Third Life

by Noelle Adams

  Just like I’ll always love you.

  Richard

  I’m bawling as I finish the letter. Full-out bawling as I sit naked on my toilet lid next to a tub full of lavender-and-honey-scented water.

  I read the letter again. Then again. Then I fold it up and put it in the box in my closet where I’ve put the champagne glasses and everything else Richard ever gave me. I get in the tub and cry some more, but I feel better.

  Different.

  He means it.

  I know for sure he means it.

  And I wasn’t wrong about him. Not completely. Maybe it couldn’t work out between us because of the way it started, but I saw something good in him, and what I saw is really there.

  Not for a moment do I consider sending the letter back to him. I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to the coffee shop to see him. Not yet anyway.

  But if he wants to write me again, he can.

  HE DOES WRITE ME AGAIN. The next letter comes four days after the first. He tells me about the coffee shop. About how it’s doing and what he’s learning and how it’s harder than he expected it to be but that he’s enjoying it. Enjoying doing something that feels real.

  In the next letter, sent the following week, he tells me about his new apartment, just a block down from the coffee shop. He tells me about his neighbors. He tells me he runs every morning in the park nearby. He tells me he’s been in Boston for a month now, and it’s the longest he’s been in any one city without leaving town for at least a decade.

  In the next letter, he spends four pages talking about his childhood, giving me details he never gave me before about how his aunt and uncle ignored him, belittled him, made him feel unloved. The difference in the way they treated him compared to their own son. How it shaped him. He ends by saying this:

  This has turned into a pity party when I didn’t mean it to be. I just realize I was always holding back on you, wanting to show you only the best side of me. The parts of me I thought were worthwhile. Not the unloved little kid who was always desperately trying to earn a place in the world. I’m not trying to earn it now. With you. I’d just like you to understand. Since you haven’t returned any of these letters, I hope it means you’re reading them. You don’t have to ever love me again, but I don’t want you to hate me. I’d like you to understand. I’ve spent my life trying to be a person as different from that little boy as I could make him. I never wanted to feel like him again. But in the end I just made sure I would always be him because I never allowed myself to be loved. I never let anyone in enough. That’s what happened with my wife. It was my fault. I never let her in. It’s no surprise she never really loved me. I never let her know me. I did let you know me, but not enough. I know it’s too late to change things between us, but maybe it’s not too late to change me.

  I cry over that letter too. I cry over all of them really. And after reading and rereading them, I fold them up, slip them into their envelopes, and put them in the box with the champagne flutes.

  For a month, he keeps writing me, and my world gets a little bit better. Not because it’s all about Richard but because knowing I wasn’t completely wrong about him gives me confidence again.

  I can do relationships. I can even be good at it. There’s something about me that a man might want. So I try to date again. I reactivate my account on a dating app. I call up George and leave a rambling, embarrassing message about how I’m sorry I never called him back. I was going through some stuff, but it’s over now so if he’s interested in getting together again, I’d be open to it.

  I’m utterly shocked when he calls me back. We go out a few times, and it’s good. As good as I can hope for at this point in my life.

  At the end of our third date, I invite him up to my apartment, thinking it’s time to get over Richard for good.

  I try. I really do. There’s nothing in the world wrong with George. I like him quite a lot. We kiss, and it’s okay, but when it gets more than that, when he starts to touch me more intentionally, I have to pull away.

  I know it means the end of anything I might have with George, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to have sex with him. I’m not ready. It still feels like the only person who gets to touch me like that is Richard.

  It hurts—the realization. But it’s true.

  With all the letters Richard has sent me—twenty of them over the past six weeks—it feels like he’s still part of my life. So I either need to make him a real part of my life in whatever way it works out. Or I need to cut him out for good. This midground isn’t going to work for much longer.

  So I think about it. Both options. Going to see him sends my stomach into topsy-turvy twists of nerves and excitement. And the idea of never hearing from him again, sending back his letter, makes me literally sick. There’s no way. I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it.

  Even if we can only be casual acquaintances now, I need to keep him in my life.

  So I know what I have to do.

  Which is why for the first time since I got his first letter, I take a different route for my daily walk, heading toward his neighborhood.

  I know it. I can walk there in about thirty minutes. There’s a coffee shop on the corner. One that’s going to be Richard’s as soon as he takes full ownership.

  A half hour later, I end up there, standing right outside the front door.

  I take several deep breaths, making sure this feels right.

  It does. I need to see him. I want to see him. I can’t think of any reason in the world why I shouldn’t see him.

  He hurt me. A lot. But now he’s doing the best he can, just like I am.

  I’m not about to fall into his arms. I just want to say a few words, see if we can maybe be friends.

  I want that. I want him in my life.

  So I steel my courage, open the door, and step inside.

