“That’s a relief.”
“If Eleanor sues, well, that’s another story.”
Eleanor. The other woman in my husband’s life is named Eleanor. “She has no grounds to sue me. I had nothing to do with any of this, and Mike’s estate is closed. My lawyer friend tells me the court will only reopen the estate if a significant asset is uncovered, not because someone makes a late claim on it.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I was worried about how that might affect you and the kids.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“That’s what matters. Will you let me know if there’s anything I can do?”
“Yeah, I will. Thanks, Steve. I’ll talk to you soon.”
A minute after we end the call, my phone chimes with a text from him containing Eleanor’s contact info.
I stare at it for a long moment before I decide to text her rather than calling out of the blue.
This is Iris, Mike’s wife. I’ve only just heard you and your son exist. I had no idea. I’m not sure what our next steps should be, but now you have my number.
I read and reread it twenty times before I send it.
No taking it back now.
I put down my phone and go upstairs to do four days’ worth of the kids’ laundry and mine, while wondering whether I’ll hear from her or if I did the right thing reaching out.
Time will tell.
16
GAGE
My concentration at work is nonexistent. All I can think about is Iris, her sweet kids and whether I’m falling into something I won’t be able to get out of later if I decide I can’t handle it. I love being with her—in bed and out. I’ve loved being with her since the first time we met when Christy told me about the Wild Widows and convinced me to attend a meeting.
Iris was a ray of light from the beginning, always smiling and propping up others. It took a few months for me to notice that she rarely spoke about her own loss, preferring to focus on what she could do for the rest of the group, particularly those who were just beginning their widow journeys.
Everyone loves her. She’s the heartbeat of our group, the sun around which we all orbit as we travel a road none of us would’ve chosen. That road is far less difficult together than it would’ve been on our own. When Christy first told me about the group, I wanted nothing to do with it. I didn’t think I needed that kind of support.
I was dead wrong. The Wild Widows have done more to get me through this ordeal than anyone else in my life, because they get what I’m going through like no one else ever could. I’m thankful for all of them and have substantial relationships with each of them, but if I’m being honest, my relationship with Iris—and yes, I’m using the dreaded R-word—has been different from the start.
If she’s in the room, I’m drawn to her. It’s that simple. I want to sit next to her in the sharing circle and at dinners and around bonfires. I want to talk to her about nothing and everything. Her voice is in my head when I’m making decisions for myself in this new, unexpected—and unwanted—life. I love listening to her laugh. I love the way she cares for others and never, ever puts herself first, even though I wish she would occasionally. I love that she still finds joy in every day despite her crushing loss. Even now, after finding out what she has about Mike’s deceit, she refuses to let the news undo all the progress she’s made since she lost him.
I admire her more than just about anyone I know.
And I love her.
As more than a friend.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I stare out the window at the colorful autumn leaves swirling in a strong wind.
I love her.
I sit with that realization, letting it bounce around inside me to see where it lands. I wait for it to hit with the dread that comes with caring about people after seeing how quickly and mercilessly loved ones can be snatched away from me. But it doesn’t land with dread. Rather, it leaves me with a breathless, light-headed, bubbling feeling of something I haven’t felt in so long, I almost don’t recognize it for what it is.
Joy.
Loving Iris fills me with joy that can’t be denied, even by the low murmur of dread that comes with it now. For there can be no joy in this new life without the undercurrent of dread to remind me of what’s at stake.
Everything.