In Every Life

Prologue

I’m a wife.

I stare at my exhausted but happy reflection in the bathroom mirror and try on the unfamiliar word: wife . I’m a wife! Ben and I got married yesterday, and now we are in Hawaii for our honeymoon.

I can hear him humming a song he wrote for the latest Marvel movie soundtrack while he unpacks our suitcase.

“Wifey?” he calls affectionately from the bedroom.

I flip off the light and step into the suite’s living room, nearly gasping once again at the startling oceanfront view. “Yes,

husband?”

“Do we think a Speedo is appropriate for the beach?” He dangles a tiny strip of fabric that he wears for triathlons from his

index finger.

“Oh, most definitely.”

He laughs as I enter the bedroom and sling my arms around his shoulders, feeling the heft of him. Though we’ve been together only two years, we’ve packed so much into our relationship, it feels like we’ve always been together. After seven adventure races, five triathlons, one ultramarathon, and visiting four countries, we’ve set a blistering pace for what we want, which is really just one wild, adventurous life. Somehow, getting married seems like the biggest adventure of all.

“Three things,” I say to him now.

“You, me, this,” he replies instantly. He stares deeply into my eyes, and I run my fingers through his thick hair.

It’s a game we play. At any given moment, we must name what we are grateful for in a world that sometimes leaves us grasping

to find something good.

“Your turn.”

My entire being radiates with a happiness greater than my body can contain. I know it’s not a small thing—to start a life

with someone—especially in this day and age. But with Ben it doesn’t feel like a risk. It feels like coming home. I think

about what I’m grateful for: we both love our jobs, have a good friend group, are healthy and happy, just booked several upcoming

trips, bought a new condo, and have our entire lives ahead of us. I’m not sure I can narrow it down to just three.

“Our wedding, this suite, and definitely that Speedo,” I say, eyeing the slime-green bathing suit balled in a tiny wad on

the king bed. “Maybe not in that order.”

He kisses the joke right from my lips. I melt into him, wondering what it will be like to kiss Ben like this for the next

fifty years. “I love you, Harper,” he whispers in my ear after he finally pulls back.

“I love you too.” I snuggle into a hug.

After a lingering moment, he slaps my butt and turns away. “I made dinner reservations,” he says. “Five o’clock. Hotel restaurant.

Senior citizen hour, baby!”

“You know me so well.” I love eating dinner early. When I was growing up, dinner was always on the table by five, and the habit stuck. As a high school art teacher, I’m done with work well before dinner and I love to cook. Ben’s work as a film composer, on the other hand, often keeps him trapped in his studio late into the night. When he can, he eats early with me.

Before I can ask him to model that Speedo, all the color drains from his face as he places a hand on his stomach.

“Hey. You okay?”

He swallows and closes his eyes. “I just got really nauseous for some reason. Oh man.” He grips his stomach harder.

“Here, sit down.” I lead him to the bed and rub his back. I try to remember what we ate on the plane. Chicken, maybe? As I

think about it, though, I realize Ben has been complaining about his lower back and stomach for the last few weeks. I assumed

he was overtraining.

Something like panic traverses my skin as I look at him, pale and suddenly sweating. Ben never gets sick.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he says. The door shuts, and I can hear him retch into the toilet.

“I’ll call down and get you a ginger ale.” My fingers shake as I stab the button for room service.

“How can I help you, Mrs.Foster?”

My eyes well with tears at hearing Ben’s last name, which is now my last name. Harper Swanson Foster. My new identity. I tell

the woman what we need and hang up. I sit on the edge of the bed and try to rationalize what’s happening. It’s probably nothing.

Just something he ate. But there’s a deeper feeling, some sense of knowing , that I can’t shake. What if it’s not just something he ate? What if it’s serious?

Ben emerges a few minutes later, clutching his stomach. “Wow. I haven’t thrown up in years. I think I’m dehydrated.”

“Why don’t you rest for a little while? See if it passes?”

Before I can grab him water or a cool rag for his head, his knees buckle and his eyes roll back in his head. Everything slows

like someone has pressed Pause on my life. I can’t move. I can’t speak. Instead, I only gasp as my strong, healthy husband

crumples to the floor with a sickening thud. His head bounces violently against the carpet.

I’m too stunned to catch him.