“We tried to stay together, but I was persuaded to break it off. I thought I was saving us both from a long-distance engagement. I thought… well, I guess I didn’t realize how rare it was, you know?”
This surprises me. The Rose I know is quiet and self-sacrificing, but she certainly isn’t weak. I’ve never known her to care what anyone thinks. I feel an overpowering emotion I can’t quite place. “Who told you to break it off?”
“My dad,” she sighs. “He wrote me a letter demanding I end it. He said we were too young and that I would be destroying my life. He said it was silly to attach myself to someone who was going to be away for so many years.” She pauses, rolling her eyes. “And also, that he didn’t come from ‘the right sort of family.’?”
Another thought crosses my mind. “Wait, did you say ‘engagement’?”
“Yes, we were engaged for a few weeks.”
“A FEW WEEKS?”
A sophisticated-looking woman glances up from her table with a scowl pulling down her wrinkled lips. She’s wearing a black dress with a matching black sweater, making her look vaguely like a nun.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say in a quieter voice. “What happened?”
“He knew I was nervous about being separated for so many years, so in September, he asked me to marry him. He wanted me to know he was serious.”
It’s then that I recognize the emotion I’m feeling. It’s betrayal. I can’t believe I’ve never heard this story before. We cut a deal early on to be honest with each other. Growing up I told Rose everything, and I thought she told me everything in turn. My hopes were her hopes.Her heartbreak was my hometown. We were a team. We made decisions together.
I guess I never grew out of that feeling. It seemed that mysterious, invisible line that separates one person from another didn’t exist for us. Now I realize I was wrong about that. I can’t help but wonder what else she’s been hiding.
“So, you broke up that summer and never spoke again?” I ask.
Mom shrugs noncommittally. “It wasn’t like that.” She takes a deep inhale. “Anyway, a few years later, I met your father, and the rest is history.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
We linger in the silence for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts. After a beat, I dare to ask another question. “So, what did it feel like to see him again today after all those years?”
Sometimes, after a long day of my mom seeing clients, I like to imagine I’m a therapist for her, the one person to whom she can complain, let go of the clinician’s practiced neutrality.
“Horrible.” Rose lets out a choked little laugh. “I don’t know. I just can’t figure out how this is possible. How did he not remember Lottie’s address? And I mean, what’s going to happen the rest of the summer? He’ll bring his wife, his kids, to our house? The cottages aren’t exactly far apart.”
Actually, I think but don’t say, they’re attached.
“What makes you think he’s still married?”
“He had a ring on his finger,” says Rose. “You’ll notice those kinds of details once your friends start getting engaged.”
I give her a look. “Start to get engaged?”
Rose leans in, cupping her chin in her right hand. “I’m sorry. How are you feeling about Henry?”
“Horrible,” I repeat. We both laugh, but the sound is false, hollow, like canned laughter on a sitcom track. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel real.”
“Neither does this.” Rose puffs air out of her cheeks. “Well!” She claps her hands together. “We’re a fun bunch, and we haven’t even ordered dinner yet.” She starts to stand, wringing her fingers around the napkin before smoothing it out, placing it carefully folded on the wood of the bar. “I’m going to the bathroom, and when I get back, we can talk about happier stuff. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agree, but the truth is that I have more questions, many more questions.
While she’s gone, I try to imagine a younger version of Rose and the renter I met today. I picture them falling in love, Nantucket like a character actor setting up the scene: all blue and purple hydrangeas, dappled sunlight through old oak trees, swollen brick sidewalks, hot sand dunes, tall seagrass, shingled houses with white trim and crawling flowers. Families riding by on matching beach cruisers. Doorframes expanding in summer heat. Everywhere you turn looking like an advertisement for a better life in a higher tax bracket.
I can see it. I can see Rose younger, happier, and there’s a part of me that’s guilty. She’s always insisted she doesn’t regret anything, but it couldn’t have been easy raising me alone. I wonder how her life would have turned out if she had married this Thomas Wentworth. Would they have kids? A family of four, perhaps?
It sounds strange, but I want that for her. I want her to have the life she planned for, even if it were to mean a life where I did not exist.
I’m so lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice the bartender approaching.
