by Sarah Jio
“I never stopped loving you,” I whisper.
“I have always loved you,” he replies.
Always. My eyes fill with tears.
He lifts me into his arms, his bare chest and body pressing against mine, and when he sets me on the bed, we kiss as if it’s our last day on earth. And perhaps it is. What do we, or anyone, know of tomorrow? If I’ve learned anything, it’s that not only may tomorrow never come, but worse, that when the sun rises, the person who holds your heart may vanish, taking a piece of you with him. Here today, gone tomorrow, like a storied ship in the Bermuda Triangle, taken under. Sent asunder.
But now he’s here; my love is here, and I’m breathing in his breath, his skin. His hands are exploring every inch of me. I gasp and cry out.
And when our bodies become one, I know that all I want, for the rest of my life, is this. All I want is this love. I want it every day. I want it morning and night. I want to breathe it in. I want to drown in it. And it strikes me how wonderful and tragic it is that in a sea of people just one can reach you so deeply.
As Cade’s body rises and falls against mine, I close my eyes tightly and pray that he will never go. I pray that this love, so golden and true, will stay, this time and always.
A YEAR AND A HALF LATER
“Look at that scene,” I say to Cade, pointing out the window of the train. The French countryside is stunning, just as beautiful as I remember from my childhood on that magical trip I took with my grandparents. “Never in America would you see this kind of terrain.”
He smiles and squeezes my hand as we pass a pasture dotted with a dozen fluffy white sheep. Behind them is a crumbling manor that even in disrepair looks dignified, like it has housed many banquet tables and bottles of fine wine in its history.
France. It’s hard to believe we’re here. Here together. And soon we’ll get off the train in Normandy and take a car to the little stone house by the sea that we’ll call home.
Shortly before I resigned from the Herald last year, I published my final article in the series on Pioneer Square. I loved going out that way, with an article that was both personal and hard-hitting at the same time. It told Cade’s story, every nuance. And it also told mine. It wasn’t nominated for any awards, but Jan loved it. Cade too. As did hundreds of readers who wrote in to say the same. Ryan never closed his deal for the Pioneer Square joint venture, a casualty of the recession, though he did contribute to getting Portland’s KGW NewsChannel 8’s HD Studio on the Square open on schedule. The homeless shelter by Cade’s old apartment was staying put. We’d saved it together.
Our attorney, Bruce Barrett, with the cooperation of James and Alexis, successfully recovered more than ten million dollars, and when the bulk of it was wired to Cade’s bank account, we decided to leave our beloved Seattle and start a new life.
“Normandy,” each of us said simultaneously the moment Cade’s affairs were settled. And so it was decided.
“Do you want anything?” Cade asks, standing up. “I thought I’d get a snack, maybe a bottle of water?” His speech is slower than it used to be. Life is slower for him, but I can’t help but beam with pride at how far he’s come, and Dr. Branson believes that with continued treatment he will only continue to improve.
“Sure, maybe a croissant?” I ask, smiling. It’s as wonderful as it is frightening to see him acting more independently. On one hand, he needs to be independent to thrive; on the other, I worry. What if he wanders off? What if he forgets his whereabouts?
As he walks ahead to the dining car, I think about the life we’ll have in France. I’ll cook beautiful meals in our little kitchen, windows open, the air perfumed with the smell of the sea and the herbs growing in our little outdoor garden. Every other Wednesday, I’ll accompany Cade to his appointments to see the neurologist in Paris, the best in France, according to Dr. Branson. And—I place my hand on my belly, where a new life is growing—we’ll raise a child together. Our child. I only recently found out, and though I wanted to tell him the moment the test came out positive, I’ve decided to wait and surprise him when we’re settled in our new home. Besides, I didn’t want him to worry about me during the move.
I tug at the ring on my left hand. Platinum with a row of alternating sapphires and diamonds, it was Cade’s grandmother’s. Simple, at least compared to the enormous rock Ryan gave me, but I love it so. James found it in the drawer of Cade’s desk at Element. He saved it all these years.
