A few cars—some red taillights and the occasional flash and disappearance of headlights. The night had fallen like a lid on a pot. The bridge was lit up, and there was a skinny walkway and crisscross of metal that was merely aesthetic. Rye had climbed over the railing easily on Thursday. If someone were determined to jump from the bridge, the railing would be of no consequence. Tallie pulled her car aside and shut it off, punched on her hazards the same way she’d done on Thursday. All roads led back to that bridge in an ever-widening gyre.
“Here’s your bridge,” she said, nauseated. She hoped he’d back off and finally let this go once he saw it. That’s what she prayed. She needed water. There was an old water bottle in the driver’s-side cup holder. It crinkled in her hands and she took a plasticky drink, choked it down. She needed fresh water, food, a solid ten hours of sleep.
Rye stared straight ahead.
“Okay.”
“Okay, then.”
“Thank you,” he said when he looked at her. He put his hand on the door handle without pulling it.
“This is what you want? Really, Rye? This? What do you want, Rye? What do you want?” Tallie said with a swelling panic, like an orchestra tuning before playing the discordant devil’s chord. Nope. No way could she let him get out of the car.
“I mean it when I say thank you. And here: this is for you, too,” he said, unzipping his backpack and pulling out the envelope of cash. He held it out for her, and when she wouldn’t take it, he put it on the dash.
“I’m not taking your money. I told you this,” she said.
“What do you charge for a therapy session by the hour? Two hundred dollars? Seventy-two hours together at two hundred dollars an hour, that’s fourteen thousand, four hundred dollars. There’s around ten thousand in there. I’ll mail you the rest,” he said. The delicate, low orange light of the streetlamp—numinous and scumbled—pressing his window like a promise.
“Rye, you’re not my client,” Tallie said, remaining as calm as possible. She knew how important it was when speaking with someone who was upset. She was upset, but there was no one there for her. She was alone, very alone, shuttering her windows from the raging wind of her own strong emotions for the greater good. Again.
“I’m not taking the money back,” he said, looking at her with soft eyes, not the hard, haunted ones she’d seen earlier.
“Can I take you somewhere else? Let’s not do this. Where else can I take you? I’m sure you’re as exhausted as I am. We’re running low on sleep and high on every possible emotion.”
“I forgive you. I’m not mad at you. Honestly. Thank you, Miss Tallie,” he said, pulling the handle.
“Rye, I’m not mad at you, either. I forgive you, too. And I’m not giving up on you! I’m not,” Tallie said, finally crying in a series of fragmented sobs. Primitive, desperate sounds escaped her mouth.
“Thank you so much, Miss Tallie,” he said, stepping out of the car with his jacket and backpack.
Tallie swung her legs out of the car, walked through the dread. A truck zoomed past with deep bass rattling its fiberglass before the world went quiet. The rain had put the earth through a full rinse cycle; the river perfumed metallic. She felt as if she could reach out and touch the black velvet darkness. She wanted to snatch it back like a curtain and reveal another world where this wasn’t happening.
“Rye. Please don’t do this. I won’t let you do this,” she said, raising her voice as he continued walking toward the railing.
Just quiet.
She prayed the first Bible verse that came to her mind, aloud. Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent. Rye stood still, listening. He turned around and closed his eyes to the night. Was he smiling?
RYE
Arcadia. Simple, peaceful. With his eyes closed, Rye saw the lake restaurant and the Honeybee House. The green hills behind it. A happy Christine and their smiling baby, Brenna—Sunshine. He floated through the moments of peace he’d had before. And he saw Tallie’s house, smelled those autumn candles and the rain. That suspended space of calm away from the noise of the world, the noise in his head. He was so tired.
Weightlessness.
Gravity.
Eternity tapped his shoulder, seduced him to turn around.
No more observations.
Nothing to report.
“Rye,” he heard Tallie say.
“Rye,” she said louder. He’d turned away from her, felt her hand grab at his back.
