That’s the way we show our love for each other. I think back on the conversation Marian and I had postpark. I try to pull myself up by the bootstraps, give myself a kick in the pants to keep on walking. Don’t let myself get all misty eyed, become dreary about the holidays this year. God knows it’s not going to be an easy Christmas to get through.
My mind turns to what Marian said about love, about her love for Cole. How she’d do just about anything to have Cole want her the way Adam wants me. The way I still want Adam, but can’t.
I don’t know if it’s coming off the heels of finding the courage to confront Adam and admit that a divorce is our tragic answer, or if the damn Christmas tree lot is doing a number on my olfactory sense, or maybe it’s the Post-it with the divorce attorney information on it that’s fanning the flame, but I stop right here on bustling Green Street and pull out my cell phone and request a ride. There’s not a minute to spare to run home and get my car, for a chance to think twice. A gold VW sedan pulls up minutes later, asks if I’m Halley, and then whisks me away to Glendale. To firehouse station number Twenty-Two.
I’m impressed that I remember the house where Cole Whittaker’s stationed. Marian mentioned it on only one occasion. The drama with which she did, though, probably helped ingrain it in my brain. I’m apprehensive when I emerge from my ride, wondering if I really do have the number right. Wondering if this was such a hot idea after all.
It’s too late at this point, my driver disappearing down the road, two intrigued firemen staring at the displaced girl standing in their driveway.
“Are you lost?” the taller of the two asks.
Both men begin their approach, and I mentally scold myself for not thinking this through better. I had plenty of time to formulate a plan on the ride over. I’m the Queen of Plans, and all I could think of was Marian’s face if this all went well. Then I tried to picture it if it didn’t. I thought hard about that one. So that is why I’ve resolved to keep my little romantic stunt to myself. There will be no point in telling Marian I’ve gone to Cole’s firehouse to tell him she’s lovesick for him, because if he doesn’t reciprocate, or at least tell me (and Marian) to bugger off once and for all, then what’d be the point in telling her about my adventure? It’d add even more insult to injury. Now, if Cole does hear me out and reach his own clarity, as I optimistically think he will, then Marian surely won’t be angry with me for going behind her back and doing a tad of prodding. She’ll be ecstatic! After all, wouldn’t she do anything for Cole?
It’s this entire line of thought and wondering that consumed my time on the drive over. So now I’m here, standing in front of two beefy firemen, the sun beginning to bake the little brains I’m beginning to think are all I have upstairs, no more sure of what to say to these two strangers than of what to say to Cole himself.
“Can we help you?” the shorter of the two asks.
Before either jumps to breaking out the gurney or offering first aid at my idiotic stand-in-silence-and-stare routine, I stammer out, “I-I’m looking for Cole. Cole Whittaker.”
The two exchange a look I can’t quite read. It isn’t what I’d expect from complete strangers. As if Cole routinely gets strange girls walking up the driveway, asking to—
Oh. Right.
The taller one says, “You change your hair?”
“Right,” I say with an understanding nod.
“It’s not her,” the shorter one says. He looks to me and hitches a thumb behind him to the house. “Cole’s here. But, uh . . . who may I ask is looking for him?”
“I’m . . .” I stand up straighter and say with as much confidence as I can muster, “Look, guys. I know Marian—”
“Marian. That’s it,” the taller one says, snapping his fingers.
I refrain from rolling my eyes and say, “I’m Marian’s best friend. But I’m also old friends with Cole. We all went to college together. I won’t keep him long, I promise. I’d just really appreciate it if I could talk to him. Please.” I press my hands together in supplication. “I’m not here because Marian sent me. I’m here . . . because I have nothing left to lose.”
Now they’re both stumped.
“Look,” I begin again, but the shorter one stops me. He waves me on to follow.
“Come on, darling,” he says. “I’m not a fan of daytime dramas and I’m not about to step into a real-life one I have nothing to do with.”
“You’ll let Cole know I’m here?” I ask excitedly.
“We’ll do you one better,” the taller one says. He points toward the opened garage. “He’s right there. You can let him know yourself.”
