“I didn’t know you were applying to new schools?”
I snatched the paper from him and tucked it behind my sheet music. “I’m not applying. It’s just that my professor said if we participated in the local audition he’d count it as our final exam. He wants to make sure it’s well attended so that they come back here next year. One four-minute song in front of a handful of admissions people and my professor, or a long exam on musical theory plus essay questions, plus a sight reading test—of course I’ll choose the audition.”
He took the pages from my hands and set them behind him, then pulled me closer until I was lying beside him. “What if you get in?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, like that will happen. Me moving to New York City, finding a place to live, and covering the thirty-five thousand a year tuition. I know you’ve seen that offerings basket go around every Sunday but there’s a lot of coins in there and that’s the money that pays my dad’s salary.”
Jack leaned over me, brushing the hair off my face. “So it’s not because you’re afraid to leave home and live in a big city?”
“That’s what people will think, right?” I released a frustrated breath. “My parents think that.”
“I don’t,” he said so earnestly my reply got caught in the back of my throat. “You’re quiet, but not timid. There’s a difference. You’ve figured out that you learn a lot more from watching people than talking. And you’re so talented, Audrey. You’re captivating when you sing.”
I smiled and took his face in my hands. “I’m starting to think that you want me to leave.”
“I’m leaving.”
My mouth fell open, my eyes widening in shock. Already a knot had formed in the pit of my stomach. Dread. I’d dreaded this moment for months.
“You knew that already. You’ve always known that.” Dark intensity took over his features. “If you got in, and you had everything you needed to go away, would you do it? Is it something you’ve dreamed about?”
“My parents—” I started to say, hardly able to keep up with his shift in moods.
“Not what your parents want you to do,” he corrected. “Would you go, assuming they approved?”
“Yes,” I breathed the word out like a secret I’d kept inside me for so long. Yes, I wanted more. I wanted to be surrounded by opportunities to sing, to act, to fall into the world of a character. “Yes, I would go, Jack.”
Of course this was all hypothetical.
The tension in his body dissolved and that half smile I loved so much appeared on his face again. “That’s my girl.”
He kissed me, long and slow, his hands behind my neck, combing through my hair. And then just as he pulled away, he whispered the words softly against my mouth, “Marry me.”
I thought he was playing a game, like the hypothetical move to NYC and Broadway school acceptance. I laughed and rubbed the tips of his ears, a habit I’d developed recently. “Sure, okay.”
Jack pulled himself upright, reached under the blanket, and held a tiny black box out in front of me. I stared at it, stunned, my heart pounding as I sat up quickly.
“It’s my grandmother’s ring.” His hands shook when he opened the box. “I already asked your father’s permission but that doesn’t mean you have to say yes, Audrey. It just means that I needed to know that he approved.”
My mouth fell open, but nothing came out.
Jack looped the beautiful ring around his pinky and set the box aside, bringing his hands to my face, “I love you. You brought me back to life. You and your family. And I want you to be my wife even if it’s only for a week or a day or an hour. There’s nothing I want more.”
There was nothing I wanted more.
I tugged the ring from his pinky, my own hands now shaking, and held it out for him to place on my finger. “If I say yes, you’ll still have to leave?”
He nodded, his face somber.
I swallowed hard and tears fell down my cheeks. “Yes.”
“Yes?” He brushed the tears from face. “Really?”
“Really.” I smiled and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I love you, too, Jack.”
He slid the ring down my finger and pulled me close until I was straddling his lap. And then we were kissing. This time without nearly as much caution.
“Promise me,” he whispered against my neck, “You’ll go after what you want, no matter what? You won’t let yourself get stuck waiting for me, forgetting your own dreams?”
That was the moment I knew his departure was looming in the very near future. How had five months already passed? How could I love him so hard, so quick?
“AM I HURTING YOU?”
I focus on Jack and his body on top of mine. He’s barely pushed himself inside me and already he’s stopped to check on me. “I’m fine, it’s okay.”
He lifts one hand to brush tears from the side of my face. “If you’re fine, then why are you crying?”
There’s a strain in his voice that makes me smile. He’s using every bit of willpower he has to stop. “It’s very easy to make me cry. You should know that by now.”
“Keeping going?” he asks again.
“Yes.”
Jack’s mouth collides with mine, kissing me so hard I melt right into him. His arms are tight around me as he pushes the rest of the way inside me, his kiss swallowing any involuntary cry I would have made, and then the pain is over and we’re connected in a way I never thought possible. Then it becomes desperate and swift, both of us clinging to each other as we move locked together like two pieces of a puzzle. No longer two bodies but one.
A few minutes later, we’re both breathing hard, still wrapped in each other’s arms, but all the tension is gone. All that’s left is love. Love way too big for this tiny apartment. Love that I can only hope will stretch whatever distance comes between us.
Jack rolls onto his back, pulling me against his chest. We lay there drunk in the moment and half asleep for nearly an hour until Jack’s voice startles me from my dozing-off session.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the dark.
I turn my cheek and kiss his bare shoulder. “For what?”
“For saving me, Audrey.”
