by Melody Grace
You’ve got this, I tell myself, slowly getting out of the car. Just act like you don’t care anymore, and maybe, one day it’ll be true.
Will looks up and sees me. He clears his throat. “Sorry, I thought you’d be at work.”
Pain echoes through me just looking at him. He looks terrible, too: unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in a week. But that’s even worse somehow, because despite everything, I don’t want him to be in pain.
I’m suffering enough for the both of us.
“What is this?” I ask, when I trust my voice enough to speak.
“Harold,” Will answers, and it takes a moment for me to figure out what he’s talking about. My old rowboat.
“I thought Sawyer hauled it out of the river.” I frown, confused. “He said he took it to the junkyard.”
“I had him bring it to me instead.” Will gives me a quiet smile. “I was planning to surprise you.”
“Well, thanks,” I reply shortly, trying to ignore every instinct in my body. It’s aching to go to him, hold him, close the distance between us somehow. But it’s too far now, knowing what I do.
He pauses, like he wants to say something else, then he turns back.
“I love you.”
What?
Of all the things I expected to hear, it wasn’t this. I stare at him, my mouth open in shock—and my traitorous heart beating faster at the look on his gorgeous face, so intent and sincere.
“I didn’t want to tell you like this, but you need to know. You’re the only one,” he says simply. “I never felt this way about her, not even close. I know I should have told you everything, and I’m so, so sorry I let you down. But I wanted to start over, do it right this time.” Will’s eyes search mine. “My life here, you, it’s where I’m supposed to be. It’s like I was stuck in this awful bad dream, and then I woke up, and there you were. The one I was supposed to be with all along.”
Will steps closer. “I’ll earn your trust back, I’ll do whatever it takes,” he swears, reaching to touch my cheek. God, it feels too good, his skin on mine. That intoxicating touch, so right. I know I should pull away, but I can’t, because I want more. So much more. And Will must see it in my eyes, because he tilts my face to his and kisses me softly. So tenderly, it’s barely a whisper of his lips against mine, but too soon, he’s stepping back.
It’s not enough, I want to cry. It could never be enough.
“I’m here,” Will says, regret so deep in his eyes. “I promise you, Dee. If you ever decide to forgive me, I’ll be here. And I swear, I’ll never let you down again.”
He waits a moment, but I can’t say a word. I’m fighting a war inside, paralyzed in place with nothing but my racing heart pounding in my ears. Will finally nods, then turns and walks slowly back to his truck.
I watch him walk away, still torn. Part of me is screaming to go after him, kiss him for real and never let go.
But that word lingers, the hardest word I’ve ever known.
Forgiveness.
He starts the truck and drives away. I watch until he’s gone. I’m alone on the street, arms wrapped tightly around myself; a poor imitation of the embrace I really crave.
I can’t think about what he’s just said, so I turn instead to the boat and pull back the tarp.
I gasp. He didn’t just rescue Harold—he restored it, too. The last time I saw it, the boat was peeling and old, those base boards splintered with a gaping wound cut clear through the deck. Now, it’s like he never went down at all. The boards have been replaced, so seamlessly you would never know they were damaged at all. Every inch has been repainted, smoothed and sanded, repaired by hand.
Tears well up in my throat. It was broken, and Will fixed it. Because he knew how much this old boat mattered to me, the memories it held.
Can it really be so easy? I stare at it, feeling helpless. Can you just replace the broken pieces, and have the scars painted over, better than before? Or do those cracks last a lifetime, shadows of the damage that went before?
I stand there a long time, feeling the weight of it all crushing down on me. Not just Will, now, but the questions I’ve been grappling with for years now. The ones I still have no answers to.
I go get back into my car, and drive—to the only person I want to talk to now. The only one who might have some understanding for me, more than anyone in the world.
My mom.
Twenty.
The house is empty, but I find mom out back in what used to be the garden shed, but has somehow been transformed into an art studio, complete with whitewashed walls, an easel, and shelves crammed full of paints and art supplies.
“When did this happen?” I ask, surprised in the doorway.
Mom looks up from behind thin, wire-rimmed glasses. She’s in front of a canvas daubed with watercolor flowers. “Oh, hi sweetie, I didn’t know you were here.” She sets down her paintbrush and hugs me at arm’s length. “Sorry, I’m such a mess.”
“That’s OK.” I step inside the small space, still curious. “I didn’t know you were painting.”
“What, this?” Mom gestures modestly, “It’s nothing. I used to paint all the time. I stopped when you were younger, but your father suggested I give it a whirl again. He signed me up for classes in the spring, and even did all of this with the shed, isn’t that sweet of him?”
“Well, it looks great.” I pause, not sure what to say, but Mom’s busy rinsing off her brushes and setting things aside.
“So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she asks.
“I . . . was in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by and say hi.”
Mom gives me a curious look. Despite all the trailing scarves and watercolors, she’s still the sharpest one around. “We haven’t heard from you in a while. I thought maybe you and Will were enjoying some time to yourselves . . . ?” She pauses, hinting.
