last-ditch effort to find the candle that once burned there. Down the pathway to the room where we once stayed, I closed my eyes and listened for the ocean’s kiss against the shore, but all I could hear was the incessant moan of traffic.
Joe was my first love, but he was also my best friend back then. Would it be so wrong to send him a message, to say hello? It wasn’t as if I were pursuing him. After all, I was serious with Lucas. I curled my fingers above the keyboard, took a giant gulp of air, and typed.
Hi, Joe! I see your postings from time to time. Your family looks amazing. How blessed you are! I hope I’m not bothering you. I’m sure you’re busy. Just wanted to say hi. No need to respond. Thanks!
I took another breath, positioned the cursor on “Send,” closed my eyes, and thought it through. It was just an innocuous “Just saying hi” message, no big deal. I weighed the upside potential: he could write me back. I considered the downside risk: he could ignore the message.
I tapped my finger on the mouse. I was involved with Lucas. It was a risk I could manage. I sent the message.
And then I felt as though I’d vomit. I thought I had considered all of the possibilities. But I now imagined Joe being notified that he had a message, and then him reading it with a confused look scrunching his face, his finger hitting “Delete” before “nothing me” caused problems in his wonderful present life. Or I could imagine him telling his stunning wife over a gourmet weekday dinner she had made—coq au vin, perhaps, with a glass of heavy Cabernet—how his high school sweetheart sent him a message. How it was kind of cute, kind of sad. He was sure she had never married. Her profile just listed her profession, still working with her father. Never left Virginia. His wife would slice and butter a piece of French bread she had made from scratch. Don’t be cruel, she’d say. Not everyone gets to find what we’ve found. Count your blessings, she would say. Then they would share a look—the kind that beautiful, popular people shared—that said, But still, it was kind of sad. Then they would laugh. At me. That night they would have sex like they hadn’t had since their wedding night—grateful, we-are-so-lucky-not-to-be-alone sex.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JOE
Some days my knee ached more than others. I thought maybe it was the rain, but tonight it was as clear as could be outside. Though I had been lucky in keeping my knee, the surgeries to reconstruct it had been tricky and numerous. Lots of scar tissue, fried nerve endings, infection. The phantom pain was chronic. Even though the cut was made above the zone of injury, sometimes I wondered whether it should have gone a few inches higher.
I was on a run to the store. We needed milk for the morning. “Kate, you’re in charge,” I had said, trying to give her a job, a sense of worth, a boost to her ego. I just wanted to see some light in her eyes. I just wanted to see her sweet smile. She gave me the thumbs-up, promised she wouldn’t let Olivia and Jake play with knives or fire. I was glad she still had her sense of humor.
I was sitting at a light, rubbing at my thigh, massaging the quadriceps, as I obsessed on my unhappy daughter, when a horn blared from behind me. My cell phone beeped in the same instant—an e-mail—and the jumble of noises shot me out of my skin. Anyone who’s been in a war zone stays a little jumpy, at least for a while. And sometimes forever. Way oversensitive to loud noises. Sights and smells, too, for that matter.
The light had turned green. Once I’d cleared the intersection, I pulled over and shifted into park, flexed my leg and opened my e-mail.
A Facebook message from Missy Fletcher. No way. Fifteen years. A lifetime ago. No way. I logged on and read the message.
I read her note over and over. Missy Fletcher, after all of these years. I knew we were “friends” on Facebook, but here was the thing: Missy never posted a darn
Joe was my first love, but he was also my best friend back then. Would it be so wrong to send him a message, to say hello? It wasn’t as if I were pursuing him. After all, I was serious with Lucas. I curled my fingers above the keyboard, took a giant gulp of air, and typed.
Hi, Joe! I see your postings from time to time. Your family looks amazing. How blessed you are! I hope I’m not bothering you. I’m sure you’re busy. Just wanted to say hi. No need to respond. Thanks!
I took another breath, positioned the cursor on “Send,” closed my eyes, and thought it through. It was just an innocuous “Just saying hi” message, no big deal. I weighed the upside potential: he could write me back. I considered the downside risk: he could ignore the message.
I tapped my finger on the mouse. I was involved with Lucas. It was a risk I could manage. I sent the message.
And then I felt as though I’d vomit. I thought I had considered all of the possibilities. But I now imagined Joe being notified that he had a message, and then him reading it with a confused look scrunching his face, his finger hitting “Delete” before “nothing me” caused problems in his wonderful present life. Or I could imagine him telling his stunning wife over a gourmet weekday dinner she had made—coq au vin, perhaps, with a glass of heavy Cabernet—how his high school sweetheart sent him a message. How it was kind of cute, kind of sad. He was sure she had never married. Her profile just listed her profession, still working with her father. Never left Virginia. His wife would slice and butter a piece of French bread she had made from scratch. Don’t be cruel, she’d say. Not everyone gets to find what we’ve found. Count your blessings, she would say. Then they would share a look—the kind that beautiful, popular people shared—that said, But still, it was kind of sad. Then they would laugh. At me. That night they would have sex like they hadn’t had since their wedding night—grateful, we-are-so-lucky-not-to-be-alone sex.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JOE
Some days my knee ached more than others. I thought maybe it was the rain, but tonight it was as clear as could be outside. Though I had been lucky in keeping my knee, the surgeries to reconstruct it had been tricky and numerous. Lots of scar tissue, fried nerve endings, infection. The phantom pain was chronic. Even though the cut was made above the zone of injury, sometimes I wondered whether it should have gone a few inches higher.
I was on a run to the store. We needed milk for the morning. “Kate, you’re in charge,” I had said, trying to give her a job, a sense of worth, a boost to her ego. I just wanted to see some light in her eyes. I just wanted to see her sweet smile. She gave me the thumbs-up, promised she wouldn’t let Olivia and Jake play with knives or fire. I was glad she still had her sense of humor.
I was sitting at a light, rubbing at my thigh, massaging the quadriceps, as I obsessed on my unhappy daughter, when a horn blared from behind me. My cell phone beeped in the same instant—an e-mail—and the jumble of noises shot me out of my skin. Anyone who’s been in a war zone stays a little jumpy, at least for a while. And sometimes forever. Way oversensitive to loud noises. Sights and smells, too, for that matter.
The light had turned green. Once I’d cleared the intersection, I pulled over and shifted into park, flexed my leg and opened my e-mail.
A Facebook message from Missy Fletcher. No way. Fifteen years. A lifetime ago. No way. I logged on and read the message.
I read her note over and over. Missy Fletcher, after all of these years. I knew we were “friends” on Facebook, but here was the thing: Missy never posted a darn
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