My muscles freeze up. This is the third time he’s said those words to me—the first time was on my nineteenth birthday, a couple months after we’d been dating, the second was when he proposed. I pull myself up on my elbow and study his face from above. “What do you mean by that?”
The way he draws air quickly into his lungs—nostrils sinking in from the force—then swallows hard, I know he’s finally going to explain. Because he might not be able to after tonight.
Stop. Don’t think about that.
“The first couple weeks that I lived here,” Jack says, “I had so much anger, so much guilt inside me that I wanted to—no, I needed to—hurt myself. At first it was physical exertion, denying proper hydration and rest. I rationalized it as training for the worst. But my head wasn’t in the right place. And it wasn’t enough. I hated that I could fight death better than . . . better than—”
“Better than who, Jack?” I brush the hair from his forehead gently moving my fingers through it, hoping he won’t notice that my hands are shaking. I’m so afraid of hearing the rest.
“My parents,” he says, emotion filling his voice. “And my best friend. I lost them seven months ago and instead of being allowed retaliation, I was forced to come here and hide out. But why should I be allowed to survive, you know?”
I nod, but I don’t know. Of course he should be allowed to live.
“After torturing myself for weeks, I finally hit an all-time low.” His gaze diverts from mine. He’s ashamed. “It was just a matter of deciding how to do it—a chair and rope, a gun, physical torture and starvation. That’s how my parents and my friend died, but starvation is very hard to inflict upon yourself. Survival instincts kick in and take over.”
I can’t believe he’s saying these things. I saw the sadness right away, bu
t this . . . I never saw this. It isn’t the Jack I know. Still, I touch my lips to his forehead briefly, urging him to continue.
“I sat on the floor in this apartment, right in front of my record player, my pistol aimed at my head.” His voice is low and even, but his eyes are glossy with unshed tears. “And then you knocked on my door.”
I did? When?
He pauses, allowing me a moment to absorb. “I’d been drinking shots of whiskey for hours and when I opened the door, the sun was beaming behind you and you had a white dress on. You were glowing right in front of me. For a second, I thought I’d already pulled the trigger and I was in heaven.” He tucks my hair behind my ears and lets his fingers linger on my cheeks. “Your car wouldn’t start, do you remember? You had class and needed a jump start.”
“I remember,” I whisper, scared my wavering voice might stop him.
“The whole act of getting your car working again, it’s so fuzzy, I can barely recall the details.” He takes my face in his hands more firmly, forcing me to look in his eyes. “But I felt this undeniable rush of life spilling from you and bleeding onto me. By the time I went back to my apartment, seeing my gun lying next to the record player . . . it made me sick to my stomach.” He laughs darkly. “Well, the whiskey contributed, too. But I knew, after seeing you, that I had a choice. I could either let myself sink back to that low point, or be surrounded by you, by your family and hope that you could bring me back to life.”
I’m crying now even though I tried so hard to be cool about his confession. I can’t help it. Piecing together all of our early conversations, it makes so much more sense now. Everything makes sense.
Jack wipes the tears from my face for the tenth time tonight. “I told your father this, when I asked for his permission to marry you.”
“You did?” I swipe the back of my hands across my eyes, trying to dry them. “What did he say?”
“He said that many people believe a good man wouldn’t take someone’s heart knowing they were leaving, but the opportunity to be changed, to let your future actions be guided by love instead of anger and sadness, was not something anyone should pass up.”
So my parents, or at least my father, know that Jack is leaving. What else do they know? Did he tell them where he’s going?
He smoothes the wrinkles in my forehead with his thumb. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now, but I don’t want to take your heart with me, Audrey. I want you to give it to whomever you want or keep it for yourself.”
I smile even though more tears tumble out. “That isn’t a decision you get to make, Jack Sanders. I’m not even sure it’s a decision I get to make.”
I think our heart latches on to whomever it chooses and there’s nothing we can do about it. If it comes back on its own, maybe, but if not . . .
He cracks a smile and pulls our mouths together. “I love you so much.”
When I come up for air a few minutes later, I blurt out a question without thinking, something I’ve held on to for so long, “These people you work for? Are they . . . are they good?”
Are they good? What does that even mean? Do they help feed the homeless and donate to charity? Of course Jack is good. I’ve never doubted that. Is it the military? I think subconsciously, I’ve always assumed it was the military he worked for.
Jacks surprises me by laughing—a beautiful booming laugh. “Is that what you worry about all the time? If I’m a secret mobster?”
Yes, I’ve consider the mobster thing. But again, Jack is good, so that theory was quickly thrown out after we became close.
“No mobsters. The people I work for are very good, trust me.” He touches my cheek and guides it back to his chest, then wraps me in his arms again. “I would never lie to you about something like that, Audrey. I promise.”
WHEN THE MORNING comes, I know this is my moment to be brave. If ever there was a time to hold in my real emotions, it’s right now. My best defense is to feign sleep, listening to the sounds of Jack moving around, dressing, possibly packing a bag. I work so hard to keep my breathing even and slow as he leans in to kiss my cheek and whispers, “I love you.”
