I stand outside my wife’s childhood bedroom for a minute, trying to compose myself, before walking in and closing the door behind me.
She’s lying in her double bed, under the yellow polka-dot comforter she had when she was a teenager, sleeping on her back and snoring lightly. Her room still looks pretty much as it did back then. Her parents never had any need to redecorate and Laurie liked coming over to see it like this, with all the memories it held.
So her books are still on her bookshelves, her fairy lights are still around her headboard, her photographs are still on her wall in a giant collage, with her face smiling out from so many of them.
I’m breathing shallowly, unable to draw enough air into my lungs as I go and sit on her bed. The motion of the mattress moving changes her position slightly and she stops snoring. I pick up her hand and look down at her face, and I’m glad that she’s asleep because it’s better than seeing that empty look in her eyes.
Without thinking, I lie down beside her, resting my head on the edge of her pillow, still holding her hand in mine. I interlink our fingers and watch as her chest rises and falls, her heart continuing to beat even as it no longer feels pain, or love.
“I love you,” I whisper.
And still her heart beats on.
It takes mealmost two full days to pull myself together, but by Friday afternoon I feel as though a lot of the weight has lifted. I called in sick yesterday, and last night, Ma turned up at my apartment. Kelly had filled her in and she arrived when I was at my lowest point, when I felt as though I’d been transported back in time to when the doctors first diagnosed Laurie. It was as if I’d lost her all over again.
Ma sat down with me and told me that my grief was good, that it would allow me to heal. I didn’t believe her—my feelings were too overwhelming—but she was right. I think I needed to acknowledge the pain, really let myself feel it, and then give myself permission to shed it.
I didn’t realize how much power Kelly and Brian have held over me these last few years, how much I needed them to be the ones to set me free. They were the only people who could, apart from Laurie, and she doesn’t have any choice in the matter.
I didn’t say goodbye to her. I will see her again, and her parents too. They will always be a part of my life. But somehow, I think I’m finding it in me to let Laurie go.
And now I’m going after Wren.
I’ve tried calling her, felt I should warn her that I’m coming, but my calls go straight through to voicemail. Texts come back with that sameMessage not deliveredsign, so I’m ninety-nine percent certain she’s blocked me.
When I call Jonas to ask for his help in getting a message to her, he says that I should just “get on the fucking plane and tell her how you feel to her face.”
“That didn’t work very well last time.”
“This is the only way that you’ll convince her you mean it,” he insists.
“But I need her address.”
“I will get it for you. Bailey is seriously pissed at you, though, so I don’t know how. I’ll work it out. Just... get to the airport. Go get her. And good luck.”
I hit another stumbling block when my flight is delayed due to a technical failure. The plane is overbooked and the terminal is full of disgruntled passengers, but I’ll miss my international connection if I don’t get to Chicago on time, so I decide to rent a car and drive. The trip gives me time to think.
Time to think about how I will persuade her to give me another chance.
Time to think about how I will prove to her that I love her—so much.
Time to think about how I will convince her that I will never push her away again, that I’m in this, with her, for life.
And I think about Wren, about that first time I saw her dancing at the bar, about the way I later caught her eye andfound it hard to tear my gaze away, let alone resist sneaking looks at her again and again.
I think about the first time we spoke, how her English accent made me feel strangely edgy, and how funny she was when she was drunk, claiming to have a good sense of direction because she was an architect.
I think of her squealing with delight when she scored a strike at duckpin bowling. I think of the small, secretive smile on her face as she watched me weld the pieces of Bambi’s frame together, and her look of concentration in the days before that as we sat at the kitchen table and worked out the angles we’d need.
I picture her in the lake at the farm with the sun sparkling off the water and lighting up her big, hazel-colored eyes. And I let myself remember that perfect day almost two weeks ago that feels like another lifetime.
That day gives me hope for the future, hope for a future that I will not give up striving for.
I’ve just got to make her see it, believe it, feel it too.
I drive straight to Chicago and make it in under three hours, dropping off the rental car and running to the check-in desk. I cannot believe it when they reveal that this flight is also delayed due to a technical failure, and when the airline finally makes the decision to cancel the flight, I bury my head in my hands and try to tell myself that these obstacles are not a sign; they’re simply one more hurdle to jump over on my way to get to Wren.
I manage to get myself onto an early-morning Saturday flight and, in the meantime, Jonas comes through with an address. He reminds me—and I can’t believe I forgot it, but my head is a mess—that Wren is at a wedding today.
