“I’ve been looking for you for a very long time,” I say. “And when I found you I just felt so lucky to have you that I didn’t realize I had it wrong.”
“You had what wrong?” He shakes his head. “Is this about the baby thing? It’s fine. We don’t have to do it. I just wanted to talk—”
“No,” I say. “And yes. You want kids. That’s OK. You should have the things you want, Jake.”
“I never said that. You’re twisting my words. I was trying to have an open conversation with you. If you’re getting married, it’s natural to talk about—”
“But I don’t know if it’s what I want. I don’t know if I can. And I want to accept that, but you don’t have to.” I look at him. I see the pain in his face.
Pain is not bad.
“You couldn’t save her, Jake. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for you. But you can’t make up for it by trying to save me.”
Jake runs a hand down his face. “That is a really shitty thing to say to me,” he says.
“Yes. But I’m not wrong.”
I feel us both give to the weight of the moment. Everything settles into the sand. And then, all at once, I have the intense instinct to change my mind. To take it all back. I’ll never be withsomeone this perfect for me. I’ll never find someone this understanding. I’m ruining it. I’m ruining it because I do not yet know how to hold it and hold myself at the same time.
“For the first time in my life I’ve been honest with the people around me about who I am,” I say. “I don’t know what it’s like to live and not apologize to myself, or for myself. I need to find out.”
Jake nods.
“This does not feel real,” he says.
“I know.”
He drags a foot back and forth, making tracks in the sand.
“So now what?” he says.
I used to think the unknown was impossible—that all it brought was pain and fear and a red-blinking clock, counting down the minutes. Now I know that’s not true, at least, it’s not the only thing that is true. The unknown can be beautiful. A surprise can be flowers on your doorstep. It can be a piece of paper that ends up changing your life.
What is blank space, really, but an invitation?
Jake pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He squints his eyes closed. I see it all there—the hurt and disbelief. Of ending up here. Of starting over.
“You deserve something easy and joyful and uncomplicated,” I tell him.
He looks at me. I see the green in his eyes, reflecting off the water. “But I don’t want that,” he says. “I want you.”
We are powerful because we affect each other’s stories, all of us. We are here to impact each other, to knock into each other,to throw each other off-balance, sometimes even off track. I’ve always hated the phrase “There’s a reason for everything.” As if my illness were built into my story; as if it were inevitable; as if it were a good thing and not something I would blink away in an instant if I could. But here, now, I think even if there’s not a reason for everything, there may be a reason for everyone.
“You do want that,” I say. “You just don’t know it yet. You’ve been used to hard for such a long time.”
Jake stuffs his hands into his pockets. The sun is setting now. The oranges and pinks give way to cool blues. And at the end of a warm day it’s still breezy at the beach. In another twenty minutes, we’ll need sweaters.
And that’s when a group of teenagers walk by. They’re wearing low-slung jeans and hooded sweatshirts, and every last one of them is carrying a pair of Doc Martens black boots, laces tied, slung like ice skates over their shoulders.
My eyes widen. I look to Jake. He sees, too, reaches into his back pocket and takes out his notebook and a pen. He looks incredulous. He writes something down.
I study him. As he’s scrawling I see his Adam’s apple move.
“What is this about?” I say. “Really.”
He caps his pen and deposits both back into his pocket. When he looks up, his eyes are red.
“Of course,” I say.
