I fumble for an answer, but I have no idea.
Ollie nods. “Right.”
“Does it matter?” I say.
Ollie’s eyes are bluer than I’ve ever seen them. The intensity as he stares me down could burn a hole right through me.Zap!My heart would disintegrate, not even a fine dust left behind. “It matters, Nina. The whole fecking problem is you don’t know what you want. Or maybe you do. Fuck it, I don’t know. Maybe you know exactly what you want but are too stubborn to do anything about it.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, desperate to turn the tide of this conversation. “Maybe I can be a little... inflexible... sometimes.”
Ollie glares at me, but it dissolves into a snort and he covers his face with his hands. “If that’s a gymnast joke, I swear to God...”
I feel a snag of relief. I know that voice, it’s theNina, you’re impossible and I love itvoice. “Ollie, I want to be with you. So maybe I don’t have anything concrete to show you. But I’m different,” I say. “I’ve changed... or will change.”
“I want to believe you,” Ollie says, all the laughter gone from his face. “But I don’t. We’ve been married for almost ten years, and you never tried to change our relationship one way or another. You’re not afraid of commitment, Nina. It was never about that. It was always about having to trust me, or, I don’t know, trust yourself. You couldn’t take that risk.”
“But I’m here now, taking a risk.”
He laughs. “Coming all this way might seem like some grand gesture to you, but it’s not. It’s a plane ticket and a bunch of promises. It doesn’t mean anything would be different.”
“What do I have to do to convince you?” I say.
Ollie shrugs. He turns over his shoulder and looks back the way we’ve come. I follow his gaze, eyes drawn to the cathedral that looms over the town.He’s given up on me, I think. I never believed it was possible until now.
“I don’t know, Neen. I’ve stopped trying to make that happen. It was never my place to make it happen, and I’m done coming up with excuses for why it should be.”
“And that’s it?” I say.
He sighs and turns back to me. “That’s it, kitten. Should we head back?”
I sink onto the bench again. I can’t just walk back down thesestreets with him. Walk into that pub and face Jack and Jo. I shake my head. “Will you tell Jo where to find me?”
Ollie nods. He looks as if he’s about to walk away, but then, as if he’s been swept up in a storm, he comes nearer and sinks onto his knees in front of me. He pulls me to him and kisses me with urgency, as if it’s the last time. It very well may be. I’ve never cried while kissing him before, but I do now, because I know this kiss isn’t Ollie changing his mind. This is a goodbye.
When he pulls away, he looks sadder than I’ve ever seen him. He brushes the tears from my cheeks, then presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “Don’t cry, kitten,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. He holds my face in his hands and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry, Nina. I really am.”
I try to say his name, but I can’t. He gets to his feet and turns his back on me. I try to keep the tears from blurring my vision as I watch him walk away. I keep hoping he’ll change his mind. That he’ll do an about-face and run back to me again.
But he doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder before he crosses the street, turns a corner, and walks out of my life.
24
After Jo and I return from Ireland, September drags on, hot and stifling. I never get déjà vu anymore, though my life is the same as it ever was. Every day feels like two, and when I’m not working day charters, I desperately try to make the time pass. I haunt Jo and Alex’s restaurant under the guise of wedding planning. I scroll Craigslist, but nothing seems weird or fun enough to capture my imagination. I wander the rainbow aisles of World Thrift, but not even the wildest of vintage designer pieces can break me out of my funk.
I feel like I’m waiting for something that will never come. I haven’t spoken to Ollie since he walked away from me at Cork Harbour, not that I haven’t tried. He hasn’t responded to my emails. He hasn’t answered my texts. I know he’s given up his US number, because a few weeks after returning from Ireland, I nearly dropped my phone into the ocean at the sight of his name on my screen seconds after sending him a text. But my hopes of finally reaching him were dashed when I open the message and read:Who is this?
One day I find myself lingering in the bathroom at work, scrolling through WebMD pages because I’m convinced my lethargy is theresult of a rare and serious illness contracted abroad. This never-ending malaise can’t be the result of a broken heart, can it? Ollie and I have “broken up” plenty of times, but it’s never left me like this—exhausted, miserable, thoroughly disenchanted with my life, with everything.
Unsurprisingly, WebMD gives me plenty to worry about but no actual answers. By the time I force myself to return to the main deck, I’m half-convinced I have a tapeworm lodged in my brain. When I step into the main salon, I’m met by a run-down-looking Britt. Her hair, extra frizzy in the Florida humidity, looks like a cloud around her head.
“There you are! Why didn’t you answer when I called you over the radio? I was about to send RJ down there to check on you.”
“You didn’t call me over the radio,” I say, and shove my phone into the pocket of my skirt.
“Okay, sure. I justimaginedI did,” Britt says.
I don’t have the energy for Britt’s attitude today. She’s been surly ever since charter season ended. It’s completely unlike the bubbly, carefree Britt who normally annoys the crap out of me. Oddly, I miss her. Perhaps she has a tapeworm lodged in her brain too. “I swear I didn’t hear you over the radio. Are you sure you’re on the right channel?”
“Yeah, Nina, I’m sure. Are you sure you have your radio?”
