A Life Well-Hidden

by Emily Nealis

  “I love you, too.”

  I’d just told Adam I loved him. Maybe it was because I knew I wouldn’t see him for at least another seven days. Maybe it was simmering under the surface and it was time to get it out. Either way, I didn’t really care whether he returned the favor, although that’s what I’d taken his initial words to mean. What was love if not wanting to spend every waking moment with the one who was your closest friend, your confidante, and the one who you planned your life around? His mouth broke into a wide grin.

  “I really do love you.”

  I stepped back out of the vehicle, wrapping my arms around his midsection. He enveloped me in his arms, resting the side of his face on the top of my head.

  “I’m going to miss you.” I breathed into the cotton of his shirt, my words muffled.

  “I’m going to miss you too.”

  He left for Georgia on Monday. The rest of the week, I returned to the morning routine I had before I met Adam Hunt. In a way, I felt like I was living someone else’s life. But he wasn’t completely gone. We still spoke all day, every day. Except, this time, it was with the knowledge that our relationship had further changed in just one day. He wasn’t there to kiss me goodbye every day, but now he told me he loved me before ending the conversation at the end of each night.

  I noticed subtle changes in our conversations. Adam’s messages took on a different tone. Until the middle of the week, when he asked me a question I knew all too well.

  “Do you know what it’s like to love someone but not be in love with them?”

  “Yes.” I replied, because I did. I knew the feeling of not wanting to be with someone, not because you hate them, but because you don’t see a future with them. I knew the agony of not wanting to hurt someone, but not enough to sacrifice the rest of my life for them.

  “That’s how I’m feeling. I want to speak with you more than I want to speak with my own wife. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but I wish I could’ve brought you here with me.”

  I lived the next couple of days in a muted rapture, ecstatic over every word we exchanged, but consumed by Adam’s absence. I went to work every day, lived my normal life, but between the routine moments of my life I anticipated the day I would see him again.

  I was watering the wall of plants around my patio on Thursday when my phone vibrated with a message. The patio faced to the west, just across the lawn from the wooden post and rail fence that separated Stone Ridge Farm from the subdivision. Flower pots filled with petunias and fiery splashes of color lined the edge of the concrete patio. At the edge of the grass, just beyond where the roof extended, long containers of tomato and squash plants soaked up the scorching sun and trademark bluegrass humidity. I spent the afternoon, the minute I got home from work, watering the plants as they prepared to dump loads of fresh produce from their vines in the coming weeks.

  After I put the hose away, I checked the message on my phone. It was in fact Adam and he said he was going to try to head back from Georgia earlier in the afternoon on Friday. He asked if he could come straight to my house and see me when he got back in town.

  “Of course.”

  At the time, it was all I could think about—the welfare of my patio plants and Adam Hunt. The next day, on Friday, I shut my door and focused on work, hoping the time would pass quickly. I was not expecting this level of anticipation and I couldn’t remember the last time I was that excited to see someone. Perhaps it was magnified by the fact that we saw one another almost every single day. As I drove home from work at the end of the day, I received an update that he was passing Knoxville. It would be another three hours, at least, until he arrived in Lexington.

  Knowing full well that Interstate 75 is the road of broken dreams, it was no surprise when Adam called to let me know he was delayed by construction on the same road that would also never be completed. By that time, it was 8:00. I’d already initiated my nightly routine; lock the doors, turn out all lights except for my bedroom, change into pajamas—also known as shorts and a tank top—brush my teeth, and debate which book to continue reading versus starting a new one simultaneously. It was a constant battle.

  When I told Adam that I was already in bed, he said I didn’t have to get up and wait, just unlock the door for him. “OK” I responded, appreciating his respect for my comfort. The last thing I wanted to do was wait up and, even more so, deviate from my structured home routine, even if it was Adam. I stepped out of bed, unlocked my bedroom door, and made my way down the stairs to the first floor to release the deadbolt on the front door. I flipped on the porch light before heading back through the living room to the staircase. After getting back in bed, I set my alarm for one hour; if Adam didn’t arrive by then, I would lock the door again and go to sleep.

  I was a quarter of the way through my book when I heard the hinges on the front door creak and the storm door open and swing shut again. Engrossed in my book, the sound startled me, and my heart rate increased. After realizing it was Adam, my heart rate remained high, although for a different reason. Granted, I didn’t know yet whether it was him or I was about to be murdered for the $20, one credit card, and $50 Target gift card in my purse hanging on the closet doorknob.

  Fortunately, I was not murdered by an intruder. The brushed nickel doorknob turned, and Adam stepped into the room. I looked up from my book as he shut it softly behind him. For a moment, I couldn’t believe he was standing in my bedroom. He’d only been inside my house a couple of times, when he was picking me up, and that was only the connecting living room and kitchen.

