Page 163 of Forget Me Not

“Well, then you’d better hear this before you do. It’s important.”

I steel myself. I want to go to her, but I also want to know what this woman has to say if it pertains to Nova. Maybe she’ll tell me Nova’s moved on. Maybe she’ll try to tell me all the stories about Jack aren’t true even if I’ve seen the evidence.

Either way, I need to hear it.

Fuck.

I gesture toward a park bench.

“Lead the way . . .”

“Anne,” she smiles. “It’s Anne.”

I’ve only ridden the ferry from Port Nova one time and that was to leave this place. Now, coming back, it seems surreal to watch the island come into view. The tall lighthouse shines through the fog in the early hours of a cold November day like a beacon of hope.

Like something more is to come.

After talking with Anne, I took the night to pull myself together. So many lies. So many secrets and for what? To make an already dying man feel better? To make the woman he left behind hate herself until she was haunted by the memories of him?

I made a promise to myself, more than anyone, last night. I’ll never be what my dad was. What Jack was. I’ll never take her for granted again, because I’ve been to the other side of that dark place where she doesn’t exist in my life anymore.

It’s bleak. Nothing. Empty.

I used to think love was beneath me. Now, coming home, I can see I was searching for it the entire time I was on my own, I just never found anyone that showed me what the true meaning of the word meant. It’s not flowers and sex. It’s the real, raw, hard shit you go through together. The whispered apologies and the sharing of your deepest fucking secrets and accepting them as they are.

It’s not perfect, but that’s what makes it perfect.

I know now, I had to leave her to realize what the hell I was missing in this life. If I’d never broken down near here, I would have never found that. I’m sure of it. Just like if I didn’t watch my father drown that night in North Carolina, he would have killed me.

Maybe I’m not a monster. Maybe, like Nova, I’ve just had a lot of fucked up shit happen to me and I had no idea how to process any of it.

Jesus, I sound like a therapist.

As the ferry nears the island, I’m the first one off of the four traveling here this morning. I don’t recognize any of them and I’m glad. I want to see Nova. I don’t want them running off and telling her I’m home, but I can still feel their gazes on me as I step off the ferry.

The town is still asleep at eight in the morning, which means it’s a weekend day. Coming back to the mainland after my time out at sea has my days all mixed up, but I can see the coffee shop’s not open yet. I can see the inn isn’t bright and cheery. Houses are still mostly dark and there are too many boats in the harbor to warrant a weekday.

Perfect. That means I won’t have to speak to anyone until I see her.

I make my way up the back path toward the cottage and everything feels like waking up from a fever dream. There’s more snow here and I can see the path hasn’t been disturbed in a few days. No footprints break the surface and even the porch light that’s always on is off.

A sinking feeling sets in.

The cottage is dark, but it’s exactly the way it was when I left. Porch swing where we used to sit and talk. The handprints of Nova’s on the front porch steps, faded from decades of wear and weather. Fuck, it even smells like home.

I steel myself, knocking on the door before I step back, waiting for the footsteps or the bark of Toast.

Only it never comes.

I stand there for what feels like a lifetime, heart pounding in my chest, but she doesn’t answer. I don’t hear a single sound from inside.

I try knocking again, but it’s no use. She’s not here.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, turning back toward the inn. She could be there, though she always hated the early shifts. Probably because I kept her up so late, but maybe she’s changed since I left. I stride back down the hill, hoping to hear the door of the cottage open behind me and a sleepy soft voice call my name.

That also never comes.

I’m just about to step in the back door of the inn when the familiar smell of pipe tobacco wafts from the back of the building. Slowly, I walk toward the back door by the kitchen and see Pap, sitting on his usual bench where he and I used to have all our daily talks. Talks about life. About loss. Our childhoods. Nova. It all seems like it happened so long ago.

---