Twenty-three
Ethan
This proximity is torture. I can barely breathe, not with being close enough to catch a whiff of her lavender scent whenever the door creaks open. It’s tearing me apart. I yearn for the feel of her skin against mine, for the sweet smell of her hair, like berries on a summer day.
I miss her.
But I have to keep reminding myself that she is giving me a second chance, letting me back into her life. Small, cautious baby steps. That’s all I can ask for right now.
Sorting through the bedroom closet, I clear out space for more of my belongings. As I reach the top shelf, my hand brushes against something solid. I pull it forward, and a box tumbles to the floor. I glance down, stunned to see what the contents are scattered everywhere.
The corner of my lips lift. It’s some of our favorite pictures, still in their silver frames. And my old faded gray college shirt she used to wear toward the end of our marriage. I always thought she’d tossed it, but now I know she just tucked it away safely.
My fingers brush against something stiff beneath the photos.
A purple photo album.
I shouldn’t touch it. It feels like picking a scab. But I can’t help myself. I sit on the edge of the guest bed, the single lamp casting a weak circle of light, and I turn the first page. From the first page to the last… I don’t just cry.
I break all over again.
An album of Lily and me. Our memories. All through middle school, high school, right up to our college years. A whole messy, beautiful timeline of us. There are goofy birthday parties, sun-drenched boat rides, blurry shots from the fair, and then all the awkward, amazing stuff from high school.
There’s the picture of the first time I asked her to be my girlfriend.
Our first kiss. I let out a choked-up laugh, remembering how I fumbled the camera, holding it at a weird angle to snap the shot. I told her then that I needed to remember that exact moment, how my stomach was doing backflips, convinced I was going to screw up the kiss.
I didn’t.
It was perfect.
She was perfect.
I keep turning, flipping through the pages. Our prom, graduation day, and the first day of college. Each one is a fresh stab to my gut.
Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. I slam the book shut, rage and grief making it hard to breathe. My vision is a watery mess as I clutch the book to my chest and crumble into myself.
Is this what it feels like to mourn? To mourn the irretrievable loss of every single day and night I wasn’t there for my wife and children before the divorce?
How could I have been so negligent? Looking through these photos, reliving each memory, is like a stab to the heart, a reminder of what I took for granted. A reminder of what was right in front of me. And I walked away from all of it.
This is it. My second chance to plead for forgiveness, to show her how deeply I love her and how committed I am to us.
She was my wife.
My best friend.
My soulmate.
My sunshine.
And I am not going to let her go. Not again. Not ever. I will fight for her. For us.
“I’ll drop you off at the front entrance and find a parking spot. You’ll wait for me, right? So I can walk in with you?” I ask, pulling the car into the short-term drop-off lane outside the clinic the next morning.
Lily offers a small, tired smile. “You don’t have to come inside.”
“What if I want to,” I counter, trying to keep the edge of neediness out of my voice.
She turns her head slowly, scanning my face. I lean slightly toward her, giving her my best, pathetic “please let me” look.
A soft chuckle escapes her rosy lips. It’s brief, but it sounds like the Lily I remember.
“Fine,” she mutters, shaking her head.
I smile in victory.
She steps out of the vehicle, and I wait until she is safely inside before pulling away. After what feels like ten minutes of circling the parking lot, I finally find a spot.
I jog through the sliding doors, spotting Lily standing at the reception desk. A knot tightens in my gut. My eyes track the slight tremor in her hands as she reaches into her purse for a disposable mask.
“Here, let me,” I say, catching up to her. I take the flimsy blue mask from her hand and loop it over her ears, adjusting the wire to fit snugly over the bridge of her nose.
Her eyes slightly crinkle in the corners, hinting at a smile beneath the mask. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Let’s find a seat.”
We find two cozy plush chairs in a remote corner, away from the other patients.
My eyes wander around the room, taking in faces etched with worry, hope, and despair. Men and women of all ages, some holding hands with their loved ones or friends, and others who stare blankly ahead.
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, briefly burying my face in my hands. The guilt is a physical ache, centered right below my ribs.
“You really don’t have to stay if it’s too much for you,” Lily says quietly. “I can call an Uber when I’m done.”
My head jerks up. “I’m staying,” I declare, meeting her gaze with a determination that feels almost aggressive.