“Rye, please get in the car.”
TALLIE & RYE
They stopped for coffee on the way to Bloom. Tallie was okay with Rye cracking the window, smoking in the car. She held her hand up at him, refusing when he’d offered her a cigarette. They’d been mostly quiet. They’d cried privately, together, both trying their best to conceal it—wrung out. Bloom was three hours away, and they drove south, Tallie smoothing her car down the interstate at seventy-five miles per hour until it was time to turn off the exit ramp. Rye had listened to her make three phone calls. One to her mother. One to her father. One to Zora. In all three, explaining to them she’d be back at the hospital first thing in the morning before her appointments.
When they were stopped at a red light, she’d texted Nico, asking to see him on Monday evening after work; he’d said of course and called her lieve schat. Told her to talk back soon, and she promised she would. She’d asked Zora how Lionel was doing and, when she got off the phone, relayed the information to Rye in a casual tone that made him ache for those slow moments before Lionel caught fire. The same way his body and heart ached to turn back time and walk into his Honeybee House, hug his wife and daughter. Protect them somehow. The same way his body had ached those mornings after spending all night working heavy construction. The same way his body had ached when he was ill and sweating with stomach flu in prison. The same way Tallie’s body and heart had ached, trying so desperately to get pregnant. The same way Tallie’s heart had ached when Joel had moved in with Odette and when he’d told her he’d gotten Odette pregnant.
Tallie’s car hummed with ache as they drove to Bloom.
* * *
Rye’s dad opened the front door wide and clutched his chest, threw his arms around his son. How long had Tallie been crying? And Rye’s mom, in her flowered nightgown, walked into the kitchen and turned her head, covering her mouth and crying when she saw them. Tallie stood there spent and broken, the lamplight glowing up at Sallman’s Head of Christ hanging on the wall.
RYE
Rye, back home, promised he’d keep in touch with Tallie. He promised he’d find a therapist, and if he couldn’t find one he liked, he’d contact her and let her help. Before she left him at his parents’ house, he’d walked her to the car and asked if it was okay to hug her.
“Are you serious?” she asked before reaching out to him. Their lies, their mistakes, their anger dissolved into stardust and shimmered its way above them as they held each other.
“You’re too tired to drive.”
“I’m running on adrenaline at this point. I’ll keep the windows down, turn the music up,” she said. “And after everything, I’m being completely honest when I tell you I’m so glad I met you. I mean, life is short, clearly, but I want to live it. I was open with you, and you hurt me, but I don’t regret any of this.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you. I can’t say that enough.”
“And I’m sorry for not being up front with you.”
“I betrayed your trust after you were so kind to me,” he said.
“Yes. And I forgive you. That’s how forgiveness works. Do you forgive me?”
“Easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
“See?” she said. And after she nested herself inside the car she said, “Goodbye, Rye.”
“Goodbye, Tallie.”
He watched her drive until her taillights blurred, until she turned and disappeared.
* * *
Before he crashed in his old bedroom at his parents’, he looked at
the picture of Tallie and the one of them together that she’d sent him, to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. He went through his backpack, pulling everything out and putting it in a pile next to the bed. The envelope of cash was in there, and he didn’t know how or when Tallie had snuck it back in. His parents stood in the doorway, not wanting to let him out of their sight.
(And there is something new: the postcard of Klimt’s The Kiss, slipped into the Bible behind Brenna’s purple-crayoned coloring-book heart.)
PART FIVE
TALLIE
In November and December, Tallie checked in with Rye often. Winter was hard, and she wanted to make sure he was okay. He always responded to say hi and ask how she was doing. They exchanged the same sort of texts, with Rye reminding her that she mattered, too.
happy thanksgiving!
Happy Thanksgiving!
how are you? how are your hands? not small talk. i really mean it. i always think of you, pray for you. tell me how you are pls.
I’m ok. My hands are fine. I appreciate you thinking of me. I think about you too. I hope you’re good.
i’m v good. talk anytime, ok?