Telling Ryan I would marry Cade nearly ripped my heart in two. I couldn’t bear to do it over the phone. He deserved to know, and I knew I had to tell him, rather than have him find out from one of our mutual friends. So I drove over to the house on a Thursday night. I found him sitting on the front porch, holding a glass of whiskey with a large square ice cube from the ice cube tray I got for him last Christmas. The roses we planted in the garden in front of the house had long since withered from lack of water. Ryan looked withered, too. I hated to see him that way.
“Hi,” I said, taking a cautious few steps toward him.
“Hi,” he said, eyes brightening for a tiny moment before drifting back down to the glass in his hands. He took a drink. The sound of the ice cube clinking against the glass permeated the great void between us.
“I just wanted to come over to say…”
“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to say it. You’re marrying him.” He nodded and took a long sip of his whiskey.
“Ryan, I’m so sorry,” I said, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.
He held my gaze, and for a moment I could see the life I might have had with him. The joy. The children. The dinners and brunches and partnership. It would have been a wonderful life, yes, but it would have been a life without Cade.
“The thing is, Kailey,” Ryan said, his voice faltering a bit, “I don’t know that I’ll ever get over you.” He sighed. “I will always love you, and it’s out of this love for you that I can love you as you go.”
“Oh, Ryan,” I said, instinctively taking a step forward, then catching myself before I could wrap my arms around his neck the way I used to.
“I have to let you go,” he continued, standing up. “So go.”
All I could do was stare.
“Go,” he pleaded through tears. “Go before I beg you to stay.”
My eyes are misty as the French countryside whizzes past. But for all the sorrow in parting from Ryan, there was joy in joining my life with Cade’s. Our ceremony was small and quick. Tracy and her boyfriend joined us at a little chapel on Bainbridge Island. Grandma came, too. Although we learned that Cade’s aunt Fay had passed on, she was there in spirit. We felt that.
Cade looked so handsome in his suit, as handsome as he ever had. I wore a simple white satin dress that crisscrossed in the back, and I held a bouquet of lilies. It was perfect in every way. Well, nearly.
Just as we were leaving the church, I saw Ryan, leaning against his white BMW, once a familiar figure and now a ghost from my past. Why had he come? My heart lurched when our eyes met. Had he been there for the ceremony? Did he watch from the back of the church and listen to the vows I exchanged with Cade?
“Go talk to him,” Cade said before we drove off, his face beaming with the kind of confidence only true love brings. “It’s okay.”
My eyes filled with tears as I looked up into my husband’s eyes. “Really?”
“Of course,” he said. “He took care of you when I couldn’t.”
It was true. Ryan had loved me dearly, loved me with every ounce of his being. I nodded and let go of Cade’s hand to walk across the gravel parking lot to the street, where Ryan stood.
“Hi,” I said, approaching him in my wedding dress, a far cry from the elaborate Vera Wang I had planned to wear on the day I was to marry Ryan. I was still holding my bouquet, and I could only imagine the pain he must have been feeling seeing me this way. A bride whose groom was not him.
“You look gorgeous,” he said. “I always knew you’d be the most
beautiful bride.” He sighed. “I knew it, but I still had to see it with my own eyes.”
I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. Part of me wanted to reach my hand to his cheek and trace the soft spot between his cheekbone and his eye the way I used to. But those days were over. He knew it. I knew it.
Instead I smiled. I told him I was sorry.
He nodded, then turned to me once more before getting into his car. “I hope he loves you the way I do,” he said.
As Ryan drove away that day, I felt as if I could burst. For him, for me, for Cade.
“Thank you,” Cade said when I walked back to the car.
“Thank you for what?” I asked, setting my bouquet on the backseat.
“Thank you for choosing me,” he continued, the sound of Ryan’s car peeling off still echoing.
I wiped away a tear, thinking about all the people we meet along the way, and that Beatles song “In My Life” that sums up the experience so perfectly. The thing is, in my life, I loved Cade more. I would always love him more, plain and simple.