  “You found me.” I commented as he crossed the cream carpet to the other side of the bed.

  “The street lamps let in enough light to walk, and I figured the only light under the door was you.” Adam rested a palm on the edge of the mattress, bending over to untie the laces on his boots, kicking them off into the corner.

  “I didn’t know if you’d get back in time.” I watched him unclip his keys from his belt, pull his phone and wallet out of his back pocket, and toss them on the floor next to his boots. Adam sat down on the bed next to me, kicked his feet up, and leaned back against the headboard.

  “I have something for you.” Adam reached behind his back, into his jeans pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper with something written on it and handed it to me. I looked down at the paper, which wasn’t a piece of paper, but a photo. It was a picture of us from Travis and Carolyn’s wedding. I’d had no idea anyone even took our picture. Adam was leaning against the bar, his body turned toward me as he spoke to me. His arm rested on the bar top behind me. I was leaning back against the bar, facing the photographer. One hand was in my dress pocket, the other held a glass of gin and tonic right below my chin. I was looking at Adam as he spoke, and I was laughing.

  “It’s one of the pictures the photographer took. Carolyn emailed them to everyone, so I thought you might want that one.” I stared at it, ecstatic that this photo of us existed, and even more so that it was perfect. If there was ever a photo that could have described Adam and I, it was this one. I flipped the photo over, having seen writing on the back as he retrieved it from his pocket.

  I wish I could give you this in front of other people, but we know how we feel about each other. I love you, Adam

  As I read his handwriting, scrawled in all-caps, he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. For some reason, reading that note from Adam made everything more real. His thoughts were in writing on the back of that photo of us—only minutes after we’d met one another.

  “This,” I paused, continuing to stare at the photo, “Is the absolute best. Thank you.” I leaned my head into his neck as he squeezed me around the shoulder.

  “You didn’t make it easy,” Adam glanced at me sideways, “I had to give you time to decide whether you wanted anything to do with me. I wasn’t going to rush you.” Adam was right, after all. The first night I met him, I had no intention of ever seeing him again. Even when he invited me to lunch the Monday after the party, I considere
d not even going. Yet, somehow, after all that I decided that I wanted to see him every day and spend every moment I could with this one person.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Adam mused, twisting his fingers into mine, “I wasn’t looking for something else.”

  “No, I suppose not.” I tucked the photo between the pages of my book.

  “Listen, I want to be with you every minute of every day. We know each other better than anyone else,” He paused to clarifying exactly what he meant, “I love you, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to be with you.”

  I turned my head and looked at him, not yet sure what to make of such a sudden declaration. Or maybe it wasn’t sudden at all; maybe I’d just taken each day for what it was and simply enjoyed being with Adam. It’s possible I underestimated how enmeshed we’d become in one another’s lives. Did he tell me he loved me? Yes. Did I reciprocate his affections? Yes. But maybe that happens sometimes. Maybe if we’d met in another life, things would have been different. Adam was not married to me, after all, and compared to every other aspect of his life, I did not consider myself that important. I intensely looked forward to each morning I saw him and our infinite conversations throughout the day, but I didn’t expect much else. At that point, I didn’t possess that kind of self-absorption.

  “I mean it,” Adam was characteristically stoic, “I’m going to do whatever I can to be with you, and just you.”

  “How?” This was all I could come up with. Although exhilarating, all I could think to do was to question the feasibility of such an idea. The rush that comes from someone making a statement like that is overpowering, but I was also an analyst, trained in the art of questioning and debating. I found myself just staring at him with a hopeful skepticism.

  “If I can make sure I’ll still be in my daughters’ lives and they’ll be taken care of, then I want it to be you and me. Just you and me.”

  Fair enough. But I was not expecting this from Adam Hunt—Adam Hunt with the wife and kids and 18 acres in horse country. And now he was telling me he wanted to leave it all and be with me—a woman he met by chance at a wedding, spoke to for hours in an empty field, and spent every morning with since drinking coffee. Our relationship was already half a life with someone; creating routines, calling to say goodnight, and now making life-altering plans. I was already engaged in a serious relationship, one which was completely unexpected and now I couldn’t imagine myself without.

  “OK.”

  I accepted his offer—at least what I thought was an offer, or part of one. Adam didn’t just want a momentary fling or even an affair of unspecified duration; he wanted a commitment. And once he asked, I realized that was fine with me.

  Adam nodded, acknowledging my response. He inhaled deeply and glanced at me, a look of relief washing over his face. His vulnerability was hard to come by, even with how much time I spent with him. Relaxing a bit, Adam leaned toward me, looking over my shoulder at the book I was holding.

