38
I stand on the top of the hill and wait for Ben.
After following a cryptic text, I’ve left my studio to end up in Coolidge Park. It’s only noon and crowds of people are studded
below like cattle. A stack of cardboard sits next to me at the top of the hill. I shield my eyes from the stiff rays of the
sun and search for Ben.
It’s been a week since I’ve been “back” on this side of reality, and I think I’ve gotten a handle on most of the changes,
both professionally and personally. With Liam gone and both of us settling back into a routine, I feel calmer and happier.
The work at the gallery is intense, though in some ways I feel like all the work I did with Rita in my fake life helped prepare
me for it.
After a few minutes, I spot Ben crossing a freshly mowed patch of grass. He is smartly dressed, and I break into a grin as
he huffs his way to the top of the hill to greet me. It takes him a moment to catch his breath.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say.
“Happy anniversary, hot stuff.” He kisses me softly.
“Happy anniversary.” Was it really just a year ago that we were getting married? So much has happened these last twelve months. Before Ben, I wasn’t much for anniversaries or birthdays. But now, each milestone feels like a gift, and though I don’t care what we do today, it’s nice that he feels good enough to plan something.
“So, why are we here?” I ask, gesturing around us.
“Don’t you remember our second date?”
“I do.” I smile in memory. After our initial obstacle course race meet-cute, we took a walk the next day and stumbled upon
this hill, where kids were sledding to the bottom on pieces of wrinkled cardboard that townspeople leave at the top for anyone
to use. Rather than walk by, we took turns racing each other to the bottom.
“That was such a fun day.”
“It was. And today we are going to take a walk down memory lane, revisiting all of the fun, simple things we used to do together.
Though we won’t actually be physically doing all the things we used to do, because, you know, cancer,” he jokes, “I thought we could at least do this.” He takes
my hand and leads me over to two giant pieces of cardboard. “Best out of ten wins?”
I am so charmed by this small, simple gesture that it takes me a moment to realize he’s just issued a competitive challenge.
“You’re on, Foster.”
For the next half hour, we race each other to the bottom, half the time getting stuck in well-worn dirt patches on the way
down. I laugh until my body hurts, my cheeks stiff and shoulders sun happy. When we are exhausted from running up the hill,
Ben meets me at the bottom.
“Still a winner,” I declare.
He rolls his eyes, and I see that his hands are shaking slightly as he fishes a bottle of water from his backpack. “Still
competitive.”
“Always.” I take a sip of the water he offers and study his body language, worried that running up and down that hill so many times was physically too much. “Want to take a break? Sit for a while?”
“No time.”
To my delight, Ben recreates some of our best Chattanooga dates: we walk by the place we used to kayak and pose for a picture,
peruse a few downtown art galleries, and then grab some street food. It is a perfect, meaningful day, and by sundown, I can
tell Ben has overdone it. Instead of heading straight back to the condo, however, he steers me toward the water, where there
are a thousand locks chained to the fence by lovers, friends, and strangers. It has always reminded me of the streets of Paris,
and though Ben and I once talked about putting a lock here together, we never did.
When we step on the dock, he digs in his pocket.
“I think I know where this is going,” I say.
He produces a lock, but to my surprise, he then lowers down to one knee. He takes my left hand in his, easily slipping my
wedding band from my ring finger like a magic trick, and stares deeply into my eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“What you beat me to at that Oscars party,” he says. He takes a moment to gather himself. “I know that when we met, we moved
fast. We got engaged fast, we got married fast, and we have even moved through this diagnosis fast. But I also know there’s
no one on this earth I’d rather move faster with than you.” He stares at my bare finger. “Now I’m the one moving fast into
uncharted territory. I’m the one forging ahead.” He takes a breath. “But no matter where I am, I will always be with you,
Harper.” He slips my band back on my ring finger. “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife again?”
I’m so touched I can barely utter the word yes . I bend down to throw my arms around him, and we share one long, emotional kiss. “Are we really getting married again?”
He laughs. “Oh my God, no. I don’t have the energy for another wedding. I just needed to ask you. It’s something I always
wanted to do, and now I have.” As he stands, his right knee buckles, and he lowers back down suddenly.
“Hey. You okay?”
He tries to shake it off as he pulls himself to his feet, but I can see his legs are trembling, and so are his hands. “Fine,
fine. Just got a little lightheaded.”
I offer him water, and he drinks it. We wait for a beat as he gathers himself. I know we need to get home, but I don’t want
to ruin this part of his surprise. When he’s steady, he takes my hand and guides me to the fence to find a spare square inch
to place our lock. He uncaps a Sharpie and holds it over the lock.
“What should we write?” I ask.
