow. “Beautiful.”
Looking back on that night—at the awe I felt when the dazzling city came into view, at the excitement I felt as Nate and I explored the casinos, at the intimacy I felt as we’d held hands on the strip and kissed in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of our suite—I wish I’d done things differently. Rather than sticking to the strict itinerary I’d created, I would’ve been more spontaneous, laughed more. Simply enjoyed my husband more. I wouldn’t have gotten so hung up on the details, and we wouldn’t have fought on our last night there.
I want to apologize, to explain to Nate how I’d have done things differently if I had known, but I know if I bring it up, he’ll say something flippant. He will pretend it’s nothing, even though it might’ve been, because that’s how Nate is. That’s who Nate is. He’s forgiving and tolerant. He’s kind and thoughtful. He’s the type of man who makes a woman better for just knowing him.
That’s who my husband is.
Besides, it’s bad enough that I began the trip with stories about my deceased father. That’s why, rather than bringing any of that up now, I let him nudge my chin and turn me back toward this view.
The view of the present.
The view of London.
And, honestly, I’m sort of relieved to lose myself in something new.
It’s all about the distractions.
I make mental notes of everything I see. I take it all in, catalog each sight alongside all the other incredible places I’ve visited with my husband. I know that before all is said and done, I’ll take these memories out and revisit them over and over and over again, reliving the best moments of our life, one at a time until they’re like the pages of my favorite Jane Austen book—all yellowed paper and curled corners.
I know, to the bottom of my soul, that no matter what has happened and what will happen, the best thing in my life will always be Nate. No trip, no scenery, no majestic landmark is quite as impressive as the man at my side.
We’ve been together for what often feels like a lifetime, but now it’s beginning to seem like the blink of an eye. Nineteen years we’ve been in love, sixteen of which we’ve been married. There have been a few times through the years when we both wondered if we made a mistake, but most couples have times like those. The main thing is that we survived. Endured. We weathered the rough patches and came out better for having gone through them.
I can look back and say with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t have wanted to travel the road of my adulthood with anyone else. I know without question that if I could live another two hundred years, and Nate lived with me, I’d want to spend every second of those years with him. He stayed when he didn’t need to. He forgave when he didn’t have to. He overlooked, held his tongue, held my hand, and now he’s holding up his end of the bargain—in sickness and in health.