Page 24 of The One Bed Rule
“I’d love to learn,” I answer before taking a bite. The pasta is perfectly chewy, the Parmesan sauce not too rich, notes of black pepper coming through. I can’t help but groan. “Damn, this is ridiculously good,” I compliment her.
She smiles and we eat in silence. And it sort of feels just right. I don’t know what it is about the two of us, but everything from the flight to the car ride to getting stuck here—none of it has been strained or really all that uncomfortable.
I’ve been around a while, and this isn’t something that happens everyday. The actual events, yes, but the ability to blend in with someone, like you were always meant to.
She clears her throat, a napkin to her mouth, before she says, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—”
My heart drops. There’s no way this is going somewhere I want it to. Fitting, considering my brain was like WOW LOOK HOW EASY THIS IS. Just kidding, you idiot.
“I’m not sick of you yet.” Claire sits back, smiling at me.
That is not what I thought she’d say.
Her laugh cuts through as she tucks her hair behind her ears. “That sounds bad. But I haven’t spent this much time with someone, uninterrupted, in years. Like I honestly can’t remember when. And I’m not sick of you yet.” She brings the flute of champagne to her lips, taking a slow sip, her eyes golden like a fall sunset.
“I appreciate that.” I lock my eyes on hers, wanting her to hear me. “I’ve not done something like this since Abigail.”
The second her name is on my lips, I almost choke. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about her. To anyone.
“Abigail? Who is that?” Claire follows up with the logical next question.
I take a drink from my own flute, knowing I’m crossing some sort of line, stepping into some unknown area without much place to run from. I buy as much time as isn’t awkward and then give her the answer.
“She is… was… my wife.”
Twenty-One
Claire
Wife?Hewasmarried?I did not see that coming.
“Married? I never knew,” I reply, the most vague thing that comes to my mind without blowing off the admission.
“Long before I was in the city. When I was a firefighter. Back in Michigan.”
Long before.
“Wow, you had like a whole life before this.” I think about how one day I could say the same thing about being a manager for someone like Willow in New York, and look back on those days as something completely different from now.
His eyes are looking down, past the plate of food, maybe past the table. His fork taps the bowl.Tap. Tap. Tap.
In my gut, I know this story doesn’t have a happy ending. This man looked more comfortable when we were making an emergency landing, or even when he was trying to drive on the ice-slicked roads. He was attentive and cautious but there’s something different about him now—I can’t put my finger on it.
“I did. Feels like a million years ago.” He pushes food around his plate, still not looking up.
This feels unfinished. Like, he can’t bring up this person and all he shares about her is that she was his wife in Michigan? Maybe I’m prying, maybe I’m not owed any of it, but I ask the question anyway.
I swallow past the hesitancy and ask, “Do you and Abigail still keep in touch?”
His jaw ticks and he sets his fork down so fast, it sort of clangs against the bowl. The silence is heavy for one of the first times, tension growing on the edges of it, like it’s a living thing.
“No, it’s not like that.” He finishes the wine in his glass and looks at me, his face a little pale and quieter than I’m used to. The strong and composed version I’ve been lucky to know is sort of slipping into something softer.
“When I was a firefighter, there was a snowstorm, not as bad as this one.” He looks out the window, tipping his head. “But we got a call. I got there and saw her car. She was in an accident; someone crossed the center line. It wasn’t her fault. But she didn’t make it.” His voice cracks, one that I can hear only because there’s literally nothing besides the two of us.
My heart drops to the bottom of whatever depth we exist in. My mouth is dry and I’m looking for words.
“That was almost fifteen years ago. I tried staying in Michigan in the house we bought, the one we planned to stay in until we could build what we wanted. Tried going back to work. But every time we got a call, I’d break down. Panic attacks. Blackouts.” The words come out of his mouth like he’s reading from a shopping list. Short. Brief. “Took some time off. Tried coming back a second time, and it didn’t get better.”
