IT’D BEEN TWO weeks since my argument with Aaron. One week since the talk with my brother. And with every passing day, every painful session with those godforsaken popsicle sticks, missing Aaron hurt a little more. I’d thought it would be easier, now that I’d decided to stay.
It wasn’t. Not even close. No matter the progress I made in other areas, the days were dulled around the edges, and the hole in my chest throbbed and ached. I missed the safety of Aaron’s arms, the sense of knowing I was home inside of them. I wasn’t sure if he even knew I’d stayed. I didn’t see him the few times I’d gone to the coffee shop, and Jodi—who was still pretty salty about my attempted escape, but was slowly coming around—would only say he looked as sad as me.
I had no idea if he’d forgive me. But if I wanted a second chance at him, I had to get myself set to rights first.
So I put my head down, and move forward. The lights upstairs finally worked, for one. The electrician had rewired the entire house, and in doing so, had relieved me of the last bit of Gigi’s funds. I’d filled up the dumpster outside and already had a fresh one halfway filled. I’d aired out old quilts and made beds with fresh linens. I wasn’t going to stay in the house, but I’d make an effort while I was here.
I’d also reached out to the elementary school about being a substitute teacher while I re-upped my teaching license. I wasn’t ready to go back to the middle school, but this was a step.
I was doing the work. Like I’d promised Rick. And like I’d promised myself. But I still had one gauntlet to run: the wedding album.
I hadn’t touched it since the day it opened to my and Jason’s wedding. And even after hearing of Gigi’s husbands, I still hadn’t been able to open it.
Today was the day.
I grabbed it and got comfortable on the couch. The smell of old leather wafted up as I opened the book, its spine cracking.
The pages were black, and there, on the very first page beneath a yellowed sheet of tissue paper, was a black-and-white photo with scalloped edges tucked into four black picture corners. In the frame stood a very young Gigi, clad in a smart-looking cream skirt and jacket and a tiny cream fascinator placed jauntily on her head. Beside her, dressed in what I thought was an Army uniform, stood a man I didn’t know. They smiled happily at each other on the steps of the town’s courthouse, their hands clasped and their bodies pressed against each other. A yellowed piece of paper below the picture captioned, Shirley and Herman, April 9, 1952.
I did the math. She’d been all of seventeen years old. So young. They looked so happy. I could only assume something happened to Herman while he was in the service. Korean War, maybe? I ran my fingers over the image, trying to imagine what it must have felt like for Gigi to lose her love like that. I remembered the way she’d comforted me after Jason’s death. Losing someone in a tragedy is the worst kind of loss. Even if you know there’s a risk, you think it won’t happen to you. And when it does, it takes your breath away. I didn’t know she was speaking from experience.
Heart heavy, I flipped the page. There was a photo of my great-aunt Donna marrying her husband, Henry. They’d moved up to Yazoo, Mississippi after the wedding, so I never met them, but Gigi had regaled me with stories on our road trips about their adventures growing up.
The next page had a picture I recognized, at least partially. Gigi and the man who was my grandfather, Robert. They’d gotten married at church, and Gigi’s dress was a stunner, plain white silk that hugged all her curves and ended in a train that floated down the steps of the altar. They were flanked by groomsmen and bridesmaids, none of whom I knew but whose names were listed on the card below the frame. Shirley and Robert, June 1955.
The next couple of photos were of people and weddings I didn’t know, but then I got to the one of my parents. Instantly, tears sprang to my eyes. I remembered this picture on the mantle at our house in Seattle, the way my mother teased me for always grabbing it and looking at it. It was a close-up shot, waist up, and they smiled brightly at the camera, hugging each other, as if neither one of them could bear to be apart from the other. So full of love and life. Laura and David, 1990.
