Chapter 19 #2
He says it casually, like it’s a throwaway question, but I can see the intensity hovering behind his eyes, the words he’s not saying out loud: Do you regret me?
It’s a question I’ve asked myself before. If I could go back in time to that night we’d met—or the million moments after it—and choose differently, would I?
Maybe my life would be easier. Maybe I could have avoided this world-ending hurt. But I can’t help thinking that the painful part isn’t that we met, or even that we loved each other. It’s that we had something great, something beautiful and passionate and heart-wrenching, and we lost it.
“No,” I tell him after a long minute. “I don’t regret it.”
Maybe I imagine it, but relief flows from his eyes, down to the flat corners of his mouth.
“Do you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I wish I’d done things differently, but I don’t regret that any of it happened.”
I want to press him on it, to ask what exactly he wishes he had done differently, but this newfound solidarity between us feels too delicate, so instead, I murmur, “Me too,” and take another long sip.
As I hand him back the bottle, I realize how overly aware of him I am.
The shape of his palm as it wraps around the glass.
The stripe of moonlight painting his eyes in a warm glow.
The way his hip gently brushes mine every time he shifts his weight.
And how chaotic it all feels. Like I’m adrift in the ocean, helpless to the swells threatening to pull me under.
The hum of the ship’s engine fills the silence until Liam says, “Earlier, you asked me about the condoms in my wallet.”
All the air rushes out of my lungs.
“You should know that I haven’t, uh, needed them.”
I hate how relieved I feel.
“So you’re not technically seeing anyone?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Kevin’s been trying to get me back out there. Hence the condoms,” he adds sheepishly. “But to be honest, I don’t feel ready to date.”
There’s forced levity in his voice, like he’s trying to come across unbothered by the whole thing, but I can’t help noticing the way his hand taps nervously against the railing, an anxious tic I recognize from when he was studying for his board exams.
“I’m not thrilled about dating again either,” I tell him. “The dating market isn’t exactly kind to divorced women in their thirties.”
“I’ll be judged too.”
“It’s different for you. You’re a man.”
“So?”
I give him a hard look. “Liam. You’re a thirty-six-year-old hot doctor with a British accent and a sob story.
All you have to do is exist and a million women will materialize.
” I pause, rolling my eyes like the whole thing is silly and shallow even though I know all too well the allure of a broken, messy man.
“Meanwhile I’ll be seen as damaged goods. A walking red flag.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not damaged goods, Roslyn.”
“I know I’m not, but—” The rest of the sentence dies on my tongue because maybe that’s not true.
I’m not the same girl I was when Liam and I first got together.
I’m no longer the cautiously hopeful romantic who desperately wanted someone to come along and prove her wrong.
I’ve been hurt too badly. Had my heart broken one too many times.
And it’s hard to imagine someone wanting to take on all my baggage.
Especially when my own husband didn’t want to.
“Maybe I am,” I say after a moment.
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? I’m a struggling writer. I’m getting divorced. My niece doesn’t recognize me anymore. My family thinks I’m a joke. My mom’s dead.” I tick them off on my fingers, each one a bullet point on my résumé of failures. “Sounds pretty damaged to me.”
“Roslyn, no,” he says again, this time more determined. “You’re not damaged. You’re…”
His lips part then close, and I realize we’ve inched closer, close enough that I can smell the bite of gin on his breath. Close enough that I know I ought to move away. But neither of us does.
“I’m what?” I ask.
Our eyes latch. My breath hitches. A familiar swell of longing settles between my legs and for one wild moment I wonder if Liam might close the gap.
If he might—but Liam pushes out a tired exhale, and along with it, the words, “You’re going to be fine.
” Then he puts his hand on top of mine, giving it a squeeze.
It’s a chaste gesture. Friendly, even. But I see the way his gaze drops to my lips, lingering for a beat so quick I wouldn’t notice, unless I was looking for it.
I expect this new discovery to offer some kind of validation.
After all, I’m not the only one affected by the closeness.
That he, too, feels the ember of want that refuses to go out.
Instead, I feel unzipped, vulnerable, like I’m starring in one of those dreams where I realize I’m onstage naked with nowhere to hide.
Though it’s possible that’s just the gin.
I reach for the bottle and take another sip.
“This sucks,” I say after a beat.
He frowns. “Really? I thought the gin was good.”
“No. This.” I gesture between us. “Divorce.”
He snorts. “Ah. Yeah, it sucks.”
I raise the bottle as though performing a toast. “To divorce sucking,” I say.
Moonlight-struck eyes catch mine. “To divorce sucking,” he repeats, mimicking the gesture.
The corners of my mouth curl up into a grin, and he mirrors my expression, like we’re sharing an inside joke. Perhaps it’s a cruel one, but there’s something cathartic about being victims of the same wound. About knowing the cuts and bruises might look different, but the pain is the same.
We pass the bottle back and forth a few more times before Liam declares he’s exhausted and is going to bed.
“I’ll take the floor again tonight,” he says.
“But it’s my turn.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m fine, really,” I add, wiggling my foot for emphasis.
He gives me a heavy look. “Roslyn, I insist.”
It’s possible he just feels sorry for me. But I really don’t want to sleep on the floor, so I climb into bed and turn off the light, submerging the room in darkness.
“Good night, Liam,” I say into the black.
“Good night, Roslyn.”
Maybe it’s because I’m still a little drunk, or because this is the first time in months we’ve really talked, but as the hum of the ship’s engine carries me off to sleep, I allow myself to wonder if there’s something left between us, something more than just pretending for my family.
If underneath all the hurt and wreckage of the past, a version of us still exists.