The One Who Got Away: A Novel

by Bethany Bloom

  Henry lay flat on his back and stared straight ahead, through the skylight. Olivine propped herself on one arm and watched his lips move. “And so we were working one afternoon. And the rest of the trades had gone home, and Dad realized he needed to cut a vent in the soffit on the gable because somehow it had been missed, and a friend of mine from high school called to see if I wanted to meet some buddies for happy hour. And my dad said, ‘Go. Go. I’m almost done here.’ And so I left.”

  Henry paused a moment, drew a breath and exhaled. “And when I got home, hours later, Mom wanted to know where Dad was, because she thought he was with me, and so we drove out to the jobsite to see if his truck was still there, but by then it was two in the morning.”

  Henry’s voice became, small, tight, almost a whisper. “And his truck was there. And he was there. At the base of the ladder. His neck was broken. And by then there was nothing we could do.” Henry squeezed his eyes shut. “How long did he suffer? Because I wasn’t there?” He pressed his palms hard against his eyes. “We have no idea. My dad died because I was playing darts at a bar, Olivine.” He choked on the words. “I left my dad to go play darts at a bar. And he died.”

  Olivine didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to say. And so she listened, as closely and as carefully as she could, and as she listened, she opened herself up to take in his grief and his pain. Just as she had taught herself to do when things on the outside of her got to be too much, when the sting of the icy water in the stream got to be too much; she imagined herself an empty vessel, and she let his pain move into her like a surge of water. And then she imagined herself filling that vessel with the brightest light she could imagine, and then she let it shine through all of the pain he had shared with her. Not resisting it, just opening up to it and shining light through it. Purifying it. And sending him kindness and love and forgiveness through that light. Letting it wash over him: across his back, along the nape of his neck. Flowing over him and through him and across to the corners of the room.

  “And my dad was so loved,” Henry continued, “Everyone, all his friends, everyone in town…everyone shook my hand at his wake but they looked at me with, with such…scorn. And I felt so ashamed. I could no longer look at anyone. And then my mother. She couldn’t even look at me. I love her so much. I needed her. And she couldn’t even look at me. And so I told her I needed to leave town. To go far away and never come back, and that’s when she lied to me. My own mother lied to me to get me to stay, and I couldn’t bear the idea that she was trying to manipulate me. She told me I couldn’t leave because she was sick, and I asked her ‘sick with what?’ and she said she had cancer. And when I asked her what kind of cancer she refused to tell me, saying that the doctor was always trying to tell her how she should be feeling and what kind of treatments she should be trying and so she had stopped going. And I felt so trapped. Amid all of these people who thought that I, that I….caused the death of my father. Even my own mother. And I felt like I didn’t even know her anymore. She was so desperate and, I don’t know, so wounded, because of what I had done. That she would lie to me about something like that. My world just ended. It just. Ended. And so I left. I came to this place…a place I’ve always dreamed of living. We came here on a ski trip when I was a little boy and I promised myself that someday, someday, I would come back here. To live. So I came out. I just picked up and came out.”

  He uncovered his face. He looked at her, where she was sitting up over him. “And almost immediately, I met you. And you let me forget, even if just for a moment. When I’m with you, Olivine, I was the man I was…before. And then, when I remember again, all that happened, I think of it as an accident. Not as my fault. But as something that just…happened. A terrible accident. And the relief, it’s so sweeping, I can’t describe... And yet. I can’t feel. Not in the way that I should. I can’t feel love. And you are the most lovely… It’s too soon, maybe? Or maybe I’m broken. But I can’t feel. And that’s not fair to you.”

  Once again, Olivine did not know what to say and she did not know what to do. Never had she been faced with such pain, such grief. And in the decade that followed, Olivine would think about what she did next hundreds of times. And what she did was this:

  She said not a word, but she reached out, and she placed a trembling finger to his lips, and then she swung one leg over him, where he lay flat on the floor, and she sat astride him and she stared into his eyes, not breaking his gaze. And then she placed her palms on his chest and she tousled her long hair so it cascaded over the top of his head, shrouding his face. Then she grazed his lips with hers, soft and full, and then she kissed him with an exploring desperation, and then she drew away. And she unbuttoned his shirt, a single button at a time, still sitting astride him and staring into his eyes, and running her fingers along his chest, and when his shirt was open, she kissed all the way down to the snap on his jeans. And when she had slipped off his clothes, she explored his body with her lips and with her tongue, every part of him, from the soft spot behind his ears to his abdomen, taut under his skin, to the inside of his thigh. And when he leaned in, when he tried to rise or to move his hands, she pushed him gently back. And then she stripped for him, slowly and sensually, her eyes locked on his. She removed her top, her bra, and she swung her hair so it dangled just above her nipples and still she held his gaze. And then she sat astride him once again. And he had tried, then, to move his hands to caress her, but she pinned his hands above his head, tousling her hair just above his face, and in the glint of the starlight, she saw the luster in his eyes that signaled his desire for her. And she could see that he was feeling, once again. She was in control of it, of him, of the way he felt in this world. And she would continue to make him feel. With her, he would feel. She would prove it. With her, his life would be different. He would be accepted, safe, free.

