I was immensely grateful because it was exactly what I needed.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. I did. I knew I loved him even before he said it. But I couldn’t utter the words. I wasn’t prepared to acknowledge the shift that had already happened. I wasn’t ready to let go of the word “wife” and grab on to the word “girlfriend.”
But that night, four and a half months in, as we both lay in my bed, naked and touching, entangled in blankets and sheets, I realized that even if I wasn’t ready for the truth, that didn’t make it untrue.
“I love you,” I said into the darkness, knowing the sound had nowhere to go but into his ears.
He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I thought you might,” he said. I could tell he was smiling just by his tone.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t say it until now.”
“It’s OK,” he said. “I get it.”
Sam always seemed to have a grasp on what was truly important. He never seemed bogged down by petty things. He prioritized the heart of the situation over the details. He paid attention to actions more than words.
I didn’t like sleeping in my own bed anymore without him. I always held his hand at the movies. I waited all day to see him again just so I could kiss the soft spot by his eye, where his wrinkles were settling in.
He knew I was head over heels in love with him. So he was OK if it took me a while to say it. And that just made me love him more.
“I just . . . it’s sometimes hard not to associate moving forward with forgetting the past,” I said.
“If it helps . . .” Sam said as he moved closer to me. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness and I could see the glow of his skin. “I don’t expect you to stop loving him just because you love me.”
I probably should have smiled or kissed him. I should have told him how much I appreciated his magnanimous spirit and his selflessness. But instead, I started crying so hard I shook the bed.
He held me, kissing the top of my head, and then he said, “Is it OK if I tell you a few more things I’ve been thinking?”
I nodded.
“I think you and I have something that could last for a very long time, Emma. Maybe I even knew that back in high school, maybe that’s why I was as infatuated with you as I was. But I feel—I have always felt—more myself with you than anyone I’ve ever met. And for the first time, I’m starting to see what it would mean to grow with someone, as opposed to merely growing beside someone, the way I did with Aisha. I’m not worried about our future, the way I thought I’d be when I fell in love again. I’m OK just being with you and seeing where it goes. I just want you to know that if what we have lasts, and one day we talk about getting married or having kids, I want you to know I’ll never try to replace Jesse. I’ll never ask you to stop loving him. You can love your past with him. My love for you now isn’t threatened by that. I just . . . I want you to know that I’ll never ask you to choose. I’ll never ask you to tell me I’m your one true love. I know, for someone like you, that isn’t fair. And I’ll never ask it.”
I was quiet for a minute as I processed what he’d said. He put his arm underneath me and held me tight. He smelled my hair. He kissed my ear. “I’ve just been thinking about that for a while and I wanted to tell you.”
I stopped crying and I took a very deep breath in.
The room smelled of sweat and sleep. The bed beneath us felt soft and safe. I had found a man who understood who I was and accepted me entirely, who was strong enough to make peace with the tender spot in my heart for the love I used to have.
“I love you,” I said to him, again. The second time, it came out of my mouth with less effort.
“I love you, too,” he said. “I love everything about who you are. Always have.”
I moved onto my side to face him with my hands underneath my head. He turned to meet me. We looked at each other and smiled.
“It makes me so happy to have you in my life,” I said. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
Sam smiled. “Think of all the people in the world,” he said, tucking my longest hair behind my ear. “And I was lucky enough to find you twice.”
“Think of all the women trying to buy a piano,” I said. “And I’m the one you hit on.”
Sam laughed.
“Turn around, would you?” he said. He said this when he wanted to spoon me, when he wanted to fit my body into the cradle of his. I did so happily.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he said. I could smell the mint and sweetness of his breath.
“Good night,” I told him, and then I said, “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
I kept it at that. I didn’t say the rest of the sentence that popped into my head.
I don’t know how I got so lucky to have both of you. My two true loves.
Sam got us tickets to the symphony. We had been together for over a year. The two of us had just moved in to an apartment in Cambridge and adopted a pair of cats. My parents, ecstatic to have Sam back in their lives, had jokingly started to call him “son.”
That night as I was walking out of Symphony Hall in an emerald green dress, Sam in a handsome dark suit, I probably should have been reflecting on the music we’d heard or asking Sam what he thought of some of the performers.
But instead, all I could think about was how hungry I was.
“You look lost in thought,” Sam said as we walked through the streets of Boston, headed for the Green Line.
“I’m ravenous,” I said to him. “I realize we ate dinner but I just had that tiny salad and now I feel like I could eat a full meal.”
Sam laughed. “Should we stop somewhere?” he asked.
“Please,” I said. “Somewhere with french fries.”
Soon enough, I was eating a hamburger with the wrapper still half on as Sam and I walked down the street in black-tie attire. Sam was holding the rest of the bag in one hand—I’d already eaten the carton of french fries—and drinking a chocolate milk shake with the other.
“How are your feet feeling?” Sam asked me.
“OK,” I answered. “Why?”