It takes me a second to identify Cole, as there are three guys in the garage. Two in those sexy fireman pants, suspenders hanging at their sides, tight T-shirts revealing cut biceps, are working on a fire truck. The other, not in the sexy pants but still showing off ridiculously muscular arms in his tight tee, is fiddling with tools on a shelf. If the two guys who played bodyguard to Cole were in a real-life soap opera, then I am living a girl’s fireman calendar dream.
The man working with the tools turns to look in my direction. He has changed since I last saw him—he’s stronger, ruddier.
“Cole,” I say as I approach the opened garage with hesitation.
Cole looks at his partners, then looks back to me. “Halley?” he says in a confounded tone. He’s wearing as bewildered a face as one would expect. It’s been twelve years since we’ve seen each other. Marian may have been the last person he’d ever expect to see grace his station’s driveway, but I’m sure the faithful friend and trusted bridesmaid comes in a close second. “Halley West?”
“Halley Brennan, actually.” Then I immediately correct myself. “West, yeah,” I say in an uncertain tone. The correction marks the first in a long line of firsts as I embark on my divorce.
Cole’s jaw locks. “Did Marian ask you to come here?”
“No.” I don’t like the way he says her name or that her asking me to come here sounds like his worst nightmare. “Cole, look. This is something that’s entirely out of character for me.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just stands here, towering over me as he’s always done at a good inch or two over six feet. His arms are akimbo, his face pulled tight in confusion.
“I know Marian came here. I know she spilled her guts. I know she really hurt you a long time ago.” He winces. “And when she came here. But that’s not what I want to talk about.” I wave my hands. “I don’t know what it’s worth, but since I’ve got nothing left to lose, and since I, well, actually did kind of lose everything . . .” I shake my head, realizing I’m spinning into a tangent that Cole most likely couldn’t care less about, much less follow.
“The point i-is,” I stutter, “Marian loves you. She’s screwed up and she knows it, and she’s taken a long-ass time to figure things out, but she’s never stopped loving you. And I applaud her for owning how she feels. For stepping up and putting it all out on the line. She’s in love with you, Cole. With her whole heart and soul. And I know this not just because she’s told me. And not because I can see it in her face when she talks about you or when your name is mentioned. Or even how she gets this glazy-dazy look when she sets off the fire alarm because she’s really not that great of a cook.”
Cole sniffs a small laugh, and it’s the encouragement I need to power on through my speech.
“I know it because I’ve had to take a step back and relearn what love is. What honest and unconditional love is. Sometimes love is taking a step back; sometimes it’s moving forward. Sometimes it’s letting go; sometimes it’s holding on. Sometimes it’s taking it back . . . chasing it. But it isn’t anywhere in between. It isn’t in some stupid, drawn-out separation. It isn’t in a decade of waiting and pining and wondering. It’s in the action. In the decision you make now.” I shrug, then slip my hands in my rear pockets.
“I couldn’t save my love, but you and Marian can save yours,” I say. Cole looks entirely confused, no doubt
wondering what my losing love has to do with anything. “I’m here to tell you Marian loves you so much she’ll do anything to have you back. But she does understand if it can’t be that way. I swear, I’m here of my own accord. I’m just here to beg you to . . . to . . . to . . .” I sigh heavily. “To find it in your heart to give her another chance. Give the two of you a chance. I know I’m out of line here and all, but, hell, I guess I still have faith in happily ever afters. And part of me has kind of hoped that you haven’t decided yet—whether to let her go or to take her back.” I give a nervous laugh.
“You’re single, she’s single. Maybe I’m that little push you need to decide,” I say, making a small driving-fist movement.
There. That’s it. I’ve said what I came to say.
Now I wait awkwardly. Cole doesn’t say anything. Even his blank expression doesn’t change.
When I’m hoping that the bodyguards or the two working on the truck or even the firehouse dog who’s got to be around somewhere would come and break the silence, Cole says, “What makes you think I haven’t made a decision already?”
Crap. He’s right. Perhaps he has made his decision, and it doesn’t involve running after Marian.