  She made him lie still, but his hips writhed, and she pushed against him. She took him inside her and she began to make love to him, softly, gently and only then did she allow him to hold her, to place his rough, warm hands on her waist, as he pushed deeper inside her.

  And when they came together, when they both cried out, it was a moment of such intimacy, such wholeness, such oneness that it eclipsed anything she had ever felt before. It was the first time she had taken control of a man. She had let him know, without words, that she could care for him. That she could draw him inside her, and he would be always accepted, always forgiven. Always enough.

  It was the last she had seen of him.

  After she had made love to him, there had been no more words. They lay together for a half hour or so and then Henry drifted off to sleep and she woke him with a soft kiss goodnight, and she whispered that she would walk herself home. She needed the darkness and the time alone.

  He hadn’t called the next morning as he always did. And so she stopped by Carter’s house, a bit before noon. And Carter had said that Henry had left that morning, and, no, he didn’t know when Henry would be back, but would she like to go out to lunch with him? To talk about it? She did not.

  Should she have said something more to Henry? Done something more? Demonstrated more?

  And now, she sat opposite him on the porch of her family’s cabin, and ten years had passed, and she watched Henry speak with Paul and she watched the care Henry was taking to avoid looking at her. And he was a married man now. And she knew that Henry had left her that night, and he had found someone who had done something more. Said something more. He had found someone who had been able to comfort him and care for him in a way that she had not.

  Just as Yarrow said, Olivine hadn’t done enough. She hadn’t been enough. And now it was too late.

  *****

  “Well,” Paul said, finally. “I suppose it’s time for us to be on our way.” And Henry nodded goodbye and reached up and grabbed the back of his neck with his palm, exposing his bicep. It’s what he had always done when he felt unsure, unsteady. It astonished Olivine that his mannerisms were still so familia
r. That so little about him had changed.

  Paul took Olivine’s hand as they descended the porch steps, and he steadied her as they tiptoed their way across the ice. And now they stood on the pebbly snow between their two cars.

  “I’ll see you at home,” she said.

  “You go first,” Paul replied. “I’ll follow you out.” He looked up at the porch, where Henry was standing, pressing his palms now against the wood and looking out into the driveway.

  “Sure.” She slid into the Jeep and turned toward home. And he stayed near to her, his headlights beaming into her rear view mirror. She parked in her designated place in the garage and waited for Paul to do the same. She had just opened her car door when Paul asked, “So, how do you know this guy?”

  “Just like he said. He came out one summer to build custom homes, a long time ago, and I met him then.”

  “He was your boyfriend. Wasn't he?”

  She paused and stepped out of the car. Paul was standing at the door to the house now, watching her.

  “Yes. I guess you could say that.” Her voice was calm, quiet.

  “I knew it. I could tell by the way he was looking at you.”

  She stood behind him and waited for him to open the door; to enter the house. He held the door open for her. “So,” he continued, “what happened?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. He vanished. One day. And I never talked to him again. Until today.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Yeah. Kind of.” Olivine removed her jacket and hung it on its hook in the mud room, happy to be facing away from Paul for a moment.

  “So how long did you go out? I mean, he must have been important to you and your family at some point. Your grandfather still talks to him.”

  “I was surprised to know that, too,” she said, walking into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and removing a bottle of seltzer water.

  “Well, why do you think Grandpa called him? Did he know you two dated?”

  “Yeah, I think he did,” she said, holding his gaze. “Look. It’s just a carpenter thing. They really bonded over the building of things back then. And I think Grandpa found him online or something. Because he wanted someone to build the door. That’s what Yarrow told me, anyway.”

  “So Yarrow knows he’s here, too?”

  Olivine nodded. She took a sip of her drink and offered it to Paul.

  He shook his head. “You guys have already discussed this?”

  “Yeah, I guess we have.”

  “So you knew he was here?”

  “No, but I guess I did know he would be coming. At some point.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “Is that why you went out there tonight? To the house?”

  “No. I went out to think. It’s always a quiet place. I went out there to study my Anatomy, actually,” she lied. “I didn’t know he had already started on his…whatever it is he is doing. And, trust me, I’ll leave him to do it.”

  He turned his eyes toward her.

  “Trust me,” she said.

  “I do, Ollie.”

  “I know you do. We’re getting married, after all.” She walked over to him and popped on her toes to kiss his cheek.

  “Well.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I just need to know what I’m going to be dealing with for the rest of my life. I mean, if this guy’s going to appear every now and again to try and steal you away…” He let out a shallow laugh. “It caught me off guard, if you want to know the truth. How could I not have known about this guy, who is very clearly still in love with you? And then to discover that your grandfather is trying to reintroduce you. I mean, we’ve been dating for three years. Three years. How come you never mentioned this guy?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because he’s not important to me.”

  “He wants you, Olivine.”

  “He does not. Didn’t you hear him? He has a wife. He has a family.”

