EPILOGUE I
North
The highway ends, or at least it feels like it does.
I pull off at a rest stop near the Maine border.
It is a desolate place. A concrete island floating in a sea of darkness.
There are two long-haul trucks parked at the far end, their engines idling with a low, rhythmic rumble that vibrates in the ground.
The main building is low and squat, bathed in the sickly, flickering hum of fluorescent lights. A Dunkin’ sign is dark. Closed.
I park the car under a light post that is buzzing intermittently.
I turn the key.
The engine dies.
The silence that rushes in is instantaneous and heavy. It presses against the windows. It fills the cabin.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound of the engine cooling. The metal contracting in the cold. It sounds like a countdown to a bomb that has already gone off.
I sit there. My hands are still gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. My knuckles are white. My shoulders are locked up near my ears.
I take a breath.
And then I break.
It isn't a decision. It isn't a thought. It is a physical expulsion.
A sob rips out of my throat, violent and ugly. It sounds like something tearing.
I double over. My forehead hits the steering wheel. The horn gives a short, muffled honk, but I don't care.
I cry.
I cry for the blue kitchen. I cry for the shelves he built. I cry for the way he used to look at me in the beginning, before the world got heavy.
I cry for the baby. For the strawberry. For the strong boy who never got a name. I cry for the nursery with the yellow paint samples and the dust motes dancing in the empty air.
I cry for the woman I was five years ago—the nurse who thought she could fix anything if she just worked hard enough. I cry for the woman I became—the one who checked phones and weighed herself and made herself small so she wouldn't be a burden.
I cry for the garden we never planted. The tomatoes. The swing set. The dirt that remained dirt.
I cry for Declan.
I cry for the fact that I still love him, even though he broke me. I cry because I know that right now, he is waking up. He is reaching for me. He is finding the cold sheets. He is realizing that the safety net is gone.
And I cry because I know that he will be sad, but he will also be relieved.
Because the anchor is gone. The ship is finally free.
The sobs rack my body. My ribs ache. My throat burns. I am shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.
This is the grief I held back in the nursery. This is the grief I held back in the Quiet Room. This is the accumulated weight of five years of being second best, finally pouring out of me in a parking lot in Maine.
I cry until there is nothing left. Until my chest is empty. Until my eyes are swollen shut and my breath comes in ragged, hitching gasps.
I sit up.
I wipe my face with the sleeve of my coat. The fabric is rough against my skin.
The car windows have fogged up from my breath. The world outside is a blur of grey and yellow light.
I reach out. I wipe a circle on the windshield with my hand.
I look out.
The pines are black jagged shapes against the sky. Beyond them, I can sense the ocean. I can't see it, but I can feel it. The air has that heavy, salt-damp weight. The darkness feels vast.
I am alone.
Truly, completely alone.
I reach into my pocket. I pull out my phone.
I haven't looked at it since I left the city.
I press the side button. The screen lights up, blindingly bright in the dark car.
17 Missed Calls.
Declan (17)
22 New Messages.
Declan
My heart does a slow, painful thud against my ribs.
I open the messages.
3:02 AM: Nora? Where are you?
3:04 AM: The bed is empty. Are you downstairs?
3:08 AM: I found the key.
3:09 AM: Nora, please. Pick up.
3:12 AM: I’m looking at the photo. The one from the harbor.
3:15 AM: Oh God. Nora.
3:20 AM: Where are you going? I’ll come get you. Tell me where you are.
3:22 AM: I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.
3:25 AM: Please come home. We can fix this.
3:30 AM: I love you. I love you so much. Don’t do this.
3:35 AM: I’m scared, Nor. Please.
I read them all.
I can hear his voice in every line. I can hear the panic. The desperation.
He is scared. Of course he is scared. He has never been alone. He went from his mother's house to the firehouse to our house. He has always had a net.
I stare at the blinking cursor in the text box.
My thumbs hover over the glass.
I type: You know what you did.
I stare at the words. They look petty. They look like an argument. I don't want an argument.
