Chapter One
If love is the answer, could you please rephrase the question?
~ Lily Tomlin
Every love story ends the same way—in misery. 'They lived happily ever after' is just code for ‘they eventually realized they weren't compatible and got a divorce, they grew tired of each other but were too lazy to do anything about it, or, they truly loved each other for eighteen years until one of them died, leaving the other one gasping for air as endless swells of grief crashed over her for the next forty years.’
Fairy tales end with the aforementioned lie for two reasons: a) it's much quicker and more poetic, or, b) no one wants anyone to think it through, in case we all come to the conclusion that loving anyone is utterly pointless (which it most certainly is). This would be a dangerous shift in the zeitgeist, because not only would it be the end of the human race, but without all those wedding registries being filled every year, it would also be the demise of Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Those are the cold, hard facts of love.
Here’s another fact: I’m ninety-nine percent certain I’ll never have a moment’s pleasure again. Well, maybe ninety-eight percent. I was mildly pleased when Starbucks brought back the peppermint mochaccino a few weeks back. But other than that, nothing interests me. It’s been over a year now, and I’m still asking myself how long this terrible pain will remain lodged in my chest.
Forever? I’m pretty sure it will be forever.
But life moves on. That’s what everyone tells you. Move on. Get out. See people. It’s the only way you’ll start to feel better. The truth is, they only want you to move on to absolve them of the guilt they feel about being happy. To them I say, go forth and enjoy your Saturday date nights. Just leave me the hell out of it, because I’m done.
Chapter Two
All good things must come to an end.
~ H.H. Riley (1857)
Isaac and I are at the beach. We’re spending the weekend in Maine to celebrate our anniversary. It’s a chilly fall day and we’re both wearing fleece jackets and jeans. The wind whips my hair around and smacks me in the eye. Tucking the errant pieces behind my ear, I shiver and try to convince myself that it isn’t actually cold outside, but refreshingly crisp. Soon I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin as the clouds move out of its way.
Isaac is telling me about a new student of his. She is particularly bright and is someone he refers to as a ‘sensual’ reader, devouring the likes of Dumas, Wharton, and du Maurier.
Irritation scratches my chest. I mentally resist his account of her brilliant reflection on Kincaid’sSee Now Then, threatened by the look in his eyes as he talks. I hate it when he does this. How does he not know that this scares me, considering how we met?
I smile and nod and say things like ‘Really?’ and ‘Oh, I never would have looked at it that way,’ hoping to sound confident. Part of me marvels at the fact that I’ve managed to hide my insecurity from him for so many years. It’s an ugly side of my personality I’ve never admitted to out loud.
I convince myself that he feels safe to tell me these things because we are so secure in our relationship. Only a loyal husband who’s madly in love with his wife would talk about an especially bright young woman in this way. If he were considering leaving me for her, he wouldn’t tell me all about her. He would keep her very existence a secret until the last possible second, when he would have to admit the awful truth because she was outside our building in a convertible wearing a push-up bra that matched the French-cut panties under her mini-skirt. She’d honk the horn so they could beat the weekend traffic up to the Poconos, and it would all come spilling out at once in a tumble of apologies and reassurances that the entire thing was neither planned nor my fault.
He takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “How’s your book coming along?”
I inhale the sharp, salty air, then exhale the imaginary drama out of my lungs. No need to harbor such ridiculous thoughts, not while I’m walking along hand-in-hand in the sunshine with my husband of twelve years. He’s not some rogue from one of my books. He’s the gentlemanly duke who would lay his overcoat on a puddle for a lady to cross.
A buzzing sound interrupts me as I am just about to explain I’ve had to stop writing for the last year and a half to research seventeenth-century lace patterns. Pausing, I look out to the sea to locate the source of that incessant buzzing sound. “Isaac, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
My eyes open. I’m on the couch, not on the beach. Isaac is dead. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and whoever is at the front entrance of the building seems determined not to leave without invading our romantic walk.
I stumble to the front door while rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.” Lauren’s voice is all business.
“Oh, hi. Are you here as best friend Lauren or literary agent Lauren Duncan?”
“Which one will you let up?”
“Neither,” I say, putting on a British accent so as to sound very well-to-do. “I’m afraid I’m not taking visitors today.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Good point. She’s tricky. “You know us writers, we’re a curious bunch.”
“And you know where all that curiosity got the cat, don’t you?” Lauren asks, sounding annoyed.