Cade returns to his seat beside me on the train with a coffee and croissant, and I feel a surge of gratitude for the way life has turned out, for that long and winding road that has brought us back together.
The train lets us off in a small town. After we disembark, we pile our bags onto a cart, then flag down a nearby taxi to take us to the little home we’ve purchased and not yet seen in person.
“We should be about twenty minutes away,” Cade says, holding out a map on his phone for the driver, who grunts something in French. I do my best to understand, but my high-school-level French fails me. There will be plenty of time to learn.
The sun will set soon, but if we’re quick we might be able to see our new home in the last few minutes of daylight. Warm air rushes in the open windows of the taxi as the driver speeds along the winding road that hugs the shore. We pass through a small town, but in the miles after, the landscape is sparse, save for a few stone homes that look to have a certain wisdom gained only from presiding over the seaside for centuries.
My heart begins to race as the cypress-lined road—our road—winds right, then left. And then, through the trees, we emerge. Our house is just ahead. Its walls, constructed of stone the color of light sand, look strong but also soft, welcoming somehow. The door, painted a deep purple to match the thriving bushes of lavender on either side of the entryway, beckons.
We pay the driver and wheel our bags across the stone walkway, then stand together, hand in hand, in front of our new home.
“Home,” Cade whispers to me. He takes my hand and leads me to the door, where he slips our key into the lock, then lifts me into his arms, carrying me over the threshold like our newlywed grandparents might have done so many years before us.
“Oh, Cade,” I say as he sets me down. “It’s perfect.”
Together we wander the little house, throwing open the windows to let the sea air in. The cozy living room is dominated by a stone fireplace and connects to the kitchen. I run my hands along the well-loved butcher-block countertops and can hardly wait to fire up the old copper stove. I think of all the quiches and cassoulets cooked here over the decades, the centuries.
The larger of the two bedrooms could accommodate a few beds, or even several bunks, for our children, one, maybe two, and those of our friends. For now it will be a nursery. I feel a flutter deep inside when I imagine Cade holding our baby. I think of Tracy, too. Just last week she’d told me her news: engaged and pregnant with twins. I smile to myself. Life. How funny and wonderful it can be.
The other bedroom is smaller but charming, with big windows that face the sea. “Let’s make this our bedroom,” I say to Cade, who nods and lies back on the bed to test it out. I follow suit.
“Not bad,” I say. Of course, the place will need some work. Fresh paint. Some new furniture. Curtains, linen preferably. But Cade is right, it already feels like a home. Our home.
We wander to the patio outside. It’s so close to the beach that, courtesy of the wind, sand has collected in small drifts along the edge of the garden. “Look,” I say, pointing to a terra-cotta pot beside the teak table and chairs. “A little lemon tree.”
Waves crash softly against the shore. The sun is setting, and the fading light is tinged orange. I watch Cade. He can’t seem to break his gaze from the ocean; it’s like it calls to him. I reach for his hand nervously. “You have to be careful,” I say. “You may have once been a champion swimmer in high school, but don’t forget that you haven’t yet relearned how to swim.” I know I sound more like his mother than his lover, but his accident has instilled in me a protective nature that I will never, perhaps ever, be able to shake.
He smiles. “Baby, there are a million and seven things I need to relearn to do.” He reaches for my hand. “I’ll add that one to the list.”
I return his smile.
“One day at a time,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. And yet I want to protect him from the world.
“How far away do you think that beach is?”
“What beach?” I reply, confused.
He reaches for the locket hanging from the gold chain around my neck. “The one where your grandfather found this shell.”
I point ahead. “I think it’s a mile or two that way. But don’t worry about it. We’ll go check it out together once we’re all settled.”
He nods, and the two of us sit on the bench at the edge of the patio. I lean my head on his shoulder. No love is perfect. And I suspect there will always be something lonely about my love for Cade. Something regretful, even something sad. An ache never to be soothed. After all, we’ve climbed great heights to be here. A mountain, really. And we summited it together.