“What if we walked around for a bit before getting on the T?” he asked. “You look gorgeous and the weather is nice and . . . I don’t know. I want to prolong the moment.”
I smiled. I figured I had a few minutes of walking before my heels started to rub up against the broad bones of my feet.
“I’m in,” I said, and then I took another bite of my burger. When I swallowed, it occurred to me that there was a flaw in his argument. “How are you going to try to say that this is a beautiful moment between us when I’m eating a Whopper?”
Sam laughed. “I think I just love you that much,” he said. “That even standing next to you as you cram Burger King into your mouth is special to me.” He took a sip of his milk shake after he said it. I watched as his cheeks sucked in to pull the ice cream up the straw while he stood on the sidewalk looking dapper in his dark suit. I knew exactly what he meant. I felt exactly what he felt.
“You look cute trying to inhale that milk shake,” I told him.
“See?” he said. “That’s how I know you’re in love with me. You’ve also gone crazy.”
We continued to walk along the sidewalk as I took another bite of my burger.
“I really mean it,” Sam said. “I’m madly in love with you. I hope that you know how much.”
I smiled at him. “I suspect I do,” I said teasingly.
“I don’t know if this is exactly the right time but . . . I want to make sure you know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t know if I’ve properly conveyed it but I am committed to this, to us. I’m in, you know? For life. I want you forever. My only concern is that I don’t want to pressure you.”
“I don’t feel pressure,” I said. I was still processing what he was saying, still beginning to understand how monumental this moment we were having truly was.
“Are you sure?” he said. “Because I have to be h
onest. I’m ready to cash in. I’d commit to you for the rest of our lives without a single doubt in my mind. I have never been happier than I have been during this year with you. And—the way I see it—you’re it for me. You’re everything.”
I looked at him, listening to him. I didn’t respond because I was wrapped up in how wonderful it felt to be me just then, how nice it felt to be loved the way he loved me.
Sam shifted his gaze and drank from his milk shake. And then he looked at me and said, “I guess what I’m saying is I’m ready. So now I’ll just wait until you’re ready, if you’re ever ready. If you ever want to.”
“If I ever want to . . .” I wanted to make sure I understood exactly what he was saying.
“Marry me,” he said, taking another sip of his milk shake.
“Wait, are you . . .” I wanted to ask him if he was proposing but something about the word seemed so formal, so daring.
“I’m not proposing,” Sam said. “But what I’m saying is that I’m not ‘not proposing’ because I don’t want to. I want to. I just want to wait until you’re ready for me to propose.”
“I don’t think I understood half of that sentence,” I said, smiling at him.
“It wasn’t the best one I’ve ever said,” he said, laughing.
“Can you just say what you’re saying clearly and succinctly?” I asked.
Sam smiled and nodded. “Emma Blair, if you ever decide that you want to marry me, please tell me. Because I would like to marry you.”
I dropped the hamburger onto the street. I didn’t mean to; it just fell out of my hand, as if my brain had said to my fingers, “Stop whatever you’re doing, and pay attention to what’s happening.” And then I took both of my free hands and wrapped them around Sam’s face and kissed him with everything I felt in my heart.
When I pulled away, I didn’t let him speak. I said, “Let’s do it.”
“What?” Sam said.
“I want to marry you.”
“Wait,” Sam said. “Are you sure?” I could tell that he couldn’t believe what he was hearing and it made me love him even more.
“I’m absolutely positive,” I said. “I want to marry you. Of course I do. I love you. So much.”
“Oh, wow,” Sam said, smiling so wide his eyes crinkled. “Are we . . . are we getting engaged?”
I laughed, blissful. “I think we are,” I said.
Sam took stock of the moment. “No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head. “This won’t do. It has to be better than this. We can’t get engaged while I’m holding a milk shake.”
He dropped his milk shake in the trash can. I picked my hamburger off the ground and threw it away.
“OK,” Sam said. “We’re gonna do this right.”
He got down on one knee.
“Oh, God,” I said, overwhelmed and stunned. “Sam! What are you doing?”
“I just don’t have a ring yet,” he said. “But I know everything else. Come here.” He reached for my hand and held it in his.
“Emma,” he said, teary. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I always have. You and I . . . we fit like the gears of a machine, like interlocking pieces that join together effortlessly, turning in tandem, perfectly in sync.
“I believe in us, sweetheart. I believe that I am good for you and that I am a better man because of you. And I want to spend the rest of my life by your side. So, Emma Blair, here it is: Will you marry me?”
The first thought that popped into my head was, This is too soon. But then the second thought was, I think I deserve to be happy.
“Yes,” I said quietly. I was surprised just how hard it was to project my voice in that moment, how much my astonishment had muted me. But he heard me. He knew my answer. He stood up and kissed me as if it were the first time.
I felt a welling in my eyes that I knew I stood no chance of holding back. I started bawling.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked me.
I nodded emphatically. “I’m wonderful,” I said. “I’m . . .”
I wasn’t sure what word I was looking for, what adjective I could possibly use to describe the chaotic elation that was running through my heart.
