Chapter 1-Now
L
I’m not in the habit of breaking up marriages, but Ethan wasn’t meant to be with Gillian. He was meant to be with me. For years, we’ve been apart. I thought it was supposed to be that way, until recently. Somewhere in his heart, I know he’s been waiting for me.
It’s hard to forget that first love. That’s what I’m counting on. Because Ethan’s not the kind of guy to leave his wife and two children over any girl. Not a casual acquaintance. Not even a good friend. It has to be something, someone more.
I’ve been in the shadows, gotten close in every way I can. Now, it’s time to step in.
Some will think I’m evil. Some will think I’m crazy. Some will think I’m desperate. Maybe I’m all those things, but above anything, I’m in love. And in the end, it only matters what Ethan thinks.
In every love story, love conquers all. Love will conquer this, even the dark parts.
Cocooned in the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp and cushioned by Aunt Notty’s silken blue-green comforter on the king-sized bed in the king-sized house in a quaint Seattle suburb that hasn’t woken yet, I run my hand over the soft, scratched leather, over the cording that ties the journal together, the thoughts of a seventeen-year-old girl who was also in love. My journal. Until I found it, it had been sealed for eighteen years. The book feels sacred. A chill spirals down my body as I unwind the slightly frayed string as if I’m unwinding a part of myself. I hesitate, wonder if I should abandon my plan and leave the past where it lies, buried. But as soon as the notebook is free, the yellowed pages call out to me, a weathered whisper that gives me permission. My heart smothers my head. I cannot let him go.
The words on the first pages, once again, call out to me.
Dear Ethan,
First off, do you like the notebook? Okay, now I can’t stop laughing because how ridiculous is this question? You will never see my charming little journal or diary or whatever this is; no one will. I don’t even know why I’m writing it.
That’s not true. I do know. It was because of Sarah. Sarah’s the one responsible for me sitting here in the middle of my bed, writing to the guy I just met today when I should be doing homework instead.
Sarah is a regular at the children’s hospital, and I see her every Monday and Wednesday at the play therapy program for kids with cancer. I was almost late today because that idiot Matt tried to ‘help’ me carry my backpack—seriously, who does that? I am perfectly capable—and then he just kept talking after I said no.
Anyway, I made it on time, set up a game of twister, and watched the kids play. After a few rounds, Sarah came up and asked me what was wrong. I told her nothing, but she didn’t believe me. She said she knew something was wrong because I hadn’t said anything when little Davy tried to shove an entire corner of the game into his mouth on a dare. Gross. Anyway, I should’ve been watching. Can they fire volunteers?
I was thinking about you.
Ethan Bell, I’m kind of mad at you. You make me want to do things I’ve always said I wouldn’t. You make me want to be a girl. Not that I don’t want to be a girl. Ugh. This is my journal, so why am I explaining myself? I mean, I’ve seen how other girls fawn over (no pun intended) the stupid guys in our high school. They are childish, disgusting…man babies, totally not worth the mascara, and when I see them primping, I want to throw up, like a lot. How will we stop gender stereotypes and sexism if girls continue to behave this way? It’s just as much the guy’s fault, but we encourage their asinine behavior. I’m veering. Discrimination makes me this way. I’ll refer you to the essay I wrote last year on the topic if you want to know more.
Where was I?
Oh yes…I told Sarah how I’d had those little dragonflies in my stomach when you asked me to borrow a pencil and how my mouth had gone dry when our hands touched and you smiled at me. I don’t even know if I smiled back.
I don’t believe in love at first sight. How can anyone possibly know they want to be with someone after one look? And that’s what I mean…I feel pathetic, swooning over some dude. But you, you E. B. stole a part of me. The look in your midnight eyes when you told me your dog Herb was having surgery and you’d left every single writing implement—you said that, writing implement—you had at home in a rush. The sorrow in your face and your puffy, red lids…you were not some dude.
I told myself I wouldn’t date in high school or if I did, it would be a college man who had outgrown the impulse to laugh when someone farts. But now, I know for certain that I will date you. I will marry you, E. B.. Which is absolutely INSANE. I can’t know I’ll marry you, but I do. I think, THINK, you felt it too. Okay, maybe not the marriage thing, but something between us.
I’m letting my crazy, ridiculous, no-way-this-is-me thoughts out on the page so I don’t embarrass myself in front of you.
Now, I have to decide if I should burn the notebook. Not yet. Maybe never. All I know is, I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
Ridiculously yours,
Fawn
My heart beats too fast. I don’t realize I’m crying until a large drop falls onto the last page, obscuring the word ‘yours.’ I breathe in and out, waiting for the swell of love and grief and jealousy to subside. And then I know for certain, I will do what it takes, no matter the cost. I want what that girl had.
