Chapter 17
Now
Stepping out of the bathroom, I know Michael is still waiting for me, so I pull on a tank top with flannel shorts.
During my bath, I thought about what Tammy said.
Michael may have changed.
How I knew what it felt like to want someone’s love.
Had Michael and I switched roles? And now, I was in the driver’s seat? I thought of his comment the night we first made love—well, had sex and took my virginity. “I’ll remind you of that when I see your beautiful face and gorgeous body flaunting around me when I’m an old man and grey, begging to have all your attention because all the young guys now hold your interest.”
Were there younger men who wanted my attention?
Food is on the table.
Michael stands from his chair and holds his hand when he sees me walk out.
“Just took it out of the oven.”
I don’t take his hand and take the chair across.
He walks back and pours the wine.
“How was your bath?”
he asks, pouring wine into his glass.
“It was nice.
Thank you.”
He looks up, his brow quirks.
“You’re welcome.”
“What did you make…in my kitchen?” I add.
He pulls off the cover to a silver platter centering the table.
“Fruited pot roast.”
The aroma wafts from the steam, and I smell a hint of plum.
A savory hunk of roast is covered with carrots and potatoes.
I’m impressed, and I should probably say so.
“This…looks amazing.”
“A recipe I learned from an old friend.”
I’m curious who that might be but don’t ask.
I’ve known nothing about Michael’s life since he left for Seattle.
I had to make it that way—stop the consuming.
Yet, here he is in my dining room.
I take a bite, and it’s to die for.
“Tell your friend it’s delicious.”
He smiles.
“I would, except…they’re dead.”
My mouth stops mid-chewing.
“Oh, I’m sorry,”
I say with a mouthful.
“It’s okay.
I’m glad you like it.
The plums give it a hint of sweetness without overpowering.”
“Yes, I thought I smelled plums.”
We continue to eat in silence.
The light music plays in the background, and Michael smiles at me occasionally.
I smile back only out of politeness.
I will have to make him leave after dinner.
“This was nice of you, Michael. I’ll get the dishes so you can get going.”
“I’ll do the dishes.
You relax.”
How can I relax with him in my house?
I change the subject.
“Have you heard from Monica?”
“Yes.
She called while you were taking a bath.”
He must have noticed the look of panic on my face.
“She called your phone first.
Then mine.”
“Oh.
You didn’t tell Monica you were here, did you?”
“I think she figured it out when I told her you were in the tub.”
I drop my fork.
“Dammit, Michael.
What is she going to think?”
“Jill, she’s an adult.
She can think what she wants.”
I pick up my wine and eye him coldly across the table.
I watch the candles reflect and flicker in the glassiness of his eyes.
I’m trying to read him.
What’s he thinking?
He continues to watch me as I sip more of my wine.
I set it down but hold the glass against my chest.
“Why aren’t you going back to Seattle?”
“Because I’m in love with you, Jill.”
The thumping of my heart vibrates the wine in my glass, still held to my chest.
I can’t look away from Michael’s haunting stare.
How now? After all these years? I ignore his response and say, “Tammy said you went and saw her.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“To apologize…for the cancer and everything else.”
“Well, everything else I can see.
But you didn’t give my friend cancer.”
“No.
I didn’t.
But I know how it can be,”
Michael says sadly, taking his wine and breaking the stare.
I think of his earlier comment—his friend who is dead.
Cancer? “Did you read the card in the bathroom?”
I inhale and answer. “Yes.”
But that’s all I say.
“And?”
I give him an emphatic look of disbelief.
“Michael, I’m all out of chances.
I’ve used them all up on you.”
“I understand.
But I’m not giving up.”
He’s serious.
What the hell is going on? Has he forgotten the last twenty years and what he put me through? He’s not giving up? He couldn’t give an ounce of trying back then.
I must know.
“What have you been doing all these years in Seattle?”
“Trying to forget about you.”
Trying? Is he kidding me?
“Well, try became one of your signature words.
‘I’m going to try, Jill.
I’ll try to be a father.
I’m trying, Jill.’ Like it was such an effort to love us.”
I get up and pour more wine.
He slumps in his chair and watches me as I parade around the dining room, glass in hand.
“How’d you think it was for me? I was a young wife and mother, and you were impossible to live with.
Yet, it was you who had to try.
I wasn’t even grown up yet. How do you think it was for me?”
“Awful.”
“Yes, Michael.
It was awful.
Why would I want that again?”
“It wouldn’t be like that.
I want to love you the way I should have back then.
I want to do everything I took for granted when you asked.
Because you wanted to do them with me, I’d do anything to return that time.”
“You hated that time.
You told me I was crazy.