I delete them.
I type: Don't look for me.
It sounds dramatic. Like a movie.
I delete them.
I type: I'm sorry.
No. I am not sorry. I am done being sorry.
I look at the messages again. We can fix this.
No, we can't. You can't fix a foundation that was built on a lie. You can't fix a man who wants to float by tying him down harder.
I put the phone down on the passenger seat.
It buzzes again. Incoming Call: Declan.
The screen lights up with his face. A photo I took of him grilling burgers last summer. He looks happy. He looks solid.
I watch it ring.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I don't pick it up.
I pick up the phone. I press the power button and the volume up button. I hold them down.
Slide to power off.
I slide my finger across the screen.
The little wheel spins. Then, blackness.
The phone is dead. A brick of glass and metal.
I open the glove compartment. I put the phone inside. I close the latch. Click.
It feels like closing a coffin.
I lean back in the seat.
The silence returns. But it's different now. It isn't the heavy silence of the rowhouse. It isn't the suffocating silence of the secrets.
It is a clean silence.
I close my eyes. I drift.
* * *
I wake up to light.
It is pink. A soft, bruised rose color bleeding through the pine trees. Dawn.
My neck is stiff. My mouth tastes like metal and old tears.
I sit up. I look around.
The rest stop looks different in the daylight. It isn't a stage set for a tragedy anymore. It's just a rest stop.
There is a seagull pecking at a discarded wrapper near the trash can. The Dunkin' sign is still dark, but the lights inside the building are on.
I need coffee.
I open the car door. The air is freezing. It hits me like a slap—sharp, clean, smelling of pine needles and low tide. I take a deep breath. It hurts my lungs, but in a good way. It wakes me up.
I walk toward the building. My legs feel shaky, but I am moving.
Inside, the air is warm and smells of industrial cleaner. A janitor is mopping the floor in slow, rhythmic strokes. He glances at me, nods, and goes back to his work.
I walk to the vending machines.
I put in two dollars. I press the button for "Black Coffee."
The machine whirs and clunks. A paper cup drops down. Brown liquid streams into it.
I take the cup. It burns my fingers.
I walk back outside.
I stand by my car and drink the coffee. It is terrible. Bitter, watery, tasting of burnt plastic.
It is the best thing I have ever tasted.
I watch the sun come up over the trees. It burns through the mist, turning the sky a pale, hard blue.
A truck driver walks past me. He is wearing a flannel shirt and a vest. He has a beard and looks tired. He is carrying a thermos.
He looks at me. He sees a woman in wrinkled clothes, with red eyes and messy hair, standing in a rest stop parking lot at dawn holding a vending machine cup.
He doesn't look away. He doesn't judge.
He just nods. A small, acknowledging dip of the chin. You made it through the night.
I nod back.
Two strangers in the in-between.
He climbs into his rig. The engine roars to life. He pulls out onto the highway, merging into the flow of traffic that is starting to build.
I finish the coffee. I crush the cup in my hand. I toss it into the trash can.
I get back in the car.
I turn the key. The engine starts.
I look at the glove compartment. The phone is in there. Declan is in there. The guilt is in there.
I leave it closed.
I put the car in drive.
I pull out of the parking lot. I merge onto the ramp.
To the south lies Boston. The rowhouse. The job. The man who loved me enough to marry me but not enough to stay.
To the north lies... I don't know.
Maine. Canada. The end of the road.
I check the rearview mirror. The rest stop is receding. The pine trees are closing in behind me.
I look forward.
The road stretches endless ahead. A ribbon of grey cutting through the world. Empty. Waiting.
It looks like the space where our future should have been.
But it isn't a void. It's just a road. And I am the one driving.
I don't know where I am going. I don't have a map. I don't have a destination.
But I know one thing.
I am not going back.
I am not going back to the blue kitchen. I am not going back to the empty nursery. I am not going back to the waiting.
I am not going back to second place.
Not ever again.
I press my foot down on the gas. The car accelerates.
I drive north, into the light.