JODI LEE: Yes. I do.
MARLOW FIN: Well, that date you mention? That’s it . . . that’s the second one.
JODI LEE: Can you tell the viewers, in your own words, what happened on that December day?
MARLOW FIN: [Stands up out of chair, panicked] I can’t do this. I have to go. I have to leave.
CHAPTER 42
WREN
1980s
Wren stared at the hairline fracture in the teacup. She had noticed it earlier but now it seemed to be getting wider. She placed her finger on it and felt for the roughness. The apple turnover had gone cold on the green-patterned china plate.
“Have you had time . . . to think about it?”
The restaurant was noisy, but Stella’s voice was hushed. She looked around as if every person was pretending not to listen to their conversation. This was their second time meeting each other in a week. But this time, she seemed eager for an answer. Every press of her lips and sweep of her hair was filled with apprehension. Impatience was starting to creep up in her voice, like the edges of wet paper curling up.
“Yes. I have,” she answered carefully as she pushed at the turnover with her fork.
The truth was, she hadn’t.
She didn’t know what to do with a request like the one that had slipped from Stella’s mouth, as if dark eels had tumbled out toward her, writhing and invading her body. It was a question that frightened and thrilled her all at once. She tried to forgot about it when she left that first meeting, the weight of its deliberation too heavy. But now—here it was again, and the only thing she knew was this was something to either immediately cast out or grab at with both hands.
They both looked out the window together. Snow had begun to fall and tap the glass with melted dots. As they turned back, she caught her gaze.
“Your eyes. They’re . . . remarkable,” Stella said before quickly breaking away and taking a sip of her tea. “But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.” She placed her hand on the middle of the table, her head slightly downcast.
The snow fell harder, colder as the flakes grew in size.
“I have a confession to make,” she suddenly said.
Wren looked up. “Confession?”
“Yes.” She took a sip of her tea and kept the cup close to her face. “That first time we spoke. That wasn’t the first time I saw you.” She set the cup down. “I noticed you before that. You struck me as someone I knew. I don’t know how else to explain it. So . . . I followed you.”
“What . . . why?”
“I really don’t know. But then the more I followed you, the more I realized you were actually following someone else.” She stared hard. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”
Her face felt cold.
“You know . . . I understand this isn’t easy for you—or anyone for that matter—to answer. But please know . . . please know that whatever you decide I am grateful you are even considering it.”
She blinked quickly a few times and placed a finger under her nose as if to hold in whatever was on the brink of escaping.
Wren picked up her fork and pierced the crust of the turnover. Flakes burst onto the white tablecloth. She chewed the large bite and kept her eyes on the plate. A bus pulled up in front of the window. The sound of its engine sputtering suddenly gave her a headache. She thought of how she could get on it and leave town. Leave this restaurant and what this woman was asking of her. But it was all so exhausting.
“It would mean so much . . .” Stella’s voice trailed off.
“I’ll do it,” Wren said.
“You’ll—you’ll what?” Stella looked down at the turnover first and then into her eyes.
“Yes. My answer is yes.”
CHAPTER 43
ISLA
2016
I found little ways to show my anger toward Sawyer over the months following the Marlow photo incident. Maybe it wasn’t entirely anger, but the refusal to let our life together continue unscathed. How could it ever be the same? If it was, it would mean what we had together was not as cherished as I had believed it to be—not worth being rocked by it all, too ordinary to stop its monotonous flow. I wanted him to know how much it hurt me. How much they had hurt me. If she wasn’t going to be here to see it, then he would have to pay the price.
Someone else has to feel the hurt.
They were so slight at first, I wondered if he even noticed.
His side of the bed left unmade. The less desirable cut of steak for dinner. His clothes unfolded in a heap after being in the dryer. The milk that he needed for his coffee left out to spoil.
There was a spiteful, unpleasant side of me I never knew existed. Creeping out in each and every move.
If he was aware of any of my childish actions, he didn’t show it. I turned up the dial.
I slept on the far edge of the bed, far from where we used to face each other before we fell asleep, breathing in tandem.
I stopped writing notes in his lunch. They used to be a morning ritual, a smile on my face as I wrote with blue pen on yellow Post-it Notes, sometimes silly jokes only he would get or a simple reminder that I loved him. The pen and Post-it pad remained untouched in the drawer.
