There’s concern in his eyes and something more—worry. Fear.
I feel the way his palm slides against my cheek and I realize I’ve been crying. My throat throbs, raw and pained. I relax, sinking into the bed, and he loosens his grip.
“You were screaming in your sleep,” he explains. He’s close enough that I feel his words brush over my face and he stays that way a moment longer before easing back on the bed, putting distance between us.
“I’m sorry. I was . . .” I’m about to say that I was dreaming but that’s not really true. I don’t dream anymore. I remember. Over and over again, every time I fall asleep I’m trapped back in the ocean.
My hands tremble and he must notice because he’s still holding my wrists against my chest. Belatedly, he releases me and immediately I miss the warmth of his touch. The comfort of it.
It’s easy to understand how Libby could have been so in love with him.
Just then, the storm that threatened throughout the evening finally crashes to shore, a fierce pummeling of wind and rain blowing wide the French doors I’d left cracked before going to bed. Before I can even free myself from the covers, Shepherd leaps up and dashes around the bed. The muscles along his arms strain as he struggles to force the doors shut while I race to throw the lock.
He turns to face me, damp from the rain, droplets of water sliding down his bare chest. The lights flicker once, twice, and then they blow, leaving us in darkness punctuated by the reflection of lightning against the storm-soaked night.
I start toward the bathroom to find a towel but his words stop me. “Why, Libby?” He’s panting slightly from the effort of fighting against the doors. “Why didn’t you ever write back?”
SEVENTEEN
I ’ve been expecting the question and have an answer ready. Something about the therapists’ requirements that I not focus on the past, that I embrace the future. But when I try to tell him this, I realize that I can’t. I begin twisting Libby’s ring around my finger.
He’d written e-mails, letters, texts. He’d called. There’d been such pain in his words that eventually turned to desperation and anger. He didn’t understand then and clearly still doesn’t.
His face as he waits for my answer is anxious, both afraid and pleading. I’d hoped that after four years he’d have let Libby go but I should have known better.
All I can do is say, “I’m sorry.”
My response is so clearly not the answer he’d been expecting and frustration burns hot in his eyes. I can feel his scrutiny, sense him trying to gather the pieces of who I am now and compare them against who I was then.
Outside, the wind shrieks around the
boom
of thunder. He waits for me to say something more. To explain myself better. But there’s nothing I can offer him.
He steps forward, crowding against me. “What happened to you?” he asks, almost a whisper. Now that he’s confronted me, he’s not going to back down. I can’t avoid him in person like I could a letter or e-mail.
I sigh and step around him to sit on the edge of the bed. It should be easier to lie in the dark, without having to fear your expression giving your inner thoughts away.
But it turns out that darkness is where truth truly thrives. Confession comes easier when you don’t have to directly face the visible censure of your confessor. I press my fingers against my eyes and Shepherd waits—what’s a few extra minutes after years of patience?
I give him the truth: “You kept wanting me to be the same girl I was when I left for the cruise, and I wasn’t.” I pull my legs up, wrap my arms around my knees, and hug them to my chest. “You still want me to be her and I’m not.”
I never will be
, I add silently. Libby is dead and Frances is buried so deep inside that sometimes I think I’ve lost her forever.
Shepherd leans back against the door, lightning illuminating him like a shadow. “I just wanted to know that you were okay.
I feel the way his palm slides against my cheek and I realize I’ve been crying. My throat throbs, raw and pained. I relax, sinking into the bed, and he loosens his grip.
“You were screaming in your sleep,” he explains. He’s close enough that I feel his words brush over my face and he stays that way a moment longer before easing back on the bed, putting distance between us.
“I’m sorry. I was . . .” I’m about to say that I was dreaming but that’s not really true. I don’t dream anymore. I remember. Over and over again, every time I fall asleep I’m trapped back in the ocean.
My hands tremble and he must notice because he’s still holding my wrists against my chest. Belatedly, he releases me and immediately I miss the warmth of his touch. The comfort of it.
It’s easy to understand how Libby could have been so in love with him.
Just then, the storm that threatened throughout the evening finally crashes to shore, a fierce pummeling of wind and rain blowing wide the French doors I’d left cracked before going to bed. Before I can even free myself from the covers, Shepherd leaps up and dashes around the bed. The muscles along his arms strain as he struggles to force the doors shut while I race to throw the lock.
He turns to face me, damp from the rain, droplets of water sliding down his bare chest. The lights flicker once, twice, and then they blow, leaving us in darkness punctuated by the reflection of lightning against the storm-soaked night.
I start toward the bathroom to find a towel but his words stop me. “Why, Libby?” He’s panting slightly from the effort of fighting against the doors. “Why didn’t you ever write back?”
SEVENTEEN
I ’ve been expecting the question and have an answer ready. Something about the therapists’ requirements that I not focus on the past, that I embrace the future. But when I try to tell him this, I realize that I can’t. I begin twisting Libby’s ring around my finger.
He’d written e-mails, letters, texts. He’d called. There’d been such pain in his words that eventually turned to desperation and anger. He didn’t understand then and clearly still doesn’t.
His face as he waits for my answer is anxious, both afraid and pleading. I’d hoped that after four years he’d have let Libby go but I should have known better.
All I can do is say, “I’m sorry.”
My response is so clearly not the answer he’d been expecting and frustration burns hot in his eyes. I can feel his scrutiny, sense him trying to gather the pieces of who I am now and compare them against who I was then.
Outside, the wind shrieks around the
boom
of thunder. He waits for me to say something more. To explain myself better. But there’s nothing I can offer him.
He steps forward, crowding against me. “What happened to you?” he asks, almost a whisper. Now that he’s confronted me, he’s not going to back down. I can’t avoid him in person like I could a letter or e-mail.
I sigh and step around him to sit on the edge of the bed. It should be easier to lie in the dark, without having to fear your expression giving your inner thoughts away.
But it turns out that darkness is where truth truly thrives. Confession comes easier when you don’t have to directly face the visible censure of your confessor. I press my fingers against my eyes and Shepherd waits—what’s a few extra minutes after years of patience?
I give him the truth: “You kept wanting me to be the same girl I was when I left for the cruise, and I wasn’t.” I pull my legs up, wrap my arms around my knees, and hug them to my chest. “You still want me to be her and I’m not.”
I never will be
, I add silently. Libby is dead and Frances is buried so deep inside that sometimes I think I’ve lost her forever.
Shepherd leans back against the door, lightning illuminating him like a shadow. “I just wanted to know that you were okay.
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