Page 92 of Wild Abandon

I spent the car ride home in silence with Naomi patiently waiting for me to talk, but I needed time.

When we got home, I sulked in my room for a while. Played the cello on the porch a little. Took the longest shower known to mankind. And when the sun set and the worst day of my life started to close, I joined Naomi on the stoop with a glass of wine, and I told her the whole torrid story.

She listened, she gasped, she cried, and right now, she is rubbing my back and telling me that everything is going to be okay.

“Is it weird that seeing how much he loves her made me love him even more? Is there something wrong with me?”

“No. He’s a good man. He was just dealt a shit hand.”

I nod and wrap my jacket around me. It’s cold, but I don’t want to be inside. I don’t want to be outside. I don’t know where I want to be.

“I still want him.”

“I know, sweetie. I know.” Naomi rubs circles on my back.

We sit in silence as a truck’s headlights appear down the road before stopping in front of the house.

Through the windshield, Nate looks at me and Naomi in surprise, clearly not planning on us being outside when he arrived. Naomi gives me a look with her eyes, asking if I’ll be okay. I assure her that it’s okay, and she goes inside, closing the front door behind her. I look back at the truck, and Nate is still sitting there, staring at me, probably unsure as to how he is going to explain why he lied to me.

Because that’s what he did, right? He lied. He let me believe he had a girlfriend. I had a hard enough time staying away from him when I thought he had some chippy on the side. But a wife? I would never have considered our friendship a possibility.

He turns the car off and takes the longest possible time exiting the car and walking around to the sidewalk.

I don’t move. I shouldn’t have to. As sorry as I feel for him and whatever he’s going through, he owes me an apology. I deserve at least that much.

Basked in the light provided by the lantern on Naomi’s front porch, Nate looks like he’s on a small stage, his face highlighted just enough for me to see the frown lines and dark circles under his eyes.

I watch as he stands there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the cement.

“It was a stroke,” he starts. “She was twenty-seven. No one knows why. Doctors said it was an intracerebral hemorrhage with a ventricular rupture. All I know is, she can’t walk, can’t talk, can’t feed herself, and can’t use the bathroom on her own. She doesn’t even know who I am.”

He looks up at me and takes a deep breath when he sees the tears in my eyes. “We met at a festival in San Francisco, one of those three-day things where everyone gets high and drinks too much and pretends they’re at Woodstock. She was eighteen, and I was twenty. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. She dared me to eat this ridiculous amount of hot sauce. So, I did. She dared me to streak through the festival. So, I did. She dared me to marry her. So, I did.

“We eloped. After seventy-two hours of knowing each other, I married a complete stranger. I was young and dumb and in love. We didn’t have money for rings, so we got these tattoos. They were just outlines at the time. We had them filled in on our fifth wedding anniversary.

“She was a dancer. Taught at a school in San Francisco. She was a beautiful dancer. Too short to ever make it but spunky enough to teach it.

“I wasn’t with her when the stroke happened. By the time I found her, the effects had set in. The doctors brought her back to life. They didn’t know what mental function she’d have when she woke up and asked what they should do if she flatlined again. I knew she’d want to be let go, but her father told me I wouldn’t be a man if I let her die. He punched me in the face. Said if I let them kill his little girl, he’d kill me. So, when she flatlined again, I told them to do whatever they could to save her.

“When she woke up, the most vivacious woman I’d ever met was just a shell.

“I can handle feeding her through a tube. I can handle changing catheters. But I still can’t handle her not knowing who I am. You have no idea what it is like to love someone who isn’t even there.”

The words are stronger than anything I imagined in my mind. I tremble with the wakening emotions and offer him my deepest condolences. No one should have to live their life like this. Neither of them.

Nate takes a step toward me, and I rise up, holding my hand out, willing him to stay back.

“Crystal—” There is a pleading to his voice.

“No, Nate.” I pause, needing a moment to compose my thoughts. My feelings for him, for this story, for the reality of the moment are heavy on my heart. “I hurt for you. My stomach is literally aching with the thought of you hurting. This is awful, and I am so very sorry this is the life you live. But it doesn’t negate the fact that you lied to me. You were my friend. You should have told me.”

“And what? Have you look at me the way you are now? As the man who is living a life in purgatory. I can’t look back because it hurts, and I can’t move forward because there is nowhere to go. I promised forever to someone who I can’t share forever with. When I am with you, I can be me. You look at me like a man. I haven’t wanted to let anyone in. I tried to keep you away, but I can’t, Crystal. You walked into my life, and I couldn’t shut you out.”

“You used me to play pretend? To feel like a man? Thanks, Nate, but I think you missed something. I actually cared about you—”

“I’m in love with you.” His words cut through me like a knife.

He walks closer, and I feel my heart leaving my body and running into his hands. Hands that can crush it.