Page 43 of Ghost on the Shore

Some parts of the letter give me hope for the future, but he’s also prepared me for the worst case scenario. I know what he does is dangerous, but I’ve never really thought about the possibility of Damien not making it back. And it makes me so deeply sad to know that he’s thinking about it, about the very real possibility of losing his life.

Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Aunt Viv was the one who introduced me to Tennyson’s so-called words of wisdom, and I was never a believer. Is it better? To me it’s like Tennyson is saying that you’re screwed either way.

With shaking hands, I put the letter away, tucking it between the pages of my journal.

I crawl into the bed that feels too big and so empty without him, and cry myself to sleep.

It won’t be the last time.

Part Two

Chasing Shadows

Chapter Seventeen

Present Day…

Grace

“That doesn’t bother you? You’re way more understanding then I am.”

“Hmm?” I look to my friend. “What did you say?”

Skylar lifts her chin, directing my attention to the other side of the room where my fiancé—I hate that word, by the way—is center stage surrounded by his students. “That grad assistant is practically drooling on your man’s collar. I feel like going over there to offer her a napkin.”

“Elizabeth?” I wave Skylar off. “She’s harmless.”

“Whatever you say, G.”

That painful blast from the past gets my attention. “Donotcall me G unless you want me to start calling you S.”

“S sounds weird. Shortening a name only works with certain initials like G, E, B, T, D...Maybe even H. Nope, that sounds weird.”

“I’m not a G.”

She nods with a raised eyebrow. “Gotcha, Grace.”

We’re at some faculty banquet, one of many that I’m forced to attend on the arm of my boyfriend, Jack. That’s right, boyfriend. I will no longer be using the F-word.

I look over to where he’s standing, and maybe Skylar’s right, his graduate teaching assistant is a little bit too close. I chuckle to myself when I see that she’s now wearing glasses. Is she trying to emulate her academic idol, or her love interest, as Skylar suspects? She’s laughing now, her head thrown back as if Jack has just said something hilarious. I imagine him telling her that joke about how many Marxists it takes to change a light bulb.

I should walk over there. The other students are involved in their own side conversations now, so maybe I should interrupt their little tête à tête, but I just can’t muster up the energy.

And therein lies the problem.

Last night Jack looked frustrated after we, um, made love. That’s his expression, not mine. I don’t like the sound of it.Making love. The English language has been around for how many centuries now? Fourteen or fifteen? And in all that time we haven’t come up with anything better than make love, have sex, do it, shag or fuck. And given those choices, I’ll take fuck any day of the week. But Jack and I don’t fuck. That word implies reckless abandon and it requires trust.

I remember the first time I heard that Nine Inch Nails song. I mean, they seriously got it. To fuck is to let go of your inhibitions, ignore all the mental chatter that weighs us down, and just go with our animal instincts. To lose yourself in touching, smelling and tasting—to feel.

Anyhoo, I digress. After makin’ lurv, Jack looked frustrated and then accused me of being somewherefar away. Has he just noticed this now? When I’m in bed with Jack all I do is think. I make the requisite sounds, I move my body—I’m not exactly a dead fish, but I’m not exactly present, either. I don’t know how to be in the moment with him. Jack is a good man and he treats me like gold, but he’s not Damien.

It’s not even remotely fair to compare the two of them. Damien died when everything was new and golden between us. He’ll always be forever young, and he is someone I’ve built up in my heart and in my mind for more than a decade.

I’m not a kid anymore, so I have to stop living in the past. I’ve been with Jack for nearly four years, and he’s been steady and dependable, day in and day out.Grow up, Grace. I probably scold myself with those words at least once a week.

Chancing another look their way, I see that Elizabeth is now whispering in his ear. And is that a tumbler of whiskey in Jack’s hand? He was drinking wine before.

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