He stares at the moonlit water, and I am so grateful for this day. I’ll never forget it. “How about, ‘Ben and Harper: in every
life.’”
My body erupts into chills with those words. I’m instantly transported back to healthy Ben, leaning in to whisper that if
we’re meant to find each other again, we will. “In every life,” I whisper now. “It’s perfect.”
He nods and scribbles it on the lock. We clamp it closed around the metal bars of the dock, and once again, I lace my fingers
through his. He leans forward to kiss me, but I notice he’s broken into a cold sweat. I peck him lightly, suddenly worried,
and sensing I’m about to ask, he insists he’s fine.
“Good anniversary?” he asks on the slow walk back to our condo.
“The best.” I wrap my arm around his waist and lightly squeeze. He sags against me, and I keep my arm firmly in place to guide him home. I try to keep my thoughts in positive territory, but it’s nearly impossible. But I’m also still clinging to the hope I’ve seen from that other life. Our happy ending has to be coming. I just know it.
When we are in front of our building, my phone dings, and I stop to read the text before stuffing it back into my pocket.
“Everything good?”
I offer a smile. “Yeah, fine. That was Liam.”
His body stiffens slightly. “Oh?”
“He’s just letting me know the feature comes out tomorrow.”
With everything that’s been happening, I completely forgot not only about the article but about what I asked Liam to do. I
know that he got approval to make the article more about Ben, but that’s all I know. We stop on the sidewalk in front of our
building. “Look, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Do I want to hear this?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” I reassure him. “Before Liam left, I asked if he’d make some changes to the article.”
“Like what?”
“Like make it about you instead of me?”
“Is that a question?” A flicker of annoyance passes over Ben’s face. “Why would you ask him to do that?”
We stare at each other silently until I find my voice. “Because your story is so much more interesting than mine. Because
you deserve to have a piece written about you. Because I love you.” I take his hand and kiss it.
“Have you read it?”
“Not yet.”
“And you didn’t think to check with me? Neither of you did?”
I feel like icy water has been splashed in my face. “I’m sorry, Ben. I thought you’d be happy about it.”
He extracts his hand and takes a step back. “Harper, if I wanted the whole world to know my story, I would have set something
up myself. I’ve been private about my struggles for a reason.”
“But why?” I ask, genuinely confused. “Imagine how much light you could shed on pancreatic cancer or even alternative therapies
for patients who are terminal. It could help so many people.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” he says quietly.
I can’t remind him that in our before world he was more than happy to have an article written about his life. Ben was open
to it, hungry for it even. What’s changed in this time line to make him so hesitant?
I can’t put my finger on why there are all these subtle differences; why he isn’t a composer anymore; why he wants to stay
hidden; why his motivations have shifted. It’s not the Ben I know... and yet it is. Even though this version of my husband
seems more introspective and private, he still has the same good intentions. He’s still the man I love. The man I want to
honor, which is why I wanted Liam to write the article in the first place.
I stand there, worried that I’ve done the wrong thing, and text Liam to send me the draft. I give him my email address, then
forward it to Ben. “Just read it,” I say. “If you don’t want him to run it, I’ll ask him not to.”
“Okay, thank you.”
We walk inside. The mood has shifted, and I worry I’ve ruined our special day. While Ben gets ready for bed, I hunt for my laptop under a pile of clothes on the bed. When I see Liam’s name in my inbox, a pang of emotion rips through my body like a current, but I block everything out. After a few minutes, Ben emerges from the bathroom.
“I sent it to you.”
He nods, thumbs through his phone, and begins to read, just as I do. When I see the draft title, I pause: “The Last Song.”
My eyes are already teary before I even dive in. Just like when I read his novel, I’m pulled in by his words.
The Last Song
by Liam Hale
Ben Foster doesn’t look like someone who’s dying of terminal cancer. In fact, an obstacle course racer turned professional
composer turned cancer research advocate, his office is stuffed with awards and gold medals, and he has an easy way of making
you believe almost anything. During our first interview, when I asked him how he was faring with his terminal bout of cancer
over the last twelve months, he shrugged.
“I mean, we’re all dying, right? I’m so competitive, maybe I’m just trying to get there first.”
I devour the rest of the article, which contains touching sentiments from so many of his colleagues and friends. I’m beyond
impressed he was able to cobble this much information together about Ben in such a short time. Near the end, I hesitate. My
breath halts again, circulating like angry hornets in my chest.
Though not the original reason I flew out to do this article, like all good journalists, I decided to follow the real story here: A well-known composer dying of cancer wishes for his wife to fall in love before he’s gone. A romantic myself, I was floored by the sentiment and realized I could never do what Ben is doing. I could never trust the world like that, could never release what I hold so tightly to, especially when it comes to those I love.
