Page 13 of Rebound

Is this permanent, this pain? Or will he recover? Can we both recover? I think so. I hope so. I hate the thought that I’ve hurt him, that I’ve possibly broken him—but then I remind myself that I’ve spent over a decade hurting him. That only yesterday at the wedding, I deliberately goaded him and rejected him. Me leaving will hurt him—but staying will hurt him even more. And he will hurt me right back because we just can’t help ourselves.

He suddenly thrashes, mumbling a jumble of words, his voice cracking, then finally settles on his back with his naked, muscular body on full display.

Despite the emotion of the moment, I still feel the draw. That unique pull of physical magnetism that neither of us has ever quite been able to banish. My vivid dream rushes back, and heat sears my cheeks as I stare at him. Part of me longs to slide under those sheets with him, to slip into his strong arms. To rest my head on that solid chest and tell him it was all a terrible mistake. We would make love, share tender touches, and our bodies would sing together. I want that, desperately.

But what then? We might share a few magical days feeling reborn and relieved, but the same old problems would eventually surface. He’d say something about his family, I’d react like a bitch, he’d push back. Then he would disappear into his work and make me feel irrelevant again. Or maybe I would have a meltdown the next time I saw him interacting with a kid. The next time he held the door for a pregnant woman.

No. There’s too much damage. The bones of our marriage are broken. Ending it is the right thing to do, no matter how much I want to reach out and touch him right now.

Silently, I retreat from the room, and I’m forced to admit to myself that my reluctance to wake him has less to do with compassion—after last night, letting him stay unconscious for as long as possible is a small mercy I can grant him—and more to do with cowardice. I’m afraid I won’t be able to resist the urge to pretend last night never happened if I have to look into those deep gray eyes of his.

I need to get away for a while. We both need some space.

Half an hour later, I’m packed and on my way to the airport in a cab. I’ll send him a message once I reach JFK. I don’t want to sneak off and leave him guessing. He doesn’t deserve that, and it would set a nasty tone for what’s to come.

I considered writing him an actual letter, but that would have been too much. Another reminder of days gone by, when we used to leave little love notes on each other’s pillows. I still have a tattered little stack of them, dog-eared and faded, tucked away in a treasure box with concert programs, ticket stubs, and other mementos from that time in our life. Nothing has been added to that treasure box for a long time now.

The cab drives over the bridge, the East River flowing beneath us as we leave Manhattan and head into Queens. My flight departs soon, and a couple of hours after that, I’ll be in a completely different world. I’ll be with my Granny Lucille in South Carolina, the place where I spent the happiest days of my childhood. I need comfort and advice, and she is the only person I trust to provide those things.

ChapterEight

ELIJAH

To say that this morning sucks ass would be an understatement.

The first problem declared itself as soon as I tried to open my crusted-up eyes. The finger of sunlight creeping around the edges of the drapes was so bright it felt like a grenade going off in front of my face. My mouth was dry and furry, my head pounding, and I could smell my own sour Scotch breath. Classy.

None of that even compared to the dumpster truck of pain that landed on top of me as soon as I was fully awake. Amber running away from the wedding, then crying on a rain-soaked street.

Amber asking for a divorce.

Shit. Is that still what she wants in the cold light of day? Do I have any chance of talking her out of it? And really, truly… Should I even try to talk her out of it? I press a pillow over my sore head, feeling sick in every possible way.

I love my wife. I have never stopped loving her. But somewhere along the line, I stopped fighting for her. I’ve taken solace in my work, in my family, in my life outside my marriage. Over the last year or so, things have definitely gotten worse between us. We seem to have only two modes—battle stations or avoiding each other. We are strangers sharing a house who see each other at social events but have barely any contact when we’re alone in our home. That’s not normal. At least it’s not a normal I’m used to—my mom and dad were crazy for each other right up until her last day on earth.

Seeing Nathan and Melanie so happy together, and now Drake and Amelia, has really emphasized how empty my own life is. How cold Amber’s and my relationship has become. I’m thrilled for my brothers, but also a little envious. It’s like they’ve finally come alive now that they have the right women in their lives. It’s beautiful. Really beautiful.

I should have that too, but I haven’t for a long time. The vulnerable version of Amber I saw last night was a revelation to me. For longer than I can remember, she has been a closed book, hoarding her true feelings like buried treasure. Always keeping me at a distance.

My phone beeps, and I flail around with my hand until I found it. Damn, even the phone screen is too bright. The message from Amber has me struggling to sit up. On a standard day, it would be a reminder about an event I needed to attend or a request for a meeting. Because that is how detached we’ve become—we schedule meetings when we need to discuss something.

Today, though, it’s something else entirely. The message says that she’s boarding a plane and will be staying with Lucille in Charleston for “a little while.” The tone of the message isn’t cold or aggressive, which is actually an improvement, but it is still a knife to the heart.

Deep down, I thought we’d talk more today. Maybe go for brunch, take a walk through Central Park, and she might continue to open up to me. Perhaps we’d even find a way through this. A sentimental corner of my brain hoped it was a new beginning, not an end. That we could come alive again and be like Nathan and Melanie, Drake and Amelia. Elijah and Amber.

But that’s exactly what she’s trying to avoid. Amber isn’t a fool. She realizes how easy it would be to fall back into our old routines and pretend last night didn’t happen. If she’d woken up this morning and behaved like normal, I would have gone along with it. I’d have carried on as though it was another ordinary day.

It would hurt a shitload less in the short-term and be much simpler all around. We’re both perfectly capable of pretending the whole divorce conversation simply didn’t take place.

Instead, she chose to fly over seven hundred miles away. That tells me she means business. Amber is done pretending.

Fuck. She’s gone. She’s really gone.

As for Lucille, we’ve always gotten along well, but she’s the very definition of “feisty old broad,” and she will one hundred percent be on Amber’s side. I have no clue what being on Amber’s side will look like to her grandmother.

When I go to get out of bed, my head throbs in agony at the movement. I look around, disgusted with myself. Spilled booze, abandoned clothes, frat party hangover. For fuck’s sake, I’m a mess, inside and out.

Logically, I know she’s done the right thing. We do need some space and time to get our heads straight. And I need to really think about this, about my future. I’ve taken so much for granted. I assumed my marriage would last, even if it was an endurance test. As far as I was concerned, we were going to be together forever, sparring partners for life. I assumed Amber would be in my world until the end, for better or worse, just like our wedding vows said.

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