  “Anything good?” He asked. I flipped the book over to reveal the cover, which bore the title and its author, chronicling an account of a deadly, incurable disease ravaging an equatorial region of the globe. Adam nodded in approval, “Is that another piece of your master plan to destroy the world?” He raised his arm, I let him rest his arm on my shoulders and sunk back against him.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” I flipped through a few pages, “There are five pages left in this chapter, so we’ll see.” I stuck my post-it note bookmark onto the page and began to close the book. Adam shook his head.

  “Finish it.”

  I took him up on his offer, but I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t concentrate on any of the words on the pages. I just stared at the ink, not seeing the words, and instead focusing on Adam’s fingertips running up and down my arm. I was aware of the power of involuntary biological responses. As I held the paperback up to my face, I consciously realized that over the past ten minutes, any remaining shred of ethical convictions I had about the situation were gone. They deteriorated as soon as I unlocked my front door. I stared at the same page for ten minutes, trying to concentrate for the first two minutes, but consumed with tension for the remaining eight.

  “Do you want me to stop?” He asked, aware that I had no intention of finishing the rest of the chapter.

  “No.” I squeezed the spine of my book between my thumb and forefingers, snapping it shut. I reached over to the side table next to me and slid the book onto the surface in front of the lamp.

  Would I have been a better woman—a better human being—if I kept reading and refused to put my book down? Furthermore, would it have been more honorable to lock my front door and turn out the porch light, indefinitely maintaining the figurative wall between the two of us?

  Maybe.

  I could have told that story instead of divulging what I did—that I willfully let him inside. I did not feel pressure. I was not coerced. I was not under duress. I might have seemed like a better person, but then I’d also be a liar. Even after he sat down next to me, our legs stretched out side by side, I could have kept reading. I could have continued into the night, reading about hemorrhagic fever until I finished the book or fell asleep. People can do a lot of things, but I didn’t want any of those alternatives. Maybe that was my first mistake; believing that Adam Hunt possessed some altruistic characteristic that differentiated him as a more perfect mate. Whatever it was, I let it go with the air sifting through the screen of the open window—because I was not the one who had taken vows.

  Haley

  Three years and four months apart and my mother still believed I was my brother’s keeper. For the record—this was never the case. The only reason it appeared that way was because that was part of the deal; if I wanted my parents’ trust and earn the privilege of staying home alone without a babysitter, I had to also watch my little brother. Later, I was too much of a goody-two-shoes to get caught buying alcohol for him when he was still in high school or lying to our parents when he snuck out of the house. Ironic, considering who I was dating at the time. However, it dawned on me years later that my parents probably viewed me as a mother hen to Travis because I saved his life once.

  I didn’t drag him out of a burning house or save him from drowning or anything like that, but I did keep my husband—or rather, future husband—from murdering him one night. It was the night my dad told Adam to get off his property, stay away from me, and to never come back. I was home from college and, somehow, they’d found out that Adam drove the four-hour roundtrip to see me on the weekends. When Adam came to pick me up one night, my parents lit into him. He ended up mouthing off to someone, as usual—it’s been so long, I can’t really remember. Travis was a sophomore in high school, but he was tall for his age, so he thought he was much more intimidating than he was. When my dad started yelling at Adam to get lost, Adam told him he would leave, but he was taking me with him. In response, my dad threatened to call the police and report a kidnapping.

  Threatened with arrest just for taking his girlfriend on a date, Adam just stood there in the living room and didn’t move. I saw the wheels turning in his head as he began to get angrier. He lifted his finger, pointed at my dad, and was about to say something, but Travis came out of nowhere and got in his face, yelling at him to get out of our house. Travis’s mistake was feeling confident enough to lay his hand on Adam. In the heat of the moment, Travis shoved Adam in the chest. In a flash, Adam grabbed Travis by the collar and threw him up against the wall. Adam wasn’t knocked off balance at all, as he was still much larger than Travis, but the look he gave Travis as he pinned him against the living room wall was enough for me to jump in between them to protect my oblivious brother from injury or death. At that point, my mom started screaming that she was going to call the police and, after I’d finished shouting at Travis to shut up and pleading with Adam to let him go, Adam released his grip.

  I don’t think Adam would have done anything to Travis. That would have been like a bear stomping o
n a mouse—what’s the point? Adam ended up leaving immediately after that. Being 18-years-old, I thought it meant he was leaving forever and that I was watching the taillights of his black Chevy disappear around the corner for the last time. I spent the rest of the night screaming at my parents, slamming my door, and crying into my pillow. I think I might have even used the word “fuck” at some point, which was a big deal at the time. I thought my life was over, after all. Seriously, all that just to go on a date.