Ok, I will. Thank you, Tallie.
* * *
merry christmas, rye. i know it’s brenna’s birthday. how are you? big talk!
Merry Christmas. Thank you for remembering. I’m ok. I love big talk.
* * *
are you taking care of yourself?
Trying my best. Heard One Direction yesterday and smiled. What have you done.
oh woooow! so proud of you. good boy!
Forever trying to impress you, good girl.
* * *
your feelings are just as important as everyone else’s.
So are yours. :)
* * *
He’d sent her recipes for his favorite ramen soup, the best spicy-hot chicken, and the cognac sauce for his steak. Occasionally in the middle of the night, she’d wake to a hi text from him, and she’d hi him back.
big hearts in my eyes when you reach out first! forgive my therapist-talk but honestly, it’s so reassuring. feels significant, so i let it in!
Let it in, let it in. Glad to hear it. And all right then…consider it meticulously noted. :) Btw, I told my new therapist he reminds me of you. A good thing. A really good thing. Thanks again for helping me find him.
oh wow i’m so stoked to hear this! he’s a gem and so are you. a perfect match!
You’re the gem.
jsyk, i miss you.
Just so YOU know, I miss you too.
i like you, Rye.
I like you too, Tallie.
* * *
And sometimes.
are you ok?
Close.
* * *
Tallie told her family just enough about Rye, letting them look up his case for themselves. She let them know he’d been trying to start fresh: that was why he’d called himself Emmett and lied about where he was from. Lionel said he didn’t care what his name was; he was his buddy for life after saving him. And her mom swore she’d thought it was him but didn’t want to say anything. As if she could ever keep her mouth shut about something as huge as Tallie hanging out with a guy who’d been accused of murdering his family. But it bothered Tallie very little, her mom claiming that. She was determined to go easier on her.
After love, forgiveness is the strongest glue holding every family together.
* * *
In the new year, TLC Counseling Services added two more therapists, and Tallie stayed busy with work, coming home to her house at night tired and satisfied. Some evenings she came home to Nicodemus Tate bundled up, sitting on her porch in the cold or in his white Jeep, waiting for her. They’d go inside and make dinner. Make love in her bed before falling asleep and wake to have their coffee together in the morning before going to work.
She and Nico had fallen together completely, Tallie finally admitting to herself and to him that yes, he was her boyfriend. She’d told him everything about Rye, even the embarrassing parts. She told him that she and Rye were kissing when Lionel’s costume caught fire.
Tallie was clear with Nico about not wanting to get married again and needing her freedom, always. And she made sure he knew she would remain in contact with Rye because he was her friend. “I understand. I know you. I know who you are,” Nico had said. And as soon as he’d said that, she knew she would marry him someday. Maybe. Probably. His vim was heady and arresting. Dreamy. Enough. She loved Nico to distraction; she’d easily agreed not to sleep with anyone else. They’d finally gotten the timing right, and now they could set their watches to it.
“Ik hou van jou,” he’d said after he’d given her a key to his place.
“Ik hou van jou,” she’d said after she’d given him a key to hers. She’d said it in Dutch and English. French, too.
I love you, Nico. Je t’aime, Nico. Je t’aime follement de tout mon cœur.
* * *
When it got warm again, Tallie and Nico went to Florence to eat and drink and visit David at the Galleria dell’Accademia di Firenze. “You have to do things when you have a chance to do them,” her dad had told her when she’d mentioned wanting to go. The advice was so simple that it rang poignant. She’d been focusing on remaining heart-open and ready for anything. Zora had gotten pregnant not long after Lionel’s last skin-graft surgery, and although Tallie couldn’t have been happier for them, it reminded her of what she wanted but didn’t have, the things she hadn’t done yet.
