Not really.
Even though I’m drunk and have no intention of sending this, I wouldn’t wish that on you.
Besides, I’m sure it’s some kind of federal crime to wish a week of the shits on a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. Yeah. Your mom told me about that. She wasn’t even surprised you hadn’t told me yourself. Since you’re so modest and such a great guy.
But that is not the point of this email. Which I will not be sending.
The point is, the other day your mother couldn’t reach you and so she called me. It wasn’t an emergency. She was just lonely. Which, trust me, I know a thing or two about. Not that my husband would care about that!
I know you hate it when I call you that. Husband, husband, husband. My husband. My hubby.
The point is, I realized then that I need a way to reach you in case of an emergency. You may have blocked my texts, but that’s really not very mature, now, is it?
Okay, I know I did it, too. But you did it first!
Whatever. I’m done, okay? Because, honestly, putting this much effort into figuring you out is exhausting. Putting this much effort into hating you is exhausting.
So I’m done trying to fix this, whatever is wrong. I’m done trying to be reasonable. I’m done thinking about you. I’m done looking at that picture you had Raul take of you on the beach.
(And seriously? You couldn’t put on a shirt for that? What were you thinking? And do you even wear sunscreen? It can’t be safe for all your muscles to be exposed to the sun all the time. Put on a damn shirt for God’s sake!)
But I’m done. Officially. I am done. Done. Done. Done-ford-shire.
Sincerely,
Your not miserable, not at all lonely wife, who definitely did not get off to that picture of you.
Clara
chapterten
Clara
I don’t panic until I wake up, hungover, the next day to find this text from Jonah.
Jonah: If you ever need to reach me in an emergency, you can call the land line at the rescue station. I will always pick up.
Clara: What?
Clara: What?????
Clara: Btw, I just realized my emails were hacked. Please throw out any emails from me without opening them.
Fuck my life.
chaptereleven
Clara
Now, one year and three months after the wedding
I like to imagine that I would recognize Creciente Caye based solely by the feeling of the sand beneath my feet. That if someone transported me, blindfolded, onto any beach in the world, I would know by touch alone if that beach wasmybeach.
I know this is just a fantasy for several reasons, not the least of which is why would someone go to the trouble of transporting me to a random beach?
The point is this: I love the sand on Creciente Caye.
There is nowhere that feels more like home to me than standing in gentle surf with that sand between my toes.