But upon knocking on their door, my world came crashing down. Because, you see, Ben’s wife, Harper Swanson Foster, isn’t just
some stranger. She is the woman I spent one sacred week with ten years ago and never saw again. A woman I fell madly in love
with in only seven days. And now she was standing in front of me, married to a man who wanted her to find happiness before
it was too late.
This story does not end with me and Harper running off into the sunset, however. Because this is real life, and the moral
of the story is simple: love. Love your people while you still have them. Love your partners while they’re still here. Love
the ups and downs, the good and the bad. Love the fights and the trivial nonsense. Love it all.
It is so clear the love Ben has for his people. The love Harper has for Ben. The love Harper and I once shared so long ago,
even when we were young and free and thought we had all the time in the world.
As I left the two of them to head back to my real world, I realized that I have made a lot of choices in my life to avoid
getting hurt. In contrast, Ben and Harper are facing life head-on. They are feeling their way through, not around. To illustrate
this sentiment, I asked Ben what the theme song to his life would be.
He took me to his studio he rarely uses anymore, since his work revolves mostly around cancer research. However, as we stood there, he launched into one of the most haunting ballads I’ve ever heard. I asked him what he might call it when he finishes.
“The Last Song,” he said. “Because it is.”
Today we don’t yet know where Ben’s story will end, or Harper’s, but I know one thing: my life is better for knowing both
of them, and I will be rooting for them and loving them and remembering them until the very end.
I slam my computer closed. By asking Liam to make the article about Ben, it somehow now includes all three of us and resurrects Ben’s original Master Plan. While it is undoubtedly beautiful, it still crosses a personal line for me. A line
we did not discuss first. I groan. This is exactly how Ben must feel. Writing the article about Ben is one thing; sharing
our personal history is another. Ben finishes a few minutes after me and sits on the bed.
“Well, it’s good,” he says. “I’ll give him that.”
I shift to look at him in the dark. “This article is supposed to be about you. I didn’t think he’d write about our past.”
He rotates and clutches my hand. “Harper, it’s about all of us. And I know you’ve shut down this whole idea of being with
anyone else, especially while I’m here, but please promise me that after I’m gone, you’ll reach out to him. He came back into
your life for a reason. This has to be it.” He rubs his thumb over my wedding ring again and again. “Right?”
I want to snatch my hand free but don’t. I can’t possibly predict the future, but the last thing on my mind is moving on with
Liam. Why can’t he just let it go?
“I’m going to go take a shower.” I sever the moment and leave him staring after me. I crank the shower and take a few deep breaths. Am I mad because Ben won’t let this whole idea of me and Liam go, or because, deep down, I fear he’s right?
I glance at my wedding ring and replay what a lovely day we had. Now it feels tainted. I fish my phone from my pocket again
to find that Liam has texted me.
Did you get it?
Why didn’t you tell me our story was going to be part of it? I hastily type back.
I guess I should have, Harper. I’m sorry.
I don’t want the whole world knowing about us. I realize I might be overreacting, but the thought of every New Yorker opening the paper to read about this complicated love
story makes my skin crawl. After a few minutes, he replies.
I won’t run it if you don’t want me to. Just say the word.
I know it’s not that easy. It’s the New York Times , not some local paper. It’s fine , I type back. Do whatever.
I don’t want to say more, don’t want to give this situation any more energy than I already have.
What did you think of what I wrote about Ben?
What do I think? I think I want to scream. I think I want to undo all the little changes in this new world. I think I don’t
want to be in the middle of this love triangle anymore. I think I never want to time-hop or explore what-if scenarios again.
I think I want a healthy husband and a normal life. But I can’t have any of those things, as long as this tether to my past-future-time-warp
self still exists.
I think we shouldn’t talk anymore, Liam. I’m so sorry. Take care of yourself.
I don’t want to cut Liam out of my life because I’m overreacting to some story. That’s not it. The truth is, as long as he keeps showing up, especially after what I’ve seen in that other glimpse, I can’t separate then from now. I can’t be fully present to this life. To my home. To my marriage. To Ben.
Before I can change my mind, I send the text and then let my fingers hover over his contact info. Without another thought,
I swiftly block his number. The irony isn’t lost on me that with a click of my finger, I’ve erased someone I was once so desperate
to find.
Someone who found me here after all these years. Someone I conjured in my dreams. Someone who is still inserting himself into
my marriage and life.
When the water is scalding, I undress, step into the shower, and let the steam wash the anger away.
Well, not anymore. Now I want exactly what I have.
Nothing more, nothing less.