I’ve studied the pictures from all those years ago. The outfit I’ve chosen for our reunion rests on Aunt Notty’s fourposter as if someone was wearing the clothes and vanished into the comforter, leaving behind the perfect shell of a person. Cream sweater, light pink jeans, matching one of the pictures I found. I want everything about me to scream what Ethan lost from high school. I want to bring back all the memories, all the feelings.
I’m not the same person I was back then, but there should be enough here to convince him.
In a few hours, I’ll curl into Ethan’s favorite booth at Kaldi, Seattle’s finest coffee establishment, where he goes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a Dipped Cherry Latte, which I will have waiting for the man who hasn’t seen me in years.
He will be surprised, shocked, maybe even angry. But I’m ready for all those reactions.
They’re understandable because he thinks I’m dead.
Chapter 2
Now
Ethan
Life is good. Uncomplicated. It’s going to be a good day. I believe in positive affirmations. Still, something’s eating at me, a sense of dread. Woke up with it. I want it to go away.
I enter the kitchen, silently take in my family going through our morning routine before school.
Conner and Sofie sit on bar stools at the raised counter, shoveling in the pancakes Gillian’s made them before school. My wife only makes pancakes when she’s in a good mood. Positive affirmations are working.
Basil, our hypoallergenic Australian labradoodle, who despite his loveable dimwittedness is fiercely loyal, jumps up and licks my face good morning.
It’s going to be a good day.
“Daddy!” Sofie swivels off her stool and runs to me. She wraps her tiny arms around my leg, and I swing her forward, carrying her back to her breakfast like a human amusement park ride.
I throw her onto my hip. She grabs my face and squeezes.
“I love you,” she says, her tone earnest. “Even if you’re prickly.”
Forgot to shave.
Stick my tongue out at her, through the fish-lips she’s creating on my face with her tiny hands.
Attempt to tell her I love her too, but it comes out, “I wuv you twwoo,” and she giggles. Nothing like that giggle.
Gillian turns away from the sink. She smiles and blows me a kiss. We clean up right after meals, so the kitchen stays orderly. I perform better when my atmosphere is neat. I’m not a freak about it, but there’s a noticeable improvement in my mood when life isn’t messy. Product of my past, I guess.
“You two better hurry and finish your breakfast,” Gillian says. “The bus will be here in five minutes, and I’m not driving you!”
“I’m already done!” Conner announces.
I run my hand through my seven-year-old’s soft curls. “Anything good going on at school today, bud?”
“I’ve got a spelling test,” Conner says. “Nothing fun.”
Sofie shoves a large bite of pancake into her mouth, then jumps down beside her brother, the purple tulle of her skirt fanning out as she twirls.
I’m a lucky man.
“We’re practicing for the fall ballet!” she says.
“It’s not a ballet, Sof!” Conner rolls his eyes. “It’s a silly kindergarten play that has some ballet in it! There’s a difference.”
The scowl hops on and off Sofie’s little face. She doesn’t stay mad at anyone for more than a couple seconds. She shoves her brother playfully, then starts twirling again.
Conner’s a realist. My fault. I stopped believing in fairytales a long time ago. Don’t have time for the dreamy-eyed stuff. I need my family safe and secure. Protected. Nothing else matters.
Except, Sofie defies that mentality with her head-in-the-clouds life philosophy. I tell myself she’s a kid. She can be that way. For now.
“Leave your sister alone, Conner,” Gillian warns through a smile. She pulls her apron off and hangs it neatly on the hook beside the refrigerator. “You know how much she loves ballet.”
“She’s the one who hit me!” he defends, one indignant curl flapping on his forehead. “And it’s not a ballet!”
Gillian looks at the clock and gasps. “You two better get to the bus-stop! Mr. Armetti’s going to pass us by, and I have to get to the gallery this morning.”
Conner slips on his plain, no-nonsense backpack. Sofie shimmies into one with enough sparkles to blind the bus driver.
Gillian walks over to me, tilts her head up. “I love it when you wear the seggsy blue suit. It sets off your eyes.” She ogles me like I’m a painting in her gallery. I love it. “Worn out from last night?” She winks, bites her bottom lip. “I don’t know what got into you, but I liked it.”
I lean down and kiss her hard on the mouth because I don’t want to admit that our acrobatic lovemaking last night was because I’m scared. Scared of losing her, the kids, scared of losing what I have.
I can be overprotective, a flaw I normally keep in check. That changed four days ago, when my best friend lost his wife. Thirty-three years old. Cancer. Now Devon’s planning to move back in with his mom and dad and raise their child alone.
I know how he feels. Not exactly. Not like that. But I know what it’s like to lose my whole world.
Losing someone you love makes you more possessive of those you still have. Hence the positive affirmations.
I replay the scene at Lillian’s grave. Three of us pulling Devon away from the casket being lowered into the ground. I can’t stop seeing the pain on his face, the realization that she’s never coming back.