Feeling like an idiot, I say, “Well then, if you have, you have. If you’ve moved on, if you don’t love her, then . . . okay. Point taken. It was worth a shot.” I adjust my purse over my shoulder. “Then I’ll just bow out now, wish you merry Christmas, and leave, terribly embarrassed.” I can feel a hard blush crimson my cheeks.
“Halley?”
“Yeah?”
“It isn’t just about love. It’s about a whole hell of a lot more than my loving her.”
My ears prick up. “You still love her?”
Cole doesn’t answer, and I don’t think he has to. He’s said enough. There’s still room for hope, and maybe it’s even more hope than Marian thought she had. Maybe it’s just enough.
I quickly write down my and Marian’s home address on a sheet of paper from the small notebook I always keep in my purse.
“Here,” I say, stuffing the note into Cole’s hand. “It’s where she’s at, if you decide your love’s the kind you chase.”
“And if it isn’t?” he says.
“Then it’s the kind you let go.” An intense aching grips my heart.
He looks down at the crumpled note in his hand.
“If my opinion’s worth anything,” I say. He raises one brow. “I know a letting-go kind of love. And yours and Marian’s isn’t one of them.”
Men. Seriously. It’s been a week since I pulled that crazy stunt at firehouse number Twenty-Two. Still no word from Cole. No one’s riding in on a white horse, and, on Marian’s end, there is no inordinate Ben and Jerry’s consumption. At least not more than the usual inordinate amount. And it’ll be two weeks tomorrow since I’ve heard from Adam. Not that Marian and I are exactly Miss America with our grace, patience, and understanding—a real party to hang out with, chase after. I can’t blame Adam for wanting to slam shut and double-bolt the door on the divorce topic. Neither of us really saw it coming, and he’d hoped—planned—for reconciliation.
While Cole may not ride on in, relief at last does, in the form of a phone call right before I get ready for bed. It’s Adam.
“I think you should come over,” he says.
I’m puzzled. Come over as in move back in? Or come over as in we need to talk?
It’s neither.
“I’ll help you pack,” he says, morose. “I picked up some boxes.”
I can’t help but stand at the foot of my bed, cell phone loosely in hand, in surprise. Adam’s done more than come to accept the decision to divorce, he’s gone to Home Depot, loaded up with boxes, packing tape, bubble wrap, and god knows what else? A dolly, for good measure? I know I have no right to stand here, incensed, when I’m the one waving the divorce papers in front of him. My eyes land on the half-packed suitcase on the floor of my closet, and I let the moving boxes fade from my mind, the anger slowly roll off my back. If a backward version of the Brooklyn Bridge–esque moment of cutting the ties and a half-packed bag are what I needed to begin the painful journey of moving on, perhaps Adam needs some moving boxes and packing tape.
“Sounds good,” I say, my tone neutral. “When works for you?”
“Tomorrow night?”
Tomorrow night?
I swallow hard, and that darn suitcase comes into sight again. It has been two weeks. Adam has had time to mull things over. And it isn’t in Adam’s nurturing and kind character to vindictively shove me out of the house. It simply is what it is. We are getting a divorce. I am moving out.
“Tomorrow night is fine.”
“I’ll pick us up some tacos.” Then he quickly adds, “If you like.”
That’s my Adam. A smile pulls at my lips, and I can almost smell pine, Christmas trees. Nostalgia envelops me and I give a confirming “Mmmhmm” to tacos, to the meal that brings on a sudden sadness and a lone tear trickling down my cheek. Only this time it isn’t because we’ve inadvertently made Taco Tuesdays a thing of the past but because tomorrow we’ll have put all tacos—and all Tuesdays—in our past.
Dragging my feet and listlessly checking off menial tasks is pretty much how the day goes at work. I’m uninspired to write my next strong-females-in-literature feature, and I’m even more uninspired to tackle the secrets of a tasty Tuscan bruschetta. I’d be remiss if I said it doesn’t have a thing to do with the way I plan to spend my evening tonight.
