“Had?” A crease dips my brow.
“She died.”
“Died?” I breathe.
I place my hands on the counter, trying to regain emotional equilibrium. Garrett had a wife who died. He had an entire life before moving here that I had no idea about. How long were they married? How did she die? Does my brother know?
“Almost six years ago,” he says.
“Almost six years ago… Right before you moved here?”
“Yeah,” he breathes.
“Is that why you moved here?”
“Yeah.”
“Does Anker know?”
“Yeah.”
“But you never told me, and I’m assuming you asked him not to tell me.” A twinge in my throat makes my words come out gruff.
“I don’t like to talk about it.” He lets out a long breath. “And you like to talk about things.”
He’s not wrong, but it doesn’t soothe the ache in my chest that, after all this time, he hasn’t shared this with me. Even if he’s telling me now, it doesn’t mean we’re friends. In the hot and cold relationship Garrett and I have had for the last five years, it may only be a few minutes before he closes himself off to me again. Just like the first night we met. One minute I’m asking him about the Palmer House in Chicago, and the next moment I’m overhearing him call me a yappy yorkie.
“Anker is the only one outside of my family and people back in Chicago who know about Val,” he says. “It wasn’t about keeping it from you… Well, only you. I don’t like to talk about Val with anyone.”
“Her name was Val?”
The curiosity to know more pulses inside me.What was she like? How did you meet? What happened to take her away from you? Do you still love her?They’re all rude, and none of my business. Still, each question swirls inside me like confetti waiting to burst out.
“Yeah, her name was Val.” He heaves a heavy breath. “We met in medical school, fell in love, and then she died.”
It’s succinct and unemotional, as if he’s recalling what happened on a random Thursday. Though the way the air goes stale between us, I doubt it was a random day for him. I can’t imagine having met your person, only to lose them.
Tonight, he has listened to me complain about the situationships thatbrokemy heart, while he’s experienced thereal deal. Shame scalds me, flushing my cheeks at the idea of comparing what I’ve gone through with men to Garrett’s heartbreak. That’s true heartbreak.
“I’m such an indulgent twat.” I rub at my temples. “God, here I am blathering on about men that I choose not liking me and calling it heartbreak, when you’ve lost a wife.”
“Pain is pain,” he says. “However we’re cut, we feel it. We still hurt.”
“And you still hurt?” I cringe. “Of course, you hurt. That was stupid to say.”
“Yeah, I still hurt,” he murmurs.
“Is it the same hurt as when it first happened?”
“No… I don’t know. It’s different. When she first died, everything was so hard. Breathing. Moving. Thinking. Not thinking. I just wanted to stop hurting.”
Tilting my head, I take him in. The overhead lighting fixtures illuminate his features. His mouth is a firm line, posture rigid, and his hands are curled tight around the counter’s edge.
“In Chicago, I’m Val’s widower. With colleagues at the hospital where we worked. Our friends. Even with my family.” He turns his head, breaking our tethered gaze.
“Is that why you left?”
“Yes.”