“We did it,” I say, nestling my head in the crook of Cade’s neck.
“We did,” he replies with a smile, eyes fixed on the ocean.
He is mine, and I am his. And if you ask me how long I will love him, the answer is as long as there are stars in the sky; as long as there is sand on the shore.
Toujours.
Dear Reader,
In 1994, I was a sixteen-year-old with short platinum-blond hair, the keys to a green 1969 Volkswagen Beetle (which I’d bought for myself with babysitting money, for nine hundred dollars), and a box full of cassette tapes. I lived in a sleepy, rain-drenched suburb of Seattle, and on weekends, my friends and I would ride the ferry to the city, which musicians like Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder frequented. We’d sit in coffee shops, hang out at record stores, or—if our curfews would allow, and sometimes after a pleading, twenty-five-cent pay-phone call to our parents—hike up to Capitol Hill to see a band. Inspired by the iconic movie Singles, we wore a lot of thrift shop clothing—flannel shirts, vintage dresses, cardigans—dated boys in bands, and drank too many lattes. Our anthem was music, coffee, and freedom. It was our own kind of nirvana.
Time ticked on, however. I went to college and got a degree in journalism. I gave away my Doc Martens, and traded my guitar (which I was never very good at) for a laptop. I got married, had babies, endured a painful divorce. But I always looked back to that time, that scene. The music. The cafés. The rainy afternoons fueled by coffee and bad poetry. The ivy-covered brick building in Pioneer Square I remember so well. Coming of age in the 1990s.
Today I’m sitting in my Seattle office on a sunny afternoon. I’ve written seven novels (ten, if you count the books I threw away), and I’m thinking about Always, my eighth novel. When I began work on this book, I immediately felt an undeniable pull to Seattle during its music heyday. I wanted to set a story on the streets, in the cafés, and with the people I knew and loved (and still love) so much. Seattle in the 1990s will always be in my heart, and I hope I’ve done it an ounce of justice.
But while the backdrop of this story is born from the landscape of my adolescence, there is more to the inspiration. One day, two years ago, I was exiting a parking garage in downtown Seattle. The incline to Seventh Avenue was steep, and a
s I pulled my car forward, I quickly slammed on my brakes when I noticed a bearded homeless man slowly walking across the sidewalk.
Our eyes met, and in that moment, I was struck by an unshakable sense of familiarity—the unmistakable feeling that we had met years before, in college. But how could that be? How could a man who was premed end up homeless? How could a former life-of-the-party type trade preppy clothes and a nice condo for rags and a sleeping bag on the street?
He rounded the next block before I could roll down my window and ask his name, and besides, I had my children with me. On the drive home, I was haunted by that moment when our eyes met, and haunted by a story that began to develop in my heart—Cade and Kailey’s.
What would I have done in Kailey’s shoes? What would I do in the face of such a weighty and heart-wrenching choice? What would any of us do? I enjoyed wrestling with topics like this in the story, and realizing that as much heartbreak as I’ve seen in my own life, I do believe in love, and I always will.
Happy reading,
XO,
Sarah
To old love and new, but most of all, to the kind that lasts, always
I wrote this novel in the aftermath of one of the most heart-wrenching times in my life. My world had been turned on its head in every way, and I was trying my best to make sense of it and find some semblance of joy moving forward. I am especially grateful to my friends and family for being patient with me, for believing in me, and for reminding me that there is a season for everything, and that I could weather the rainy season, and that there would be sunshine ahead again.
I owe a heartfelt thanks to my publishing team, too, for standing by as I simultaneously sorted out my life and worked on this novel. Thank you, Elisabeth Weed and Jenny Meyer, my longtime agents, for believing in me from day one and for believing in me still. Also, so much gratitude to the wonderful people at Random House and Ballantine, Shauna Summers, Jennifer Hershey, and the entire team, for your patience, kindness, and for getting behind this book in such a smart and exciting way.
