Three is a War

by Pam Godwin

  My pulse hammers, and my mind swims. Trace is doing okay. Maybe even better than okay. Is his good news about the casino? A woman?

  Another woman.

  Something vile and nasty pinches in my stomach, but I don’t let it take hold. I want him to move on. He must for the sake of his happiness. And I need to back away from this one-sided conversation for the sake of my sanity.

  I hold up the six-pack of beer, snagging Cole’s attention and pointing at the back door. At his nod, I head down to the dock. Every step into the dark isolation of the cove takes me closer to my thoughts. Blue-eyed, scowly, suit-clad thoughts.

  I know from experience a broken heart doesn’t mend in four months.

  It doesn’t mend until a cure comes along. Like new love.

  Goddammit, I love him, and because of that, every cell in my body feels lighter at the prospect of his happiness. If I’m the only one hurting, I can live with that. It’s so much easier knowing he’s not in pain.

  At the end of the dock, I remove the phone from my pocket and strip down to my panties. Then I guzzle half of a beer and select a song that fits my mood.

  As Honest by The Chainsmokers strums through the silence, I slip into the warm inky water and swim. Kicking my legs, stroking my arms, I beg the water to wash Trace away.

  But it doesn’t work. He’s with me, wired into my heart and declaring it home.

  If I’m so in love with him, why didn’t I choose him?

  What if I had chosen him? Would I be sitting in St. Louis pining for Cole?

  What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I be a normal woman who falls in love with a man and has a beautiful wedding and lots of babies and spends the rest of her life avoiding carbs and binging on TV shows? The end.

  Never mind. That doesn’t sound like my thing at all.

  After a few laps in the cove, I swim to the dock, lift out of the water, and sit on the edge. The warm air kisses my nude flesh, and across the cove, a fish disturbs the motionless surface of the lake. It’s so quiet here. The song ended a while ago, leaving thoughtful silence.

  Until the sound of bare feet pads across the wooden decking behind me, growing louder, coming closer.

  Cole pauses at my side, shirtless, dark hair tousled from his raking fingers, and frayed jeans unbuttoned and low on his waist. He’s pure sex appeal from head to toe, and he doesn’t even have to try.

  “What are you thinking about?” He crouches beside me.

  I consider asking him about Trace, but do I really want to know about another woman? It’s enough just knowing he’s happy.

  “Why am I so bad at love?” I ask.

  “Why would you think that?” His eyebrows pull together. “If anything, you’re very, very good at it.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I. People fall in and out of love every day. You don’t. You fall in and no matter what is thrown at you—death, lies, fighting, uptight assholes…” His mouth twitches. “You never fall out of love. Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

  “That’s…” My chest shudders with an intake of nourishing air. “That’s such an understanding way to look at it. Thank you.”

  “It’s the truth, baby.” He stands and holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”

  Those three words on kissable lips? Most decisive answer ever.

  “Yes.” I grip his strong fingers and climb to my feet. “Tango?”

  “No.” He lifts my phone from the nearby bench and swipes the screen.

  As he returns it to the bench, XO by Beyoncé swirls softly, gently, around us.

  Our wedding dance.

  His gaze sweeps down my nude body, lingers on my panties, and lifts to my mouth. Then he holds me in his arms and rocks us to the beat, moving us along the edge of the dock. It doesn’t take long to find the quick-quick-slow rhythm. We slide through Lambada Zouk steps with flowing body waves and sensual footwork, smiling, twirling, lost in the intimacy of eye contact. It’s beautiful. It’s everything.

  Almost everything.

  Something’s missing.

  I pull him tighter against me and continue moving through the routine. We’ve practiced the choreography so many times he’s perfected it. He leads with confidence, his technique spot-on. He nails the hip movements, deep dips, fast turns, and upper-body torsions like a pro. But I don’t feel the energy.

  The energy that makes my heart beat.