All my crazy thoughts of us doing romantic things and fighting for a chance to have your attention—how I wanted to live in a storybook.
What was so horrible about that? I wasn’t asking for the moon.
I was asking for your love. And all I ever got back was, I’m crazy.”
“Yes.
The times you harped me to do things with you and Monica drove me up the wall.
I did make fun of your crazy, little storybook life you saw in your head for us.
Yes, I did call you crazy.”
He stands and walks near me.
“And you know what?”
He softens his voice and says, “I’d give anything to have crazy back.”
It’s what I’ve been waiting to hear all these years, yet I’m still so angry.
And giving in to Michael on his first attempt doesn’t sit right with my bitter heart.
I could never wrap my head around Michael and wondered why he had to make our life so confusing.
That one person that, no matter how much he hurts me, I fight more to have his love.
I struggled for years—he doesn’t get one day.
“You’re the crazy one now, Michael.
That ship sailed a long time ago.
You taught me that life isn’t a book with special moments filled with love and happy-ever-after’s.
And it took me a long time to figure it out.
But I did figure it out. Once you were gone, I learned not to define myself as something you didn’t want. But as something you could have had. And once I didn’t have to compete with the entire universe, my world came into view. And I no longer saw you as something I was reaching for. Life is a balance between holding on and letting go. My heart finally let go of you, and I could hold onto myself.”
He nods and presses his lips, and I watch his eyes blink with sadness.
He knows I’m right.
He knows I was crazy for him.
But he turned my crazy love into a mockery of a delusional world I created for myself.
“You’re the delusional one now, Michael. Do you really expect me to let you jump into my arms when you spent every minute of our life together, throwing me out of yours?”
“No.
But as I said, I will not give up on us as long as I have breath.
Yes, I’m crazy; crazy for you.
But I’m not delusional.
For once in my life, everything is so clear. I love you, Jill. As far as the universe—you’re mine.”
I can’t take the look in his eyes.
Guilt burns in my belly, eating its way up like a monster with sharp teeth.
I’m right, dammit. I am.
“I know what you’re thinking.
And you’re right.
I don’t deserve the life you wanted for us.
But I will die trying.
I’m not giving up. I know you’re calloused to the word.”
“Michael, thanks for dinner.
But you need to leave.
Leave this town and return to Seattle or wherever you came from.
It will be a useless cause to stay here.
If you never give up, I will have no choice but to build higher boundaries.”
He steps away.
“Let me do the dishes before I leave.”
“No, Michael—now.”
He steps forward and kisses me on the cheek.
“I’ll leave tonight.
But I won’t be leaving town.
Never, Jill.
Tell Tammy I’ll be thinking of her.”
“I will.
Thank you.”
He walks to the front door and looks at me again before opening it.
“So sorry for everything.
Get some rest. Bye.”
He walks out, and when the door clicks shut, I press my eyes.
I had to do it.
I must protect myself.
I’ve worked too hard.
Walking over to the door, I hear his Toyota leave and turn the lock.
Shit! I forgot to ask for the key.
. . . . .
Despite everything last night, I slept like a baby.
I think it was the therapeutic, emotional baggage I dumped on Michael—closure.
There’s a pep in my step this morning as I walk into the hospital with new resolve.
Tammy is going to be okay.
Michael will get the drift and leave. And Monica called early this morning. She and Jordan are back from Paris, and I can breathe. Tonight, they will be celebrating dinner in their new home. She’d ask me to come by and join them. I couldn’t be happier.
Walking to my station, I find a vase full of pink and white carnations sitting on the desk.
Curious, I read the name Jill.
Of course, Michael.
I won’t keep them, but it will brighten a patient’s room.
I might as well read the card before throwing it away.
Pulling out the card, I find I was wrong.
The flowers weren’t from Michael.
They are from Tammy and Ryan.
Jill,
We love you,
Tammy & Ryan
Feeling stupid and angry with myself, thinking they were from Michael, I place the card back into the slot and text Tammy.
Love you too.
How are you feeling today?
Tammy: Not bad.
I’m a little tired.
How’s Michael?
Me: You are in trouble.
I send the text and feel the smile pressing at the corners of my lips.
Tammy’s only response is the ‘what’ emoji.
Before sliding my phone back into my scrubs pocket, I quickly text Monica.
Me: What should I bring tonight?
Monica: Your seven-layer salad.
Jordan’s making spaghetti.
Me: Thumb-up emoji.
I finish with three Ambulatory patients, clock out two hours early due to low census, and head to my car.
One rose lies across my windshield, and a note awaits me under the wiper.
Jill,
How was your day? Tell me everything about yourself that I have missed.
I really want to know.
I’m crazy in love with you.
I will never give up on my fairytale life with you.
Love, Michael