“Everything has changed!”
“Not between us, it hasn’t,” he says. “You’re still the girl with the freckles under her eye. And I’m still the guy that kissed you in the police station.”
“What about Sam?”
It is the first time I see sadness and anger flash over Jesse’s face. “Don’t say his name,” he says, moving away from me. The sharpness of his tone disarms me. “Let’s talk about something else. For now.”
“What else could we possibly talk about?”
Jesse looks out the window for a moment. I can see his jaw tense, his eyes fixate on a point. And then he relaxes and turns back to me. He smiles. “Seen any good movies?”
Despite myself, I’m laughing and soon he is, too. That’s how it’s always been with us. I smile because he’s smiling. He laughs because I am laughing.
“This is really hard,” I say when I catch my breath. “Everything about this is so . . .”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says. “I love you. And you love me. You’re my wife.”
“I don’t even think that’s true. When you were declared dead, it . . . I mean, I don’t even know if we’re still married.”
“I don’t care about a piece of paper,” he says. “You’re the woman I’ve spent my entire life loving. I know that you had to move on. I don’t blame you. But I’m home now. I’m here now. Everything can be the way it’s supposed to be. The way it should be.”
I shake my head and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I don’t know,” I say to Jesse. “I don’t know.”
“I know.”
Jesse leans forward and wipes away the tears that have fallen down my neck.
“You’re Emma,” he says as if that’s the key to all of this, as if the problem is that I don’t know who I am. “And I’m Jesse.”
I look at him, half smiling. I try to feel better the way he wants me to. I try to believe that things are as simple as he is telling me they are. I can almost believe him. Almost.
“Jesse—”
“It’s going to be OK, OK?” he says. “It’s all going to be fine.”
“It is?”
“Of course it is.”
I love him. I love this man. No one knows me the way he knows me, no one loves me the way he loves me.
There is other love out there for me. But it’s different. It isn’t this. It isn’t this exact love. It’s better and it’s worse. But I guess that’s sort of the point of love between two people—you can’t re-create it. Every time you love, everyone you love, the love is different. You’re different in it.
Right now, I want nothing but to revel in this love.
This love with Jesse.
I throw myself into his arms and he holds me tight. Our mouths are now close together, our lips just a few inches from touching. Jesse moves the littlest bit closer.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
Something about that strikes me as the most gentlemanly thing he has ever done.
“Here is what we are going to do,” he says. “How about you drop me off at my parents’? It’s getting late and my family is probably wondering where I am. I can’t . . . I can’t keep them wondering where I am . . .”
“OK,” I say.
“And then you head home. To wherever you live,” he says. “Where do you live?”
“In Cambridge,” I tell him.
“OK, so you go home to Cambridge,” he says.
“OK.”
“Where do you work? Are you at a magazine or freelance?” Jesse asks expectantly.
I’m almost hesitant to disappoint him. “I’m at the bookstore.”
“What are you talking about?” he says.
“Blair Books.”
“You work at Blair Books?”
“I moved back here after you . . .” I drift off and go another route. “I started working there. And now I really like it. Now it’s mine.”
“It’s yours?”
“Yeah, I run it. My parents are in and out, sort of. Mostly retired.”
Jesse looks at me as if he can’t compute it. And then he changes his face entirely. “Wow,” he says. “I did not expect that.”
“I know,” I say. “But it’s good. It’s a good thing.”
“All right,” he says. “Then I’d imagine you’ll be at the bookstore tomorrow?”
“I usually get in around nine. Open at ten.”
“Can I see you for breakfast?”
“Breakfast?”
“You can’t expect me to wait until lunch to see you . . .” he says. “Breakfast is already too long.”
I think about it. I think about Sam. With guilt weighing me down, I start to speak.
Before I can respond, Jesse adds, “C’mon, Emma. You can have breakfast with me.”
I nod. “Yeah, OK, yeah,” I say. “Seven thirty?”
“Great,” he says. “It’s a date.”
It is just after eight when I pull into the parking lot of my apartment. I tighten my coat as I step out. The wind is starting to pick up, the temperature dropped as the sun went down, and I can feel the rough breeze and the cold air on my shoulders and neck. I rush into my building.
I walk into the elevator. I press the button for the fifth floor. I watch the elevator close and as it does, I close my eyes.
When he asks me what happened today, what do I say?
How do I tell the truth when I don’t know what it is?
I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I jump when the elevator dings and the doors open.
Standing in the hallway, right at our front door, is Sam.
Beautiful, kind, fractured, heartbroken Sam.
“You’re back!” he says to me. “I thought I saw your car pull up in front just now when I was taking out the trash but I wasn’t sure. I . . . I called you earlier, a few times actually, but I never heard from you, so I wasn’t sure when you were coming home.”
He wasn’t sure if I was coming home.
His eyes are glassy. He’s been crying. He seems to think that if he’s peppy enough I won’t notice.
“I’m sorry.” I put my arms around him and feel him lean into me. His relief is palpable. “I lost track of time.”
We head back into our apartment. The moment the door is open, I can smell tomato soup. Sam makes the most incredible tomato soup. It is spicy, light, and sweet.
I come around the corner into the kitchen and I can see that he has ingredients out to make grilled cheese, including vegan cheddar because I’m convinced I’m growing lactose intolerant.
“Oh, my God,” I say to him. “You’re making tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner?”
“Yeah,” he says, trying to act cool, putting in considerable effort to make his voice sound carefree. “I thought it might be nice since it’s so cold today.”
He moves toward the cutting board and starts assembling sandwiches as I put my bag on the table and sit down at the counter. I watch him, carefully grating cheese, softly buttering the bread, as I unzip my boots and put them by the door. Sam’s hands are shaking ever so slightly. His face looks pained, as if it’s working overtime just to remain even.
It aches to look at him, to know that he’s trying so hard to be OK right now, that he’s trying to be understanding and patient and secure, when he’s anything but. He is standing there, putting a frying pan down over a medium flame, trying to pretend that the fact that I saw my (former?) husband today isn’t tearing him up inside.
I can’t put him through this any longer.
“We can talk about it,” I say to him.
He looks up at me.
Mozart walks into the kitchen and then turns around, as if he knows he doesn’t want to be here for this. I watch as he joins Homer under the piano.
I grab Sam’s hand. “We can talk about anything that is on your mind; you can ask me anything you want. This is your life, too.”
Sam looks away from me and then nods.