And Florence! A lovely escape, with its palaces, gardens, and medieval cathedrals. Bistecca alla Fiorentina and Chianti by candlelight, strong espresso out of small white cups, and tiramisu under wide-striped patio umbrellas. Cobblestone streets slicked wet with Italian rain. Moonlit Nico-kisses: astral, sparking the dark. He’d bought her a blu e corallo Pucci scarf made of Italian silk, and she’d worn it around her neck, wrapped it around her hair, tied it around her wrist so she could feel it cool in the warm wind. She’d gifted him an austere moon-phase watch the color of night.
“Orologio,” he’d said, putting it on, after his grazie and lo adoro.
“Prego. Tennis players love orologios.”
“I tennisti adorano gli orologi,” he’d translated properly in a deep, singsongy lilt.
They stayed at the Villa Cora and swam there in the pink rose garden, Tallie loving how Nico’s ropy body cut through the pool water, how he’d pull her close—both of them sun-kissed and weightless—grab behind her knees, and wind her slippery body around his like an octopus. And afterward, in their room, he’d peel off her bathing suit and his, hang them to drip in the heat. Sunshiny Nico-kisses: celestial, lemon-bright. Sex and naps smelling of coconutty sunscreen, windows open, white curtains breezing, waking to red wines and dinners.
He’d started wearing a masculine square onyx ring on his middle finger, and Tallie found the sharp contrast of the sight of it plus the tinkling it made against the wineglass brutally romantic. Nico tried his best to teach her some useful Italian phrases, but she was too easily distracted by the lightness of his tongue, the handsome smush of his mouth when he said them.
Ti amo tanto, Nico. Ciao bello. Ti amo pazzamente con tutto il cuore.
* * *
She’d put her head on Nico’s shoulder and cried on the plane ride home until it sank all the way in that Florence was a real place that existed and she could go again. It didn’t disappear simply because she was leaving it. And there were so many other places she hadn’t been! She wanted to go back to Italy and see Scotland and Paris and Australia, too. She’d fallen in love with a sunny Australian soap opera on Netflix and tacked a postcard of Coogee Beach on her bathroom wall.
She considered her future with Nico and adopting a baby, how those two things had seemingly converged in a blink. She’d completed her home-study portion of the adoption process, and the birth mother she’d chosen was due near summer’s end. Nico had been supportive all along and wanted to stay updated on everything, but they had
n’t discussed in full detail what their lives would look like moving forward. Together.
You are the true love of my life, he’d said.
nico, i do want to be yr only girl…forever, she’d texted him in the dark of the first night they’d spent apart since returning home.
you already are, lieve schat.
* * *
Tallie deleted her social media account and finally donated the rest of Joel’s stuff to Goodwill, all of it. She hadn’t talked to him since he was in town to see Lionel; she and Joel had met for a quick coffee before he left Louisville. It’d been okay and sneakily healing, sparking her dreams of writing a book on comfort and creating safe spaces and mental health.
She’d made little waterproof note cards that said: You are not alone. You matter. You are so loved. The suicide hotline number appeared underneath, and she left them tied with lilac ribbon to prevention the bridge where she’d met Rye. She’d also written several letters and made as many calls to the mayor’s office petitioning for higher railings on the bridge.
* * *
She hadn’t heard from Rye since the beginning of spring, right before she left for Florence. There were times when she scanned the Southeastern Kentucky News online and the obituaries, hoping not to find his name. Every night, she prayed he was okay. Her phone calls and voice mails and hi texts went unanswered.
She rewatched the crime-show documentary clips about his case. Rye in a backpack in his high school hallway, Rye in a suit in the courtroom, Rye standing in front of the lake restaurant, Rye crying at his sentencing. Rye with Brenna on his shoulders, his hands holding her tiny feet, next to Christine, smiling sweetly in front of their yellow house. The torn photos of their family—Rye, alone on one side with Christine and Brenna on the other—floating downward in slow motion in the Ken Burns effect. Clips with titles like Mystery in Bloom, A Long Walk in October, and Double Death.
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