  “So? That doesn’t matter to every kind of guy, Olivine. Were you looking at him? A guy can tell these things. He wants you.”

  “You’re imagining things, Paul. If you want the whole story, here it is. He came out here to work, when we were both fresh out of college. We dated for, maybe, two months. He was at a vulnerable time in his life because his father had just died. We shared a few beers, a couple of hikes, a few bike rides. Then we both went on with our lives. I never heard from him again, in fact. After that day. Until now. Just now. An hour ago.”

  “So this wasn’t even a significant relationship in your life?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, if you dated at this, as you say, vulnerable time in his life, it was a significant relationship for him. Just by virtue of the timing.”

  “Maybe. If so, he never let on to that. Maybe that explains why he looks at me like that. Maybe he just remembers that I was once his friend during a hard time.”

  “Probably. Okay. I’ll take you at your word. But really, Olivine,” he laughed, “how many more men like this am I going to meet?” He looked at her sideways, his grin spreading across his face. “Do you leave a trail of heartbroken men? A wake of pining guys? Is this to be my fate as well? Am I one of many?”

  “Well, I am pretty hot,” she said, grinning.

  “Indeed you are.”

  She winced a bit, just as she did whenever he used that word. Indeed. So pretentious. So affected.

  “And we’re engaged,” he said. “And I love you. And I need you. You know that, don’t you? We have a lot of big, important plans together. Big, important things to do with our lives.”

  She looked down at her hand, where her ring should have been. “I love you, too.”

  *****

  Later that night, Olivine burrowed into her down comforter and kicked a leg across the cottony expanse of her sheets. Her mind was racing, and she tried to ground herself by consciously feeling each place where her body met the bed. Paul snored softly beside her.

  Henry’s lips. When she closed her eyes, she could remember exactly the way it felt to kiss them. She rolled onto her side to face Paul, but he was lying on his side, as well, and facing away from her. His body was bare, except for the white cotton sheet tucked around his middle. His shoulders were broad and muscular, tapering just the slightest bit to his waist. He was strong and capable and able to handle anything with rational, composed thought. Olivine smiled as she thought about how Paul could handle even the toughest relationship issues in the short distance of a car ride. In fact, each of the monumental events of their relationship had happened in the car. On his way to get somewhere. On their way to get somewhere.

  Paul’s breathing was calm and measured—even in sleep. She was lucky to have found a man who loved her and her alone. Who knew how to talk to her calmly, how to soothe her with his words, how to fix people, how to fix anything. A man who could detach from personal problems and live an important life. To do what needed to be done. Paul had many things to show her and he would give her a good life, a solid life, a secure life.

  And then her thoughts turned to Henry. To a moment a week or so before he had left. They had been sitting in her car, an older model Jeep than the one she drove now, and he had kissed her, and then she was sitting astride him, on the passenger’s seat and he had told her she was the most amazing thing he had ever laid eyes on and then she kissed his lips, his cheekbones, his forehead, his neck, and each earlobe, kissing all the way down his neck and then to his lips once more. He began to laugh and he pointed at the windshield and she turned to see that all the glass in the car had fogged up so completely they couldn’t see out, and they giggled together and he leaned over, and with his index finger, he wrote, “Henry loves Olivine” in the steam on the windshield. Giant letters that covered the entire view.

  And then—after he had disappeared, after he had left her—on any cold or wet morning, when she would need to use the defroster, Henry’s words would appear again. A phantom message remindin
g her of a time that had once been, but was no longer.

  Olivine fell asleep, finally, to the sounds of Paul’s hushed and gentle breathing, and she dreamt that she was in a room with shiny white walls and royal blue trim and Henry was lying on the bottom bunk of a three story bed. One hand was propped behind his ear and he was grinning at her.

  “Don’t worry,” he kept saying, “We have time. We have all the time in the world. If not in this life, then in another.” And in the dream, as he said these words, a weight lifted from her and a sense of freedom, open and tickling, rolled through her. His lolling gaze melted over her where she stood and she felt like she had turned to water, and she was overflowing from her arms, her legs, the top of her head.

  And in the dream, Henry sat up on the bed and his gaze was smoldering but playful, and he pulled her to him by the belt loops, which made her stomach drop. And then, he still on the bed and she standing, he kissed her and she experienced the feeling of fullness, a soft and velvety fullness. It left the faint taste of raspberries in her mouth.

  Chapter Seven

  All the next day, Olivine had this feeling like she couldn’t quite catch her breath, like something was stuck in her throat. A throbbing dullness. A nagging paltriness that lined the deepest part of her.

  And so, after doing her best on two exams, she drove to her favorite trailhead, high enough in the backcountry that she could still ski, even in early May. It was two miles from the college and in the same valley as the cabin, but along the mountainside where the snow cover was complete. Here, she knew, the trail would be shaded enough that the snow would be soft; not crusty like on the trails below.

  The parking lot here at the trailhead was empty, just as she liked it. The world was so quiet, so still, that every motion and sound seemed magnified and filled her with a sense of reverence. The murmur of her breath. The rasp of her jacket as she prepared to ski.