  Has it always been missing? I spent weeks teaching him this dance. How did I not notice? Maybe because I was distracted and oversexed trying to keep up with the desires of two men.

  Maybe it’s nothing. I’m just tired and in a mood.

  I focus on dancing, on Cole’s arms around me, on the sound of his breaths as he spins me across the dock. His knuckles graze my nipple. His lips brush my neck. His love is palpable, hungry, and undying.

  But no amount of dancing or seduction will make my heart forget the other man it beats for.

  It’s like the universe is trying to tell me something.

  I don’t want to hear it.

  I don’t trust it.

  So I ignore it.

  I ignore it as we dance through three more songs. I ignore it when he lowers me to the decking and makes love to me.

  I ignore it for the next three months.

  Then one night, I find myself sitting alone at the kitchen island, spinning the engagement ring on my right hand. I told myself I’d move it to its proper place when I stopped hurting so much.

  The ache hasn’t ebbed. It’s sprouted roots and grown fangs. Maybe if I move the ring, it’ll go away.

  With a deep breath, I slide it to my left hand.

  Am I officially Cole’s fiancé? I don’t sense any of the warm, fuzzy feels that flooded me the last time we were engaged.

  I feel guilty. Uncomfortable. Deceitful.

  I’m wearing a token of Cole’s love while staring at the front door, silently hoping Trace will walk in.

  I need to talk to Cole. He’s been nothing but understanding. I’ll tell him what’s on my mind, and maybe he’ll tell me I’m over-analyzing. Maybe he’ll tell me to shut the fuck up. Either way, we’ll work through it. Together.

  Assuming he’s in the bedroom watching TV, I head in that direction, up the stairs and down the hall. And stop at the sound of music. It’s not coming from the bedroom. It’s closer.

  The hallway has eight doors. Most of them remain locked. I’ve never tried to enter and invade that part of his past.

  As I creep forward, following the morose melody, I focus on a door I’ve never opened. It’s partially cracked, spilling light into the hall like an invitation. I approach it and slowly push.

  The evocative lyrics of James Bay’s Let It Go pours from the dimly-lit room. The back wall is covered with racks of guns. Little ones. Big ones. Guns that don’t look like guns. My pulse kicks up. This must be the armory.

  Rows of file cabinets, multiple desks with running laptops, tables stacked with goggles, vests, boots, belts, computer and camera equipment, and gear I don’t recognize—all of it looks expensive and high-tech. Another table is dedicated just to cell phones. There must be dozens of burner phones, all plugged into a power strip that runs along the wall.

  And hanging on a hook in the far corner is my wedding gown. It looks so out of place yet lovingly cared for. My chest squeezes.

  I feel like I wandered into Cole’s secret room of longings. I shouldn’t be here. As I turn back, I spot him sitting on the floor by the door. I must’ve walked right past him.

  He drapes his arms over bent knees and rests his head against the wall, staring up at me. His expression is as soul-searching as the music playing in the background.

  “I thought you retired.” I glance back at the charging phones and powered-on laptops. “What is this?”

  “I am retired. I only come in here to check my messages.” His gaze cuts to the table of phones. “I get a lot of job offers.”

  “Job offers?” I move to
ward him and sit against the wall at his side. “What kind of jobs?”

  “The kind that paid for this house.”

  There were side jobs over the years, as well as other means to collect assets.

  I struggle to swallow.

  “The dangerous kind,” he says woodenly, “that send me out of the country for months. Sometimes years.”

  I tense. “Are you considering—?”

  “I would never consider a job away from you.” He lifts his arm, inviting me to tuck in beneath it.

  Curling up against his side, I rest my cheek on his shoulder and watch his eyes roam over the room, his gear, the guns, the pieces and parts of a life he was once so passionate about. He misses it more than he lets on.

  He chose me, and I chose him. Yet we both still yearn for what we no longer have. It’s profound. And depressing.

