33. Thirty-Three
Mira arrives at the little house Friday afternoon to take Sara home. I would’ve done it myself, but Mira said it had to be official.
As we load Mira’s SUV, the neighbors skittishly emerge from their dwellings bearing gifts. Tom and Marcy bring their delicious homemade barbecue sauce. Vernon gives Sara a pink toolkit to properly care for her bike while Rose hands over a basket of yarn in every conceivable shade of purple.
“What about Jack?” Vernon peers across the yard.
“Oh, he already gave me his gift.” She holds up her phone. “A year’s subscription to Chiller. He gets me.”
I smile at their generosity and feel slightly bad that Jack’s staying away because of me.
“Your gift is in your bedroom,” Sara whispers when I hug her goodbye. “Don’t be mad. I can’t help what inspires me.”
Once they drive off, the neighbors offer a few soft words before leaving me with Mom. My tears surface when Sara’s out of sight. Mom wraps me up and whispers assurances—things I know are true. I’m not losing her.
But I’m already heartbroken, and perhaps being a secondary wound makes this cut feel deeper.
Alone in my bedroom, I find Sara’s gift. I’m not mad. But it’s a gut-kick when I’m already down, however beautiful it is.
It’s an abstract painting of Jack and me in the blue room at the museum. The soft sheets of the mobile appear to be moving, the way she’s painted them. We are black silhouettes, arguing based on his hand reaching toward me and mine set in a stopping gesture.
But between our silhouettes, ghost images of us—me in my boho dress and him in his dark pants and lighter polo—float toward each other. Hands mingled, chests pressed, foreheads touching. Small patches of color from my dress speckle him as if I’m flowing into him, and his grays and darks merge into me, too.
Her painting inspires an unexpected longing to be the ghost couple, merged together and sharing pieces of ourselves. But fear mixes into it, too. The ghost couple could be an illusion.
I haven’t seen Jack since the night he came to my door, and he’s been quiet. No loud music. No late-night parties. No texts or awkward encounters around the mailbox.
But house hunters have streamed through his place since the sign went up. Jane reports three offers so far and predicts a bidding war once our Monday deadline expires.
She’s shown the little house once, but to clients who called it too small before heading next door. So, it sits unloved and in limbo, just like the house in the story.
In the war over our houses, Jack will win. I feel pressured to do something—he can’t lose his beloved house and neighborhood because of me. But I’m conflicted, too—he can’t trap me here, either.
Mom does her best to distract me over the weekend. We go shopping and splurge on out-to-eat meals. We spend time at Mira’s, playing with the kids. Finally, on Sunday, she makes dinner for us at the little house.
And she invites a guest.
When I first see Reggie Tucker, I think boy toy, but immediately compose a more accurate label—lovable nerd meets tired traveler. He reminds me of Idris Elba with his salt-and-pepper beard, probing eyes, and easy smile. Like Mom, he’s toned and in his fifties, but he’s a head taller and hunches slightly, as if to be closer to her. He’s a doctor from Boston specializing in childhood cancers, and is endearingly nervous.
He shakes my hand without glancing at my scars—Mom’s prepped him, and he’s invested enough to adhere to her rules. He calls me and my home lovely and admires my eclectic mix of art on the walls, gifts from students over the years, claiming he has a similar gallery of his patients’ drawings. He graciously listens to me gush about Sara and her art.
Reggie helps Mom serve steaming lasagna, garlic bread, a Caesar salad, and wine, and I love watching them move together. It’s a symbiotic dance, with them shifting positions to serve or pour while finding gentle ways to touch each other. Hand to waist. Hand over hand. Hand to arm. They overflow with smiles whenever they make eye contact and carry lingering smirks when not.
I love seeing her like this.
Mira, Jane, and the kids arrive, squeezing around the kitchen banquet.
Mom and Reggie have a moment amid the chaos. With their hands dangling at their sides together, he gives her a look that says, “See? Everything’s fine.” And she smiles with relief that these pieces of her life are finally fitting together. I envy their silent love language.
“How did you two meet?” I ask when we’re settled.
With a loving glance at each other, Reggie tells the story. A busy Italian café, one empty table, and two singles deciding to take a chance and share it.
“It was love at first sight,” Reggie says, “at least for me.”
“For me, too, though I never believed that could happen,” Mom says.
“When? How long have you two been together?” Surely, not long, considering their new relationship energy, and this is the first time I’m learning about him.
They share an awkward glance before Mom says, “Since last summer, actually.”
I gape in dumb surprise. Before I started dating Dean?
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s been forever since I’ve considered dating. I didn’t want to bring it up until I was sure it would last—”
“I went through a rigorous vetting process,” Reggie jokes, “and background checks.”
“I wasn’t that bad,” Mom argues lightly. “Then, when Dad got sick… the point is that first, I wanted to be sure, and once I was, I… never found the right time.”
“I never wanted…” My voice trails off as Jack’s words about taking on burdens we were never meant to carry recycle in my head. “Never mind. I’m thrilled for you, Mom. It’s perfect telling me this way. Checking Reggie out in person is way better than on FaceTime.”
The tension visibly lessens on her shoulders as her smile grows.
They share their stories, and we linger at the dinner table long after the leftovers go cold to hear them. They are full of laughter and hope and beautiful familiarity—this is exactly what I’ve always wanted for her.
For me, too.
It’s late when everyone disbands. Mira and the family go home, and though she argues, I insist Mom goes with Reggie. He’s rented a beach cottage for his stay, and there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be with him.
“I’m fine,” I tell her for the millionth time.
And it’s true—I realize, reentering the little house. Mom and Reggie’s connection makes me think of mine with Jack. He touches me like that. We laugh like that. He’s willing to give up the house he loves for me. He’s spending the day with my students tomorrow for me. The confused fog I’ve been in finally breaks.
Sara’s painting holds me captive once again—Jack and I in our ghost forms coming together—that’s what I want. His creative brain. His bookish tattoos. His perfect kisses. And the way he sees right through me. He is where I belong.
It’s late, but I don’t care. I slip out the sliding glass door and race along our houses, barefoot and breathless.
My feet skirt up the deck planks with light thuds. Goosebumps cover my arms from the chill night air and probably from what I’m doing, too. Am I really doing this?
Yes. Most definitely, yes.
Desperate to see him, I nearly trip over my feet. Under the drooping Edison bulbs and around the luxurious chaise, I rush by his dark office. Light spills onto the deck planks from his living room and kitchen windows.
But shadows move inside, and voices slow me down.
Edging the first window, I peer inside, nervousness rising in my gut. That’s a woman’s voice. My eyes lock in breathless disbelief—Jack with Dr. Evelyn Tate.
He leans against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, hair disheveled—he looks amused. She’s perched on a barstool, a tight, black dress hiked up on her thigh. She looks nothing like she does at school. Her head tilts back, laughing, and she raises her glass to him. Behind the island, she makes herself at home by kicking off her heels.
My stomach twists into jagged knots—I might be sick. Evelyn… Evie. His first love. His muse.
The woman he’ll never turn away.
All smiles, they chat, probably about their amazing sex or equally hot, flawless bodies. Jack gives her a sheepish grin, folding his arms over his chest. She leaves her seat, slowly, seductively making her way to him.
I twist away. I can’t watch.
I’ve been such a fool. Again.
Hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming, I return the way I came, determined to shield myself in the little house and have my breakdown privately. I’m not just hurt—I’m devastated. But no good can come from a confrontation, especially not for me at work. And what’s the point, anyway?
I knew who Jack Graham was from the beginning, and he’s proven me right. I will never be enough for him. And he’s not enough for me, either.