Chapter Fifty-Two
Jenna
My book is published the week before my forty-first birthday and despite the pride and the long-anticipated milestone, I feel bereft. And I don’t really know why.
I’m proud of my book. I love how much of my heart and soul I poured into it.
I cherish how writing it helped me heal from my divorce.
I treasure how every day I worked on it, something I wrote or read would make me think about Marty.
I love how, when I hold it in my hand, my skin tingles because I truly believe it will help others look at love differently – more forgivingly, more generously, more hopefully.
Because that’s exactly how I look at love now.
So why am I not overjoyed? Why am I not celebratory? Why do I wake up on the book’s launch day wanting to sob?
My rational brain is quick to explain; because I am drained after working and focusing so hard on a project that is now completed.
Because I had to be my most vulnerable self for this book, and now it’s going to land in the hands of others, and I have no control over how it will be received.
Because my book was my focus, my saviour, my lighthouse as I navigated life after Marty. And now it’s done. Gone.
My irrational brain is just as eager to have some input. Because I miss Marty. Because I want to be with Marty. Because I would love nothing more than to celebrate this moment with him. Because I still love Marty.
I take breaks from crying only to do more nervous poos than I have all year. I spend practically all day in the bathroom holding my cramping stomach while my brother slides Imodium under the bathroom door and talks to me so I’m not alone.
Although I appreciate his presence, I eventually send him out with some friends because I’d rather be alone. Even though I’m emotionally wrecked and can almost feel my insides exit my body, I am okay. I am not lonely.
I miss Marty, yes, but I am not lonely without him.
The next day I don’t just feel better, I feel a sharp lucidity that explains why I don’t often feel lonely these days.
Because the pain I felt yesterday was love.
And it wasn’t just my love for Marty, it was the love I now have for myself.
It was the same love I nurtured while healing from the divorce, writing my book, and yes, even missing and wanting Marty from afar, because giving myself permission to feel the ache of my love for him was, is, self-love.
I love who I am. I love what I do. And I love who I love.
With this reckoning comes more clarity that I relax into.
I know I won't be able to move on until I've gone to see him next year.
This hope, as delicate and transparent as it feels, is what gets me out of bed on the days I need to do book launch events or radio interviews.
Each time I do the latter, I wonder if it will get aired in Ireland somehow.
I also ponder whether he ever Googles my name and if he knows about my book.
This curiosity mixes with my hope, making it a more solid, opaque thing I can use as energy.
It gently propels me forward as I fill my days with work, lifting weights and walking Rocky, and my evenings with house-decorating, good books and dinners with friends who have no idea that I am just over a year away from the biggest, riskiest adventure of my life.
It's what makes me book next year's holiday at Iliovasílema Villas eighteen months in advance, and what makes me ask my brother to ensure I get assigned the villa I had the year I met Marty.
Jake does what he can to make sure this happens next summer, but he will not be there himself.
He spends the winter with me talking about needing a change and feeling restless.
He's already committed to one last season at the resort, but he sets off in April with a resignation letter in his luggage and the promise that I will be there just over a month later.
Jake wants me there as I have been every year since he started, and I can’t deny that I want to go to the place where I will possibly return to Marty in twelve months’ time.
I want to send him one last postcard, even though I haven't received any from him in over a year.
I want to remind him of my promises to him.
It was not goodbye forever, not from me.
And everything will be okay, because even though I want it to be okay with Marty, I also know it will be okay without him.
I needed this time apart to know that that truth is what will make it so much better with him.
Dear Marty, Happy 28th Birthday! I think I saw the green light in a sunset tonight, the 1458th sunset since our last one together. I promise you. Everything will be okay. Jenna x
I kiss his name twenty-eight times.