The next page held Gigi’s third wedding photo. Shirley and Warner, 1994. A heated flush of shame washed across me as I took it in. There he was. Santa Claus. How did I not realize they were married? I peered at Gigi’s hand and saw only a tidy gold band. I flipped back. The same kind of band she wore with Grandpa. I flipped to the front, but Herman’s hands covered hers. I turned back to the one of her and Warner. No way she wore the same gold band for all of them, right? Either way, I’d always assumed the ring she wore when I lived here was the one Grandpa had put on her hand. That might have been wrong.
I knew the next page was my and Jason’s, so I flipped past it to see if I could find Rick and Ceci’s. I turned the page and choked out a laugh. True to form, the image was a bit chaotic. The photographer had tried to get us all in line and smiling, but Rick had already snuck shots to all of us and we were more than a little tipsy. Rick and Ceci were mid-laugh as the rest of us attempted to get into position. I’d never seen this image, and it was sheer perfection. Rick and Ceci, 2015.
Taking a deep breath, I went back a page. There we were: me on Jason’s back, both of us laughing, surrounded by our friends and family as we wove through a sea of bubbles on the way to the car. We’d been so happy. So full of promise.
I closed my eyes, waiting for the familiar onslaught of guilt and pain to hit. But it didn’t come. After a moment, I released the breath I’d been holding and opened my eyes.
I was finally getting better. I hadn’t told Jason I loved him on that last day, but it wasn’t eating me up like it used to. We’d fought, but we would have made up. We would have worked through it. I had to believe that. And I had to believe that he would have helped me become a better person. I’d always be grateful for the time we had together, and I was finally able to move forward. I’d lost a love of my life when Jason died, but he wasn’t my one and only. My story couldn’t end with losing Jason. In fact, maybe it was just beginning.
I loved Aaron. Deeply. But I’d never told him. What kind of cowardly move was that?
I sat up and closed the wedding album. Enough of this. I still had a chance. I had to try. I had to, because he was alive. And I’d lost enough people in my life. It was time to put the rest of the plan into action.
I grabbed my phone and called Betty. When she answered, I asked, “How mad do you think Mrs. Withers would be if we really did turn this house into a bed-and-breakfast?”
32
DEVON
THE DAY WAS appropriately overcast as I thanked Wanda and stepped out.
“You sure you don’t want me to wait?” She looked at me skeptically. “Not confident any of these folks still have a valid driver’s license.”
The corner of my lips lifted at her light-hearted humor. “I’m sure. Thank you.”
“Okay. Well, you got my cell so you holler when you’re ready for a pick-up.” She rolled her window up and did a U-turn in the parking lot.
I rubbed my arms to ward off the late October chill. No amount of layers were going to keep me warm.
Looking up at the wrought-iron gates, I took a deep breath. Nothing to do but get on with it. I walked into the cemetery, muscles straining with the effort of not turning and bolting for the hills.
I wound through the walkways, doggedly heading for Jason’s grave. It came into sight quickly, because it was a small cemetery, intended only for the local police, firefighters, veterans, and their families. My steps slowed, faltered, then stopped completely in front of it.
The gravestone still looked so new and bright, its raw marble untested by decades of weather. A firefighter’s helmet was carved at the top. His name, birth and death dates were beneath it. Beloved son, brother, husband under that.
I hated it.
“I never apologized, did I?” I said, lowering to my knees in the grass. “Not really. Not for what mattered.”
The breeze was cool against my bare neck. I flipped the flannel’s collar and squinted into the sky.
“So.” I paused, searching for the words. “Jason, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I never let you in. You were so good to me, and I repaid you by never loving you as much as I could have. Never letting you love me the way you wanted.”
The grass was too well-kept and soft beneath my jeans, and I wanted it to poke through, spike into my knees. Provide some kind of punishment. I needed it.
Why?
I looked around, searching for the source of the question. But of course, no one was there. And it’s not like it was Jason’s ghost asking me. Still, I thought about it.
“Because I’m still here and you’re not. Because I can’t stop thinking that you left home that day knowing I was mad at you. But even though I was mad, it was because I was scared. I loved you. Of course I loved you. That was never the problem.”