Another voice—an unfamiliar male voice—joins Jack’s on the landing outside. I wait until I hear the sound of a car backing out over the gravel road before I let myself fall apart. Before I let myself think, He’s gone. I curl into a ball, pain stabbing every inch of body, as heavy sobs are pressed into his pillow, his scent filling my head with every breath.
Finally, after a long while, I roll over ready to face the world with my head up, my eyes dry, just like I promised him I would do.
A small wooden box rests in Jack’s empty spot. I open the lid and remove the white envelope with Mrs. Sanders written on the front in Jack’s careful cursive.
Audrey,
Everything that’s mine is now yours, too. There’s nothing I want more in the world than to come home to you, but as you know, I can’t promise anything except that you will be on my mind. Always. Forever.
Love,
Jack
I glance at the items in the box—bank books, slips of paper with account numbers, a gold cross necklace with a diamond embedded in the tip, keys to his truck, which makes me crane my neck to see out the window, and sure enough, the truck is still there. I remove the bank statement pressed to the bottom.
A bank with a Long Island address, Mr. Jack Sanders and Mrs. Audrey Sanders typed in the top left corner.
And a balance showing several zeros with a number that is definitely not a zero in front.
I nearly fall off the bed. I don’t even want to know how Jack got ahold of this much money. Even holding the statement scares me to death, and I quickly release it and allow it to fall onto the mattress. But no . . . he said the people he works for are good. He promised. And I believed him. I still believe him. This is not tainted money. Jack wouldn’t do that to me. I have to hold on to that trust. If not, what else do I have?
Then I remember his words from the day he proposed: If you got in, and you had everything you needed to go away, would you do it?
He wants me to go to that musical theater school. Wait . . . is that why he married me? So he could leave things to me?
I shake all the doubt from my head. If he wanted to leave me money, he could have found a way to do that without bonding us in marriage, without involving my mother’s dress and my father’s church. Or his grandmother’s ring.
It’s time for me to shuck all these bad feelings and be grateful for everything. For Jack.
I snatch his robe from the bathroom door and walk outside, standing on the landing, letting the crisp fall morning sun hit me. From across the fields, I can see my mother, plucking vegetables from the garden.
I head back inside, choose one of Jack’s favorite records—Frank Sinatra. Then I lie on the carpet, my arms spread wide, the sun from the window hitting my face. I squeeze my eyes shut and let life from Jack’s absent body bleed back into me. I will always have this piece of us.
Love is forever.
Two years later
THE COLD DECEMBER wind hits me the second I step outside. I button the top buttons of my long coat and tighten my scarf. There is nothing quite like New York City during the holidays, especially after dark. The long cold walk from the theater to my Manhattan apartment is something I’m willing to deal with when it comes with such beautiful scenery.
But tonight, walking past all the store windows and holiday shoppers leaves me wishing I’d made plans to go home for Christmas, to see my parents. My schedule doesn’t allow for more than a three-day break until March and it hadn’t seemed worth the travel efforts for only one full day at home. Now I’m regretting that. I should know better. I should know that one day is better than none. Two years later and I still don’t regret marrying him—not for a single second—if only to have that one night together. But that doesn’t mean I can move on. That doesn’t mean I haven’t spent nights crying and feeling a lonely emptiness that can only com
e from losing your soul mate.
Now, all I can do is hope that he accomplished what he’d set out to do. That he didn’t die in vain. That he became the hero to others that he’d always been to me.
I stop and stare into the window of a shop. Resting up on a platform is a record player identical to Jack’s. My heart speeds up, sadness sweeping over me. I’d left his record player unmoved in his old apartment, and a year ago, my father’s church had suffered a terrible fire. We were able to rebuild, but there’s nothing left of his records or the player. My heart had broken into a million pieces all over again when my mother had told me the news.
I tug the glove from my left hand and place it against the window of the closed shop. I shut my eyes and draw in a deep breath, remembering what I felt lying on the floor with Jack so many times, listening to Frank Sinatra. A wave of heat envelopes me from behind and I have to choke back tears—my imagination is wild sometimes.
“That’s a beautiful ring.”
My entire body stiffens, but my eyes remain closed—you’re imagining him again, Audrey. No more champagne for you at the cast parties.
And then I feel a warm hand land on top of mine. I jolt back to reality and spin around quickly, hoping I’m not alone on this block. It is New York City and I do have to be careful on these walks home late at night. Just as I prepare to dive under the intruder’s arm, my eyes are met with a very familiar face.
I hold my breath, my mouth falling open. I take a couple steps backward until I’m leaning against the window. I can’t breathe. I can’t think or move.
His hair looks longer, his face tanned. I watch his hand lift and then grasp the fingers of my left hand. “I think it’s a good sign that you’re still wearing this,” he says so quietly I’m certain I’ve imagined him speaking, too.
“How . . . why . . . when . . . ?” I sputter. “Jack?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Tears are shining in his eyes, but he’s hesitant to move closer. “But you should be sure, right? Ask me something only your Jack would know.”
My Jack.
Fifty First Times Page 5