She sighs. “I appreciate you doing this, Ethan, but you don’t have to. As long as you are there for the kids, that will bring me peace when I’m g—” She stops abruptly, swallowing hard, looking away toward the window.
“Don’t,” I cut in, my voice low and rough. “Please. Don’t talk like that, Lily.”
“It’s the truth,” she insists, gesturing vaguely around the room, “the reality of all of this. I know you feel guilty, Ethan.”
“Of course it’s guilt,” I admit, leaning back, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “And yeah, it probably sounds like the most cliché thing a screw-up ex-husband could say, but it’s the truth, and frankly, it’s the only damn thing I have left to offer right now.”
I let out a sigh and add, “I was lost. I felt like I was running in place at the time of our marriage, and I thought more money, more success, would fill the emptiness I was feeling, but it didn’t.”
“But you had me, and the kids,” she whispers, her voice cracking slightly. “At the time, it seemed like we weren’t enough for you.”
“You were. You are. I can’t fix the past, though God knows I want to rewind time, but I can be a better man for the present and the future. I broke us. I know that now, Lily, but I can fix the present and the future.”
“Where was this years ago when you were changing the locks on our life?” Her eyes glisten, but she blinks quickly, refusing to let the tears fall. Her voice trembles. “I don’t need your pity, Ethan. I’ve been doing just fine without you.”
I shake my head slowly. “It isn’t pity. I’m grieving, Lily.
I spent every night thinking back to what the hell went wrong years ago.
I know it’s my fault—I own that. But I hate seeing you like this.
” I take her hand in mine. “I should’ve gotten my head out of my ass and fought for you then. For us.”
I squeeze her hand lightly, my thumb brushing her knuckles. “I am so sorry, Lily. For failing you and for failing the kids. But I promise you I won’t fail you again. I won’t.”
Lily
I hear the truth and undeniable sincerity in his voice. But it’s the look in his eyes that stops me cold. Those ocean eyes. It’s like looking into a mirror at the fear we both feel.
There was a time when looking into them felt like getting lost at sea.
When he looked at me like this, he used to make me feel like I was the only thing that mattered.
Like the queen of the ocean we were sailing on.
I genuinely believed if I ever got shipwrecked or lost, he’d dive down to the deepest trench to haul me back up.
He’d never quit until I was safe, right there in his arms.
And that feeling is back. I know deep down that he would move mountains to make sure I’m comfortable and happy. Even if we could never get to be “us” again, not like we used to be.
For a split second, I crave it, that feeling of being seen, of being loved, of being put first without having to fight for it.
But then the fear creeps back in. I’m so damn scared that the moment—this tiny bit of calm water we’re floating on—is going to crash.
And that those massive waves we thought we finally fought off are waiting to come crashing down and sweep us off the boat, taking all the good memories and the possibility of a second chance with them, sending us back into the deep blue abyss.
“Lily?” The nurse calls my name from the doorway.
I shake my thoughts away and peer up at Ethan. “Show time,” I say with a smile.
Ethan stands up. “I’m coming with you.”
I tip my head, letting my gaze sweep over his concerned face. “It’s going to be a while, Ethan.”
He shrugs. “I don’t care. I want to be with you.”
I give him a nod, too exhausted to argue.
The nurse leads us down the hallway into the suite. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and plastic. I settle into the wide recliner when the nurse says, “Get comfy and we’ll get you hooked up shortly.”
I reach for my bag, and my stomach drops. “Wait!” I blurt out.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Ethan asks before the nurse can.
“My comfort bag,” I whisper, anxiety tightening my chest. “It’s not here.”
It has everything. The lavender neck pillow, the noise-canceling headphones, and my favorite fleece blanket. The thought of sitting here for the next few hours without it feels unbearable.
“The purple bag?” he confirms, already scanning the room.
I nod miserably.
His shoulders visibly relax, the tension leaving his posture. “Relax, Lily,” he says, a familiar smirk playing on his lips as he pats my knee. “I think I saw it in the car. I’ll run down and get it.”
Tears prick at the back of my eyes. “Thank you,” I say, feeling silly.
He presses a quick, familiar kiss to the top of my head. “Always.”
I watch him slip out and immediately miss his presence.
I may be uncertain about the future, about how many more times I’ll have to sit in this chair, but I’m determined to be here now, in the present, with my children and now with Ethan by my side.