  Ten

  THE COFFEE SHOP IS crowded. Really crowded. The line is almost to the door, and for a moment I’m confused and flustered, unfamiliar with the layout and not expecting to be confronted with so many people all at once.

  As soon as I figure out the flow of the line, I get in place at the back. I don’t have any idea where Richard might be—or if he’s even here—and I don’t want to go wandering around, calling his name. Better to stand in line like I’m a regular customer so I can scope things out. I could use something to drink anyway.

  The woman in front of me glances back in an automatic assessment—the kind of thing everyone does occasionally to see who’s standing behind them. When she sees that I see her, she smiles.

  “Crowded in here,” I say.

  “It usually is. Have you been here before?”

  I shake my head. “Maybe, but not in a long time. Not that I remember.”

  “Oh. Well, the Americano is top-notch. And wait until you get a look at the guy behind the counter.” She fans herself in a playful gesture.

  I laugh because she’s being nice and probably expects me to respond to her comment. But I know immediately she’s talking about Richard, and I have the most ridiculous response to it.

  Something inside me riles up at her words. Something possessive. As if no other woman is allowed to think about him that way. Only me.

  Which is ridiculous. We’re not together anymore. I’m the one who ended the relationship. And even if we were still together, I wouldn’t have any right to control someone else’s thoughts about him.

  I never knew that side of myself even existed. It startles me so much I’m distracted as the line moves forward.

  My distraction ends when my latest move allows me to see toward the counter. There’s a young woman behind a cash register, ringing up orders. Beyond her is Richard. I only see his back since he’s fixing some sort of complicated coffee drink, but he’s unmistakable from any angle.

  His hair is a little longer than I remember it. Mussed like he hasn’t had the chance to smooth it down in a while. He’s wearing a pair of tailored trousers—the kind he often wore�
��a blue Oxford, and a canvas apron around his waist.

  It’s so strange to see him in this context, but really not strange at all. He’s always been good at everything he’s done, and he’s good at this too. He moves quickly. Competently. With a relaxed sort of efficiency. Some of the people greet him as he hands them their drinks, so they’re probably regulars who know him and like him.

  Next month he’s going to own this place outright (he’s buying it with cash, which is why the deal can go through so quickly), but he’s working behind the counter right now on a busy Saturday morning. He told me in one of his letters that he’s trying to learn all the different jobs in the place so he knows exactly what each one entails.

  He’s working constantly and doesn’t have time to look around, so he doesn’t see me as I get closer. But I see him. And I feel this ridiculous bloom in my chest.

  Pride, maybe.

  Because I’m proud of him.

  I’m coming to this realization when he turns around to hand off the drink he just prepared. I’m only two customers from the cash register now. He glances absently toward the line before he completes his turn to the far end of the counter where the customers wait for their drinks.

  I see exactly when he sees me, processes my presence here. His whole body jerks very slightly as he places the cup on the counter. The man waiting thanks him. Richard says something back. Then he turns very slowly to look in my direction.

  Something happens to his face. It tightens or twists or something. I can’t exactly describe it because it happens so fast.

  The young woman behind the cash register says something to him. She has to repeat it because he’s staring at me in a daze. I hear her ask, “You okay, Richard?”

  “What? Yeah. Yeah.” He shakes off the stupor and listens to the special instructions the woman in front of me added to her order. Then he nods and turns back to fix the drink.

  He glances back toward me as he does. Gives me a searching look. A silent question.

  I have no idea what to do—what to feel—so I smile just a little before he turns away.

  He’s smiling down at the empty coffee cup as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. Because I’m watching closely, I see his shoulders shake a couple of times. Then he brushes off whatever he’s feeling and quickly prepares the drink.

  I’m stepping up to the counter now, realizing there’s a long line behind me and I have absolutely no idea what to order. I never do this. I always have my order prepared in my mind well before I need to recite it because I hate the pressure of quick decisions.

  Since I’ve been too distracted to even glance at the drinks written out on the chalkboards on the wall, I ask for the Americano. That’s what the woman in front of me mentioned, and it sounds as good as anything else.

  I’m paying as Richard hands off the drink he was working on. He comes to the cash register as soon as he does. “Hey,” he says, giving me a quick, almost self-conscious look.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m glad you came.”

  I nod. “Me too.” I want to say more. I want to say something. But I’m acutely aware of the young woman’s curious eyes on us and the long line waiting for their coffee.

  “Do you want to... talk?” It’s a real question. He clearly has absolutely no idea what it means that I’ve shown up here.

  Neither do I, if you want to know the truth. I nod in response. “But if you’re busy, it doesn’t have to be now.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll switch out with someone.”

  “Okay. Take your time.” I move to the far end of the counter, much to the relief of the impatient man behind me.

  Richard gestures toward someone cleaning tables in the corner of the store, and after he’s fixed my drink, he comes out from behind the counter and lets the young man replace him.