“We were.” I stop. “I guess . . . I wanted to talk to you about it.”
If Mom’s shocked I would ever be coming to her for romantic advice, she hides it well, and she shows me outside to where some chairs are set up under the old cypress tree. I sink into the cushions and pull my knees against my chest. She’s watching me expectantly, but I can’t dance around it with small talk and half-truths. It’s been plaguing me for years, and now, it seems more vital than ever to know.
“How did you forgive him?” I ask, my voice breaking. “When Daddy cheated. He lied, and he left us, and you act like it never happened now. I don’t understand.”
Emotion flashes across my mom’s face, and she exhales a long breath. I feel awful for bringing it up like this out of nowhere, but I’ve kept silent about it for so long, and I have to hear her side of the story if I’m ever going to figure out what to do.
“Did Will do something?” she asks, her voice sharp.
“No.” I find myself defending him. “Not, not like that. But, he betrayed my trust, and I just . . .” I stop and shake my head. “It’s not just about Will. I need to know this for me. I’ve tried, Mom, I really have. I’ve tried to just respect your decision, I know it’s your life, but I can’t wrap my head around it.”
Mom gives me a sad, quiet smile. “Oh, honey. It’s not a simple answer.”
“So explain,” I plead. “I want to understand.”
She looks away for a moment, over the yard, and I can tell she’s picking her words carefully. When she looks back, her face is content. “I guess what it comes down to is that I chose a life with him rather than one without.”
She says it so simply, but it can’t be simple. The cheating, the betrayal. How can she just sweep it aside? Make a calm calculation and then just move on?
“But you could have started again,” I argue. “Found someone else if you didn’t want to be alone.”
Mom shakes her head. “It wasn’t like that. You have to understand, sweetie, we had twenty years together. Good years. Laughing and waking up together and going to sleep in the same bed ev
ery night. And raising you,” she adds with a smile.
“But he hurt you.”
She nods. “I never said he didn’t. When I found out . . .” The shadow is clear on her face. “I thought I’d lost my whole world. Some nights, I would tell you I was running errands,” she adds sadly, “and I’d go take a drive and just sit in the woods and cry.”
“Mom . . .” Now I feel terrible for even bringing it up. I reach for her hand, but she just squeezes it and gives me a smile.
“It’s fine, sweetie. Ancient history.”
“But that’s what I don’t understand. How could you ever take him back after what he put you through?”
“Because he asked.” Mom’s expression is still calm. “I lost my best friend, but he lost me too. Whatever he thought he was getting into . . . well, it didn’t come close to what the two of us had. And once he realized what he was losing . . . he came to his senses again.”
I sigh, still confused. “Just like that, you took him back.”
She looks at me wryly. “Don’t think I made it easy on him. I was spitting mad, hurt, betrayed. I didn’t know if I could ever trust him again. But he promised to do whatever it took. We went to couples counseling, and it was months before I even let him back in the house. It was work,” she admits. “To rebuild after such a betrayal and let go of my anger. It took a long time to move past it, and even longer to forgive him.”
“So how?” I ask again, my emotions still so tangled up and confused. “He broke your heart. He betrayed us both. But you still found a way to forgive him in the end.”
My mom sighs. “I know you think I was just being weak—” I start to argue, but she stops me. “It’s OK, sweetie, I know. You haven’t forgiven him, and that’s your right. He hurt you too. But I stand by my choice. He’s the love of my life,” she says, matter of fact. “And some things are worth fighting for.”
We sit in silence for a moment as I think over her words. I was hoping she’d have something more for me: concrete advice, a handy how-to-forgive guide. Foolish, I know. I guess however old you get, you never grow out of hoping that your mom will have the answers to everything. But instead, she made it sound different: a simple choice. To be with him, or not.
Which life she wanted more in the end.
Mom pats my hand. “Your father will be home soon. Let’s go put dinner on.”
I follow her inside the house again. This isn’t the home I grew up in, with creaking floorboards and clutter everywhere. It’s sleeker and new, with polished countertops and a kitchen that’s white and clean. “Is that why you moved?” I ask, suddenly thinking of something. “To make it a fresh start, away from all those bad memories?”
Mom nods. She opens the gleaming refrigerator and pulls out a package of chicken and an armful of vegetables. “It was part of my conditions, that we would move, and he’d find a different job. Away from her. But yes, I knew we couldn’t ever go back, so we needed to build something new together. And we have.”
She passes me a stack of potatoes and I rinse my hands and start peeling. It’s good to focus on a task like this, while my mind turns over everything she’s said. Will moved on too: he packed up and came hundreds of miles for a fresh start. So what am I still so hurt about: that he had a life—and love—I know nothing about, or the idea that one day, he might want a fresh start from me, too?
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on with Will?”
I shake my head. I’m not ready just yet—not when I still don’t know what I want her to tell me to do.
“I’ve been worried about you, you know.”
I look up. “What? That I’ll die alone?”
