MEGAN

THURSDAY, MARCH 7, 2013
AFTERNOON
The room is dark, the air close, sweet with the smellof us. We’re at the Swan again, in the room underthe eaves. It’s different, though, because he’s stillhere, watching me.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks me.
“A house on the beach on the Costa de la Luz,” Itell him.
He smiles. “What will we do?”
I laugh. “You mean apart from this?”
His fingers are tracing slowly over my belly. “Apartfrom this.”
“We’ll open a café, show art, learn to surf.”
He kisses me on the tip of my hip bone. “Whatabout Thailand?” he says.
I wrinkle my nose. “Too many gap-year kids. Sicily,”
I say. “The Egadi islands. We’ll open a beach bar, gofishing?.?.?.”
He laughs again and then moves his body up overmine and kisses me. “Irresistible,” he mumbles.
“You’re irresistible.”
I want to laugh, I want to say it out loud: See? Iwin! I told you it wasn’t the last time, it’s neverthe last time. I bite my lip and close my eyes. I wasright, I knew I was, but it won’t do me any good tosay it. I enjoy my victory silently; I take pleasure init almost as much as in his touch.
Afterwards, he talks to me in a way he hasn’t donebefore. Usually I’m the one doing all the talking, butthis time he opens up. He talks about feeling empty,about the family he left behind, about the womanbefore me and the one before that, the one whowrecked his head and left him hollow. I don’t believein soul mates, but there’s an understanding betweenus that I just haven’t felt before, or at least, not fora long time. It comes from shared experience, fromknowing how it feels to be broken.
Hollowness: that I understand. I’m starting to believethat there isn’t anything you can do to fix it. That’swhat I’ve taken from the therapy sessions: the holesin your life are permanent. You have to grow aroundthem, like tree roots around concrete; you mouldyourself through the gaps. All these things I know,but I don’t say them out loud, not now.
“When will we go?” I ask him, but he doesn’tanswer me, and I fall asleep, and he’s gone when Iwake up.
FRIDAY, MARCH 8, 2013
MORNING
Scott brings me coffee on the terrace.
“You slept last night,” he says, bending down to kissmy head. He’s standing behind me, hands on myshoulders, warm and solid. I lean my head backagainst his body, close my eyes and listen to thetrain rumbling along the track until it stops just infront of the house. When we first moved here, Scottused to wave at the passengers, which always mademe laugh. His grip tightens a little on my shoulders;he leans forward and kisses my neck.
“You slept,” he says again. “You must be feelingbetter.”
“I am,” I say.
“Do you think it’s worked, then?” he asks. “Thetherapy?”
“Do I think I’m fixed, do you mean?”
“Not fixed,” he says, and I can hear the hurt in hisvoice. “I didn’t mean?.?.?.”
“I know.” I lift my hand to his and squeeze. “I wasonly joking. I think it’s a process. It’s not simple, youknow? I don’t know if there will be a time when Ican say that it’s worked. That I’m better.”
There’s a silence, and he grips just a little harder.
“So you want to keep going?” he asks, and I tell himI do.
There was a time when I thought he could beeverything, he could be enough. I thought that foryears. I loved him completely. I still do. But I don’twant this any longer. The only time I feel like me ison those secret, febrile afternoons like yesterday,when I come alive in all that heat and half-light.
Who’s to say that once I run, I’ll find that isn’tenough? Who’s to say I won’t end up feeling exactlythe way I do right now—not safe, but stifled? MaybeI’ll want to run again, and again, and eventually I’llend up back by those old tracks, because there’snowhere left to go. Maybe. Maybe not. You have totake the risk, don’t you?
I go downstairs to say good-bye as he’s heading offto work. He slips his arms around my waist andkisses the top of my head.
“Love you, Megs,” he murmurs, and I feel horriblethen, like the worst person in the world. I can’t waitfor him to shut the door because I know I’m goingto cry.