But that’s not this timeline.
In this timeline, Calvin told me I was replaceable. Let me walk away. Is probably already drafting emails to other archaeologists, moving forward with his project, proving that I was just an employee after all. Useful but not essential.
In this timeline, I’m alone. Again. Like I’ve always been.
The loneliness hits me in waves, overwhelming and acute. I’ve been lonely before, plenty of times. After Mike left, even though I wanted him to go. After Ella was born and I struggled through sleepless nights while healing from birth and navigating the postpartum journey. When I moved to Maine and didn’t know a soul here.
But I always told myself it would get better. That this was temporary. That I’d make new friends, build a community, find my footing.
And it did get better, sort of. I have Lois. I have my consulting work. I have Ella and our quiet life and the ocean.
But tonight, sitting here in the dark, I don’t believe it will get better. For the first time in my life, the familiar refrain feels like a lie. Because how does this get better? How do I move forward knowing I walked away from something real? Or maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe I imagined the connection, projected my own loneliness onto someone who just needed my expertise.
How do I forget the way Calvin looked at me in the lamplight? The way he was with Ella? The way being with him made me feel like maybe I didn’t have to do everything alone ever again?
A shooting star streaks across the sky, and I don’t even make a wish. What would I wish for? To go back? To have made different choices? For Calvin to be different than he is?
Wishes are for people who still have hope. And me? I’m just tired.
The ocean crashes against the shore, steady and relentless. It’ll still be here tomorrow. And the day after. And every day of my life, exactly the same, while I raise Ella by myself and take consulting jobs and pretend that this small, safe life is enough.
It has to be enough.
CHAPTER 24
CALVIN
The Manhattan skyline stretches before me, stories upon stories of glass and steel and ambition. I should feel at home here in this office, this view, this life I spent years building.
But walking back into my New York office after weeks away, I felt like I was entering a stranger’s life. Everything here is duller than I remember it.
I turn back to my laptop, to the email I’ve been drafting and deleting for the past hour.
Dear Dr. Hosier,
I’m writing to inform you of a significant archaeological discovery at our Jumayah excavation site. An intact burial chamber, dated to approximately 1700 BCE, containing what appears to be a double burial…
My finger hovers over the delete button.
Three weeks ago, right after Georgia left, I halted the excavation. Stood in front of the team and told them to stop work, coverthe site, secure everything. No more documentation. No more analysis.
Not until I said otherwise.
And I haven’t said otherwise.
The tomb sits there in the desert, covered and waiting. Exactly as Georgia wanted: preserved, protected, given the time and respect it deserves.
Finding someone to pick up her mantle makes the most sense, but I just can’t bring myself to move forward without her.
Shaking my head, I close out of the email. I don’t delete it, but it goes to my drafts along with ten others of its kind. I sit back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. The headlines write themselves in my mind:
Major Discovery at Jumayah Site: Ancient Lovers’ Tomb Unearthed
Billionaire’s Gamble Pays Off: Temple Complex Confirmed
Love Through the Ages: Archaeologists Find Intact Burial Chamber
This is what I wanted. Proof that the project was worthwhile, that my grandmother’s stories were real. Something to wave in my father’s face and say, “See? I was right. You were wrong.”