“No.” She gives me an indulgent smile. “That you’ll miss out, you won’t open yourself up to love. I know you’re independent,” she continues quickly, “and I’m proud of that, both me and your father are. But watching you act like these relationships don’t matter, that it’s all just fun and games . . .” She sighs. “I want more than that for you, I want you to have everything. A real partner, somebody to love, and support you, and build a life. I thought that maybe Will—” She stops, catching the stricken look on my face. “Never mind.”
I feel a lump in my throat. “He lied to me,” I say softly, concentrating on the vegetables. “He kept a whole part of his life hidden. I know it’s not the same as what Dad did, but it still feels like a betrayal. He’s sorry now, I know he is, but . . . how can I trust him again?”
I look up at her, tears pooling in my eyes. She puts the oven mitts down and comes to me, pulling me into a warm, comforting hug.
“Oh, baby. Only you can make that choice.” She holds me close. “Only you know if he’s the one worth fighting for.”
I don’t stay for dinner; I hit the road back to Oak Harbor instead. It’s getting later, and the miles blur outside the windscreen, my emotions still storming in my chest. Everything Mom said has only confused me even more.
I thought I had it all figured out: if you had to fight for a guy, he wasn’t worth it. If you had to chase him, he didn’t want you enough from the start.
But here I am, and all I can do is think about Will. Wanting him. Not wild and reckless, but those other, quieter moments too: my head tucked in that nook against his shoulder, his hand, so steady on my back. It kills me to think those moments could be lost forever, but at the same time, there’s still a voice in my head saying I can’t trust him again, that I’d be naïve to go back, setting myself up to be hurt all over again down the line, but worse. If anything could be worse than this.
All my life I’ve been proud that I never needed a man to be happy, and everything that happened with my parents only made me believe it all the more. But that was before I met Will, and realized everything I’d been missing out on—how good it can be to open up and truly let someone into my heart, to know how it feels to depend on someone and feel like they’ve got your back no matter what.
To feel loved, like my heart is so full it could burst clear from my chest.
It’s not that I can’t go on without him; I love my life, and I know that eventually, I’ll be OK.
But what if I want more than OK?
What if he’s the one worth fighting for?
As I approach home again, I find myself turning past my street and taking the winding highway out of town instead, towards Will’s place. Trying to ignore him isn’t working; I just have all these unanswered questions tormenting me every day. Maybe if I give him a chance and talk, really talk, I can find an answer through all of this.
But I’m scared. Terrified he won’t have the answers I need, or, even worse, that he will—but they won’t make me feel any differently. But I’m missing him too much already, and my heart is in my throat by the time I pull up that bumpy dirt road and reach the house. There’s construction, and guys up on the roof, but his truck isn’t in the driveway, and when I get out and go around to the workshop in back, it’s locked up tight. He’s nowhere to be found.
My heart sinks.
“Hey.” Ryland comes around the corner, carrying a stack of wood planks. “I didn’t think I’d see you here. What’s up?”
“I was looking for Will,” I ask, nervous. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“He didn’t say, but I’m guessing a few months or more.” Ryland sets the wood down and looks up at the house, assessing.
“A few months?” I echo, panicking.
“Yeah. He’s gone back to New York.”
Twenty-One.
“So that’s it. He went back to her.” I slump lower in my seat, and take a mournful bite of donut, but even the sugar melting on my tongue can’t make me feel any better. “I was just the rebound, after all, and now they’re going to have their perfect life together.”
“That’s crazy, and you know it,” Lottie says sternly. She dropped by the realty office with treats to try and cheer me up, but I’m not cheering. “He doesn’t love her, he loves you.”
“So what’s he doing eig
ht hundred miles away?” I counter, miserable. “He said he would be here if I ever changed my mind.”
“And have you?” Lottie presses.
“I don’t know!”
“Yes, you do.” She gives me a look. “You should go after him.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”
“You went to him once already, to his place. That means something.”
“No, I went to talk. Just showing up in New York . . .”
“Is romantic,” Lottie declares.
“Stupid,” I correct her.
She shrugs. “Same difference.”
“You mean love is about taking leave of all your senses?” I ask, biting into the donut again. I finish it in a few short mouthfuls, but for some reason, it can’t fill the aching space in my heart.
“No,” Lottie says with a wistful expression. “It’s about following your heart, not your head, sometimes. Making a leap on pure faith without knowing it’ll ever pay off.”
“Sounds like a recipe for heartbreak to me.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Because being calm and rational has worked out great for you so far.”
“That’s not fair,” I say quietly, hit with another wave of regret. “I made a leap, I put my faith in him, and now look at me.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I would be hurt if I were you too. I guess all that matters now is if you think there’s a chance you could forgive him.”
There it is again, that one little word that’s got my heart tied up in knots. I want to forgive him, but how do I know I’m even capable of moving on? Will I say the words, but feel that mistrust still eating away at me for years to come—questioning every time he forgets to tell me something, wondering if there’s something else I should know? That kind of thing can be poisonous and doom a relationship no matter how hard we try.
So is it better to make a clean break now despite the pain, instead of falling even deeper in love with him, but always holding back, too scared to trust again?