I know this isn’t going to be the last I see of Adam, and it most likely won’t even be the last time I’m in my old home. The evening, complete with one more round of tacos, however, very heavily marks an ending. And a beginning, Marian perkily insisted this morning when I told her my plans for the night.
I’ve never been too fond of the notion of new beginnings. There are no do-overs or restarts, are there? Not in this life. You’re born and you die, and everything that happens in between is life and moves along with time. You can’t pause it or rewind or fast-forward, no matter how hard you try. My father’s logical and scientific approach to the world we live in influences me as I consider the notion on my drive over to Adam.
We are all along for the ride of life, and a lot is out of our control. As much of a fan as I am of planning and being prepared, there is repose in knowing some things are up to fate and chance. Decisions have to be made at certain points, and sometimes they’re really tough ones. And rather than declaring an ending here and a new start there, you have to keep moving on, constantly. There is no stasis. I want to remember the past and its memories, and let the past inform my future and be a part of my now; I also want to look forward to possibility, to chance, to whatever may lie ahead. I suppose my divorce is not an ending nor is what follows a new beginning, as in a book, but rather the next chapter in my life. The next part of the story.
Oddly inspired in my daydreaming drive to Adam, wondering where this kind of inspiration was when I was at work and all dried up, I park my car on the street in front of our condo. Adam’s car is in the driveway, with plenty of room for me to park alongside him. I park here instead. Perhaps this is just another one of those firsts. I am the visitor here, not the resident.
As Adam said, he’s picked up moving boxes. And bubble wrap and shipping tape. And tacos. The familiar fragrance of Tito’s Tacos hits me as soon as Adam swings open the front door.
“I got our usual,” he says, pointing to the white bags on the dining table, grease already seeping through the paper. “Hope that was okay.”
I become rigid at the use of the impertinent words our usual. “Great,” I tell him. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
Adam looks better than I thought he would, and that makes me happy. His hair is freshly washed, wet and slicked back, and he smells wonderfully of newly applied cologne. He probably went for a run after work, then showered and picked up dinner. I can’t help but think about how whenever we
had our last jog together it was, in fact, our last jog together. And then I wander down the dangerous road of thinking about our last shower together, our last night in bed together, our last kiss, our last spur-of-the-moment drive to the beach, our last vacation, our last this, our last that. Our last everything! I thought Adam would be the last man I would ever sleep with. Now that is no more a guarantee than anything else in life.
I can feel myself being moved to tears—chest tightens, stomach churns, eyes sting—and I restrain myself with every ounce of will I can find. As much as I wanted Adam to be in accord with our divorce, and as much as I believe it will come to be a mutually accepted decision, it is I who have brought on this pain. I have decided to make every last our last.
As Adam pours the tortilla chips into the sunflower-yellow bowl, I note it was a wedding gift from Charlotte, and then, when I’m in the middle of thinking who will get it in the divorce, and how we’ll divvy up everything else under this roof, I inhale deeply and tell myself that if I am to blame for calling for a divorce, then Adam is to blame for getting us to this point. And if—
“I got extra green,” Adam says, holding up a large cup of salsa verde. “Since you drink this stuff.”
And then I stop. There is no blaming. There is no finger pointing. Just as there are no endings or new beginnings. We are here, now, and though it is bittersweet, it is honest.
Adam and I make small talk with ease, and when there’s only one taco remaining and nothing but crumbs at the bottom of the chip bowl, we move on to the purpose of my visit.
We begin in the bedroom, my side of the closet the largest challenge. When we’ve filled half a dozen boxes of clothes, Adam says that he didn’t intend for us to completely move me out tonight. I tell him that I figured as much, and that it was a good idea to just start. Start somewhere.
I drop into the bottom of an empty box my navy blue down jacket, an item I rarely wear but one I wanted so badly for Christmas a few years ago. Adam surprised me with it, and snug inside one of the pockets were two ski passes. I know now that if I were to slip my hands into the pockets and fish around for paper, I’d come up empty handed, obviously. The fact that I’d pull out balls of lint, at best, hurts, silly as the thought may be.
Everything the Heart Wants Page 27