Page 138 of Every Beautiful Mile

Can I do that?

The distance between us hasn’t changed, so why I think I can handle this whole situation better than I did six months before, is beyond me.

Maybe it’s because I have family dinners with my kids that aren’t filled with contempt.

Or because I told my dad I wanted something different in my career.

I know that’s not why.

It’s because, at the end of every day, I want to hear his voice and tell him everything.

Pacing the kitchen, I pull out my phone.

Me: Hi.

Ethan: Hi.

I have no clue what to say.

Me: Isn’t it kind of weird that anything is in season in January? Where does it all grow?

I cringe.

Ethan: It is. My guess is Florida.

I drop my head against the kitchen cabinet with a groan. He’s probably sitting casually, like this is no big deal, while I’m on the brink of dying a slow death.

Me: Have you met anyone?

I chew my pinky nail aggressively, drink an entire glass of water, and chew my pinky nail again while three dots appear and disappear.

Ethan: I have.

My heart drops straight to the floor and breaks.

Me: Is it serious?

His response is an instant, It is.

He met someone, just like I expected. Expecting and accepting, I realize, will not coexist in my body when it comes to this.

Him.

Me: Me too.

Ethan: You’re still a terrible liar, Penelope.

My cheeks sting with heat.

Bastard.

The smart thing to do would be to drop it. He’ll never know I’m in Maine. I can go to the meeting, stay in Bangor, and never go to Bethel.

This is one of the many lies I tell myself while I lay in bed that night and pretend to sleep.

Fifty-four

Maine in January is the coldest place I have ever been. Even in the middle of the afternoon, the sun does nothing to warm this part of the earth. It’s frigid.

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