“I love you,” I said, realizing that it was as close as I could ever get.
“I love you, too.”
I was tempted to say, “I’m so grateful for you,” and “I can’t believe you’re real,” but instead I pulled him close to me and held him as tight as I possibly could.
He dried my tears as we hailed a cab. He held my hand as we rode back to our apartment. He brushed the hair out of my face as we walked in.
He helped me unzip my dress. We made love on our bed, parallel to the headboard, as if there wasn’t any time to lie right. We lost ourselves in each other, the last vestige of a wall between us had been knocked down.
Afterward, Sam opened a bottle of champagne. He got his phone and held it in his hand as we called everyone on speakerphone to tell them the good news.
When we were done, we walked into the living room and played “Heart and Soul” together, half-naked, drunk, and swooning.
As I sat next to him on the piano bench, I said, “What if I’d never walked into the music store . . .”
Sam smiled gently and looked at me as he played the keys on the piano ever so softly. And then he said, “But you did.”
I decided that was my answer to questions of fate. I could go around asking myself what if x hadn’t happened, and the answer would always be, “But it did.”
What if Jesse hadn’t gotten on that helicopter?
But he did.
I decided to no longer wonder what would have happened if things had worked out differently. And instead, I would focus on what was in front of me. I would focus on reality instead of asking myself questions about fictions.
I kissed Sam’s temple. “Take me to bed!” I said.
Sam laughed and took his hands off the piano. “OK, but most of the time when women say that, they mean it sexually.”
I laughed. “I mean it sleep-ually,” I said.
And then I let out a yelp as Sam stood up and lifted me into his arms.
“Sleep-ually it is,” he said as he laid me down on my side of our bed and tucked me in. I fell asleep in the crook of his arm just as he said, “I’m going to find you the perfect diamond ring. I promise.”
I was joyful that night.
I felt as if I was moving forward.
I thought that if Jesse could see me from wherever he was, he’d be smiling.
What I was not thinking was, Jesse is alive. He’ll be home in two months. Look what I’ve done.
AFTER
Both
Or, how to put everything you love at risk
I am lying awake in bed next to Sam, staring at the ceiling. Our gray cat, Mozart, is lying on my feet. Homer, his brother, is black and white and never leaves his spot underneath the piano in the living room except to eat.
It’s almost nine a.m. on Wednesday, one of my days off and the day Sam doesn’t have to be at school until eleven. On these late mornings, I have illusions about the two of us going out for breakfast, but Sam always refuses to open his eyes until the very last second. This school year so far we have gone to breakfast on a Wednesday exactly zero times. Right now, Sam is sound asleep beside me.
It’s been seven weeks since I found out that Jesse was alive. Our initial conversation was kept brief, and due to concerns of Jesse’s well-being, contact has been limited. I have been getting most of my updates via e-mail from his mother, Francine.
All I know is that he’s been at risk for refeeding syndrome and complications from hypoglycemia.
The doctors did not clear him to be released until yesterday.
That means that he is coming home tomorrow.
When I told Sam about this last night, he said, “OK. How are you feeling?”
I told him the God’s honest truth. “I have no idea.”
I am very confused right now. In fact, I�
�m so confused that I’m confused about how confused I am.
What Sam and I have . . . it’s love. Pure and simple and true.
But I’m no longer feeling pure, nothing is simple, and I’m no longer sure what’s true.
“What’s on your mind?” Sam asks me.
I look over at him. I didn’t realize he had woken up yet.
“Oh,” I say, turning back to the ceiling. “Nothing. Really. Nothing and everything.”
“Jesse?” he asks.
“I guess, yeah.”
Sam swallows and stays silent and then he turns away from me, getting up and going into the bathroom. I can hear the faucet start and then the water splash as he brushes his teeth. I hear the familiar squeak and rumble of the shower.
My phone rings and I reach onto my bedside table to see who it is. I do not recognize the number. I should put it through to voice mail but I don’t. Lately, I can’t stand to miss a single call.
“Hello?”
“Is this Emma Lerner?” It is the voice of a young woman.
“It’s Emma Blair,” I say. “But yes, speaking.”
“Mrs. . . .” The woman stops herself. “Ms. Blair, my name is Elizabeth Ivan. I’m calling from the Beacon.”
I close my eyes, cursing myself for answering.
“Yes?”
“We are doing a piece on the rescue of Jesse Lerner of Acton.”
“Yes.”
“And we wanted to give you an opportunity to comment.”
I can feel myself shaking my head, as if she could pick up on any of my nonverbal clues. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’d like to publicly comment.”
“Are you sure? The Lerners are contributing.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I hear you. I just don’t think I’m comfortable, but thank you very much for the opportunity.”
“Are you—”
“Thank you, Ms. Ivan. Have a great day.”
I hang up the phone before she can speak again. I double-check twice that my phone is off and I throw myself back down onto my pillows, covering my face with my hands, wondering if I will ever feel only one emotion again in my life.
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