  Let It Go plays again, saturating the atmosphere with bittersweet dread. The vocals croon about a relationship that will never succeed, no matter how much two people care. It hits too close to home.

  “This song is so sad.” I trace the line of his jaw, trying to smooth out the tension. “Why are you listening to it?”

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  I drop my hand, unsure.

  “You’re trying so hard to make this work.” His voice cracks. “But the heart wants what the heart wants.”

  I jerk back. “No—”

  “He’s not physically here, but he’s here nonetheless, always between us.” His gaze drills into mine. “You’re settling.”

  “Damn right, I’m settling.” I ball my hands on my lap. “I’m settling into a beautiful life with a man who takes my breath away. I chose you, Cole. I’m with you.”

  “Someone told me once that love isn’t a choice,” he says softly.

  I snap my mouth shut, and my legs tremble against the floor.

  “Why do you think I wanted you to wait six months?” He ghosts his fingers over my left hand, caressing the engagement band. “I didn’t want you to choose. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it to rise inside you and become the beat of your heart.” He lowers his voice, as if speaking to himself. “The most decisive actions are the ones with the least consideration.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The day you forced yourself to decide, I knew. When Trace walked out that door, I saw it in your eyes.” Resolve sits on his face, sinking in his cheeks. “You voiced a decision your heart wasn’t ready to make.”

  I want to shake him and tell him he’s wrong. Except everything he said rings true.

  “I’ve watched you fight an inner battle for seven months.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “You’re fighting a war with your heart.”

  Smarting pain jolts through me. “If that’s the case, why did I choose you?”

  “I was your first. The logical choice.” He strokes my hair, his breaths growing choppy. “But the heart isn’t logical. Sometimes, we don’t know what we want until it’s gone.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I climb onto his lap, desperate to hold him. “I love you.

  “I know you do.” He folds his arms around me, pulling my chest against his and tucking my head beneath his chin. “But you love him more.”

  I dig my nails into his shoulders, clutching tightly. Is that what the universe has been trying to tell me? Does it mean anything? I’m engaged to Cole. I love Cole. We have to work through this.

  He goes still against me, like he’s holding his breath. Like he’s bracing for something that’s going to harm us so deeply it’ll change us on a molecular level.

  I lean back and choke on a whimper. His expression is a canvas of suffering, twisted with the fall of ruptured dreams coursing down his cheeks. His tears. His quiet, broken defeat.

  “Don’t make that face.” My throat closes, and a sob escapes as I frantically dry his cheeks with my hands. “Don’t give up on me.”

  “I lost you, baby. I lost you the morning I got into that cab and left you crying on the porch.” He pulls me against him, his embrace constricting and his mouth at my ear. “I’m not giving up. I’m letting you go.”

  I shatter in his arms, sucking jagged, throat-scraping gulps of air. I reach for him, his shoulders, his hands, clinging with desperation. He holds me through painful tears, crying with me, as I come to terms with the heartless truth.

  As hard as we try and as much as we care, we’ve gone too far to go back to the morning we met. We began with a deep connection, a soul tie that made us comfortable, maybe even codependent, so much so neither of us could fathom ending it completely and not being in each other’s life.

  I have no doubt he’s my soul mate, the friend who will always touch me the deepest. But that doesn’t mean he’s the partner I’m supposed to spend my life with. That realization leaves an emptiness inside me that I don’t think will ever be filled by myself or anyone else.

  Lifting my head from his shoulder, I cup his face and see his eyes in blurry shades of finality. His wipes away my tears as I dry his.

  “No more crying tonight.” He touches his mouth to mine, achingly tender and unhurried.

  We sedate each other with a hopeless kiss, a kiss that carries us into the bedroom. No words are spoken as we undress. No tears are shed as he enters my body and moves slowly inside me.

  We’ve done this before. Good-bye sex. But this time is different. This time there isn’t a promise on his breath. There isn’t a vow that he’ll return. Through every long drugging stroke of his cock, he stares into my eyes and wordlessly says good-bye.