“Ethan. Come back to me.” Gillian’s hand rests gently on my face. She whispers, “You’re thinking of Devon?”
She knows me so well. She also knows about Fawn, my first love. Even though we were teens, we had a magnetism I haven’t experienced since, even with Gillian. We both felt it right away, I think. I’d asked to borrow her pencil our second day of Lit. class. I had five in my backpack, but I wanted hers. We were both stupid like that, wanting any part of each other we could get, drawn together so tightly it was almost unhealthy.
I hadn’t wanted to tell Gillian about Fawn, but in the early days of mine and Gillian’s relationship, I was consumed with guilt. Because I was moving on, dating someone who wasn’t Fawn. Gillian helped me work through it. For some reason, she’d wanted to. And then she helped me work through the fear that replaced the guilt, the fear of losing Gillian like I’d lost Fawn.
I nod.
I’m trying not to imagine myself in Devon’s situation, but can’t seem to stop. The thought of going through that again makes my stomach hurt. Gillian squeezes my arm, silently steadying me.
I walk to my kids, crouch down and tuck them into each of my arms, hugging them so hard they protest. I contemplate telling them to stay home. We could all sit on the couch and watch movies, eat popcorn.
But Gillian leans down and kisses the tops of the kids’ heads, then opens the glass door. They run down the sidewalk to the driveway and then down the driveway to the mailbox where Mr. Armetti will stop any minute.
Gillian usually stands at the window with a cup of coffee and waits until the kids get on the bus, but today, she turns toward me.
“The kids and I are not going anywhere, Ethan.” Her tone is firm, like she wants me to snap out of it before I get too deep. She’s seen me on my worst days, ugly days. But there’s a hint of softness too; she understands.
“I know. I’m fine.”
Her mouth flattens into a line. “You didn’t shave.”
“You like my stubble.”
“I do. Most of the time. When your stubble isn’t a sign that—”
“I’m fine Gillian.”
She can’t promise they aren’t going anywhere though. You can make all the promises in the world, make all the plans, envision your entire future. Death doesn’t care. It comes in like a wrecking ball, and not in a Miley Cyrus kind of way.
I force a smile onto my face. “You’re the best.” This is easy to say because it’s true. I run my thumb across her cheek. Then, to ground myself, I look into her eyes, a shade of green that makes me feel like I’m in the middle of a rainforest.
The first time I saw those eyes was at a ‘sophisticated college party’ my sister Cheyenne forced me to attend, three years after Fawn’s death. She said I was working too hard, relentlessly pursing an MBA. What was wrong with wanting to be successful? Cheyenne was a hard worker too, partially because she felt, as a biracial woman, she had something to prove. But she knew how to play, to relax. I’d forgotten how. No. I didn’t want to play.
After losing Fawn, I threw myself into work. Well, after I was released from the mental institution they locked me in because I hadn’t handled her death with a mild frown and gee-shucks that’s too bad attitude.
I resisted all the women at that party—until Gillian. She was the opposite of Fawn. Taller. Tanner. Her hair nearly black; Fawn’s had been golden. But just like Fawn, Gillian was beautiful. Refreshing.
In truth, I probably wouldn’t have noticed Gillian either, but instead of hitting on me, like some of the other girls, she told me I had spinach dip on my face and wiped it off with a tissue. Then she asked me why I was at the party when I didn’t want to be. I asked her what made her think I didn’t want to be there, and she said I looked like a lost puppy who wanted to go home.
She was right. If I wasn’t working on homework or applying for internships, I was depressed. The party hadn’t taken my mind off of Fawn, it had highlighted the fact that she wasn’t with me. I wanted her back.
I told Gillian that my sister had forced me to come. She sat beside me and told me she’d been forced by her best friend. Then she pointed to Cheyenne. We bonded over stories of how pushy Cheyenne was, then she told me how she’d sworn off dating after her last break-up, a guy whose mother still laid out his clothes and cooked him breakfast.
Neither one of us wanted a relationship, so I let her get close, thinking she was safe, off-limits. I even talked to her about Fawn. We helped each other. When I hadn’t been working or studying, I’d been with Gillian. We became friends. Until we were celebrating my MBA. That night, our hug was different. She’d morphed from my supportive friend to someone my lips were on. It took a long time—and many panic attacks—to get from that first kiss to where we are now.
But now, Gillian’s my rock, still my best friend, and the mother of my children. I need this, what we have. I need her.
“I invited Devon and Tilly over for dinner,” Gillian says, “but he said Tilly was at his mom and dad’s and he wasn’t up for it, so I was hoping you’d take him dinner? Check on him?”
The question in her voice makes it seem like I might not be capable.
I nod. “Definitely.”
The truth? Seeing Devon will mess me up. But he’s my best friend. I’ll do anything for him, even fight the demons from my past.
“What have you got going on today?” I ask, needing to get away from this topic.