  He stands in front of me and hands me the drink like it’s a gift.

  I take a sip and smile at him. “It’s good.” It feels like people are watching us, but it could very well be my imagination.

  “Thank you.” He glances toward a back hallway. “We can talk in the office if you want. It might be quieter there. Or we can stay out here if you’d rather.”

  “The office is fine.” I hold my drink with both hands as we head back. It’s warm, comforting, and I need it. I’m nervous now. I have no idea what’s going to happen even though I suppose I’m the one in control here.

  It doesn’t feel like I’m in control. At all.

  The office is small and neat and almost homey with a love seat squeezed against one wall and a computer desk against the opposite one. He gestures toward the love seat, so I sit there. Instead of fitting himself beside me where we’d be way too close, he pulls the desk chair over and sits on that.

  When he ends up much higher than I am, he frowns and leans down to pull the lever to lower the chair seat to closer to the height of the love seat.

  He nods as if that is better. His long legs are bent up slightly awkwardly, and as he tries to adjust them, the chair starts to roll on the hardwood floor. “Damn it,” he mutters.

  I giggle. Then I can’t stop giggling at his slightly aggrieved face.

  Then I cry a little bit. Just because I can’t help it.

  “Shit, Gillian,” he murmurs, moving his chair back into place. “I’m so sorry. This isn’t how I imagined this going.”

  I’m suddenly afraid he’s misunderstood, that he’s hoping for more than I can give him. So I lean forward and say urgently, “Richard, I really don’t know why I’m here. I mean, I’m not here to... I can’t...”

  “My God, baby, not for a single second did I imagine your being here means everything is magically okay. I know it’s not. I know it might never be. That’s not why I’m happy to see you. I’m just...” He lowers his eyes and then raises them again. “I’m just happy to see you.”

  I swallow over a lump and brush away a stray tear. “Okay. I’m happy to see you too. I wanted to see you. Things were starting to feel... not the way I wanted them to feel. But I don’t know...”

  “You don’t have to know. You don’t have to know anything. I’m not expecting anything from you. I was just glad you didn’t return my letters. I’m assuming since you’re here you’ve been... reading them?” His voice lifts slightly at the end, making it a question.

  I nod. “I read them all. I really appreciated them, Richard. And I’m so glad of what you’re doing here.”

  “You’re not mad that it’s in Boston?”

  “No. I understand you were already in talks and you’d started... seeing yourself here. I appreciate your giving me space though. I needed it.”

  “I know you did.”

  It’s so strange to talk to him again. Strange that he’s still exactly the Richard I’ve always known with his soft, husky voice. His careful articulation. His clever blue eyes—maybe a little softer than they usually were before.

  “How have you been, Gillian?” he asks at last, when I can’t think of anything to say.

  I shrug. “I’ve been okay. Working a lot. Trying to date.”

  He gives me a quick look, but whatever he first felt is reined in almost immediately. “Any luck with that?” he asks so carefully light that it’s almost delicate.

  “Not really. I did try, but I’m not... I’m not ready.”

  He nods. He’s relieved. I can see it although he’s trying to hide it.

  “What about you?” I ask in a thready voice that’s not like me at all.

  He narrows his eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I mean I don’t know. I know you still... have feelings...” God, I’m such a fool. I can’t even get a full sentence out.

  “I’m in love with you, Gillian. I’m not going to date anyone else. I don’t want to, and it would be very unfair to whomever I was trying to date.”

  Licking my lips, I nod to acknowledge what he’s said. “I know. I’m sorry. But I didn’t know... I mean, you might have just...”

 
“Had casual sex?” He shakes his head. “Gillian, I can’t believe you don’t already know this, but I haven’t had sex with anyone but you since that first night we spent together.”

  I jerk. Visibly. That’s how surprised I am. “What?”

  “You are surprised. Of course you are. That’s the kind of man I was. But ever since that first time, there’s been no one else for me. Even when I was trying to convince myself what we had was just casual, I couldn’t work up any interest in anyone else. It’s just been you.”

  “Richard.” I don’t know what I’m trying to say with his name. It comes out as a hoarse plea.

  He gives his little shrug. “And if you tell me for sure that there’s no hope for us in the future, maybe that will change. Maybe I’ll be able to get over you?” Again, his tone lifts on the last word in almost a question. “But I don’t really think so. I’ll be forty-seven next month, and I’ve been in love only once in all that time. I think this is probably it for me. Don’t look like that. I’m not asking for sympathy. I messed things up. I know I did. But I also got the chance to know you. To love you. And that’s more than I ever imagined I’d get.”

  A couple of tears slide down my cheeks. “I wish I could...”

  “Gillian, don’t. Don’t say anything you think I want to hear, just because you think I want to hear it. I really do understand. And I think... I think I’m doing okay.”