  Good-bye forever.

  After, I lie in his arms and memorize every feature on his face. Warm brown eyes, strong jaw, dark shadow of stubble—he’s painfully handsome. Deeply passionate. And no longer mine.

  “I’m grateful I had you to myself for seven months.” He brushes my hair behind my ears.

  “I’m grateful for every breath, every dance, every memory you gave me,” I whisper back.

  He led me to Trace. I won’t remind him of that or ask about his phone call tonight. Whether or not Trace is single has no bearing on this moment. The fragile currents flowing between Cole and me are immediate and short on time. The future can wait.

  We fall silent, joined by eye contact and separated by eventuality. I can already feel him pulling away. His gaze becomes duller, his body more rigid. I want to tell him again that I love him, but he knows. We said everything there is to say.

  So I close my eyes and begin the grieving process.

  The memory of his dimpled smile will be my secret indulgence when I’m sad. His deep breaths will be the soundtrack to the story of us. And his lips on my forehead will be the very last thing I feel before I fall asleep.

  When I wake in the dark, I don’t have to reach behind me to confirm what I already know.

  He’s gone.

  I climb out of bed and plod through Cole’s house, hollow, numb, lost. Down the hall, through the kitchen, I peek in the garage. The sight of the empty space where his motorcycle once sat is the trigger that brings me to the floor, sobbing on my knees.

  He means so much to me. He’s everything that’s supposed to be, and that’s what messes me up the most—letting go of the fantasy, starting over, without him.

  I let myself grieve, let it all rush out in great heaves of sadness. It’s over. Finished. He’s gone, and I feel so utterly drained and empty. I’m falling down, but I refuse to shut down. I’m crying, but the tears are cleansing.

  Our love came unannounced one fateful morning and maybe, a thousand mornings from now, it will fade. But even then, it will never slip away.

  He was right. When I fall in love, I never fall out. And neither does he. I know with every anguished breath, he will always love me.

  I sit in the doorway to the garage until the sun rises and spills light into the kitchen. Then I scrape myself off the floor and shove down the pain long enough to pack.

  As I pass the kitchen island, a large white
envelope catches my attention. Danni is scrawled across the front in Cole’s handwriting. I lift it with trembling hands and empty the contents on the counter.

  A house key.

  Documents.

  Legal forms.

  My eyes blur, and my pulse races.

  It’s the deed to my house in St. Louis.

  He bought my house.

  The date of purchase is a month after I sold it to the young married couple. And the price… My jaw drops. He paid twice the market value.

  More documents show the transfer of ownership to me. I only need to sign the pages and mail them to make it official.

  Holy shit. I set down the papers and clutch my throat. Why did he do this and not tell me? Was it because he knew from the beginning it wouldn’t work out between us? Or was it because he bought the house when he kidnapped me and didn’t want to give me a reason to leave after that?

  I guess I’ll never know. Nevertheless, I’m thankful. He knew how much the house meant to me. The memories in those walls will smother me alive, but at least I have somewhere familiar to go, somewhere to call home, until I find my way again.

  After another perusal through the documents, I stack them with a shaky sigh. There’s no note. No heartbreaking words to cling to. Maybe it’s better this way.

  I return the documents to the envelope and freeze. My hand. No ring. My right hand is ringless, too. He took the engagement band?

  Just like he took the wedding gown.

  I rub the ache in my chest as a sad smile bounces my lips. God, he’s so sentimental. I’m going to miss that.

  I already miss him so much.

  The heartache surges anew, swelling my throat. I swallow it down and hurry back to the bedroom. I’ll be leaving behind more than a ring and gown. The MG Midget doesn’t have a backseat, and the trunk only holds two bags if they’re small. The extravagant wardrobe, the dance costumes and supplies—all of it stays.

  I pass the door to the dance studio and falter. My hands twitch at my sides, and I turn back, staring at the room with longing.