Page 108 of Ebbing Tides
“I hate when you talk about that,” she whispered, tipping her head softly to press her temple to mine. “I want you to talk if you need to—of course I do—but …” She sighed. “I hate the thought that you almost weren’t here. And I would’ve spent forever thinking about that hot Army guy who had walked intothe shop and rescued me from Ritchie and bought me dinner and made me question every little fucking thing about my relationship …”
A gruff chuckle rumbled through my chest. “Every little fucking thing, huh?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, a hint of suggestion in her tone. “And I would’ve spent the rest of my life wondering what ever happened to him, not knowing you had …” She gestured toward the bridge, sitting atop the horizon, and I gripped her hand tighter, anchoring myself to this moment, to her, and not to my bleakest moment on a dark, cold Christmas Eve night.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t,” she replied, breathing out with relief. “Thank God for Laura.”
My gaze shifted to the spot beside me, where her chair should’ve been. It was packed away now, stuffed in the back of a moving van full of furniture to be used at Melanie’s house—our house—in Connecticut if it fit or donated if it couldn’t.
Fifty years wasn’t a long time, and Laura hadn’t even gotten that much.
I had spent a year agonizing over this house. Whether to keep it or not.
Two years ago, after spending two weeks exclusively in Connecticut with Melanie and the boys, I had returned to Massachusetts, where everything no longer felt like home.
That was how long it had taken to change my entire brain chemistry.
Two weeks.
I put in my two-week notice at the cemetery; told my sisters, Sid, and Ricky I was moving for good; packed everything I needed; and went back to Connecticut, where I found a job working at a new cemetery. Watching over the grave of a man who haunted me with cigarette smoke, one who had given me three boys to protect and raise and a woman to love for the rest of my life.
It was my honor to protect him as well.
The change had been easy. But deciding to sell the house tortured me. It no longer fit in my life, and I knew damn well I wasn’t coming back to live in it. But the memories it held kept me tethered, kept me making payments month after month for an empty home while I rebuilt my life miles away. Melanie never pressured me, never criticized, but she listened to every moment of indecisive agony until I finally, over a year later, asked her what she thought I should do.
I guessed I hadn’t asked before because I was afraid of what she might say.
But there, over coffee one morning, while the boys ate breakfast I had made for them, she’d said, “I chose to live here, in Luke’s childhood home, because of the memories it’s filled with. I could never criticize you for clinging to yours, no matter how many or few there might be. But I will say that, if we had to leave here tomorrow, for whatever reason, my heart would be broken, but it would be okay. Because at the end of the day, Max, it’s just a house. I know it doesn’t feel like it; I know it feels like letting go of her, but it’s not. Because the memories come with you, even when the rest of it can’t.”
I knew she was right. I had known it for months. But hearing her say it was the push I had needed to drive up to Massachusetts and set the ball in motion to sell the place.Hopefully to a family. Hopefully one that would appreciate the view of the lighthouse, along with the sunrisesandsunsets.
Now, here we were, on the cusp of my fiftieth birthday. The boys were with their uncle Charlie and aunt Stormy while Melanie and I finished the rest of the packing. It was surreal. The end of an era. And, no, it wasn’t a bad thing. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it was good. But even the good things hurt sometimes, and this one … it hurt a lot.
Melanie pressed her cheek to mine, our eyes glued to the lighthouse across the still waters. She sighed and held my hand tight. “You okay?”
“Sad,” I replied, feeling no need to lie. “But that’s all right.”
She kissed my cheek, pressed her forehead to my temple, and whispered, “I love you, Max. So much.”
I closed my eyes, relishing in the sound of her voice and those words. God, those words …
“I love you too,” I replied.
Two years of saying it—verbally, physically, emotionally—and I still wasn’t quite used to it. I hoped I never was. I hoped I never got used to the realness and purity of our love for each other. A love so true that it spanned miles and decades and endless amounts of heartache and pain.
If Laura was my lighthouse, Melanie was my anchor. Keeping me still, keeping me calm, controlled. Ensuring that, no matter how rough the ocean, I would ride it out, tethered to her heart and soul, and we would be okay.
Together, we would be fine.
We could be fine forever.
***
It hadn't been my idea to celebrate my fiftieth with a birthday party.
I would've been fine having dinner with the family who had taken me in and called me their own, like a stray dog being brought in on a cold winter's night. I would've been fine spending the night playing video games with my three favorite boys and making love to the woman who had hyphenated her last name to mine.
