Chapter 5 Mile Five #2
“Would ask that. Most people would ask how she died. You want to know about our love story.”
“Well, I do love a romance.” My mouth curves up into a small smile.
“That you do.” He taps his fingers against the counter.
“Val and I met in medical school. It was the clichéd meeting in one of those books you gobble up where she literally ran into me at the campus coffee shop and spilled her iced mocha all over me. Six months later, I asked her to marry me, and two months later, my brother Bryce got ordained online and married us in my parents’ backyard. ”
Eight months? It’s hard to imagine the man who takes fifteen minutes to decide which ice cream flavor he wants at Marie’s each week met, fell in love, and married someone so quickly.
To my knowledge—from what Anker has shared—Garrett hasn’t been in any relationships outside a woman from the hospital with whom he had a brief colleagues with benefits thing with before she moved to Atlanta.
“How long were you married?”
“Five years.”
His speech is quiet and hesitant, as if trying not to wake a sleeping bear.
Only I’m not sure if I’m the sleeping bear, or if it’s him.
The way the air buzzes around us reminds me of those moments when the sky rolls with dark clouds, but the sun still pokes out, making you uncertain if rain will come.
I’m not entirely sure what the rainstorm would look like with Garrett.
Will he close down? Will he open up? I proceed, nonetheless.
“You were married in your parents’ backyard?” I rake my teeth along my bottom lip to bite back the rest of that thought.
No wonder he rarely goes home. It must be sheer torture to be at his parents’ house, surrounded by the memory of the day he and Val committed to a forever that would never be.
“My mom’s favorite book is Alice in Wonderland, so my dad made this Mad Hatter meets an English garden vibe back there.”
“It sounds lovely.” Elbows on the counter, I lean my chin on my palms, imagining what that must look like.
The rainbow of yellow, pink, red, and white roses poking from vibrant green bushes. The assortment of mismatched patio tables and chairs that somehow go together perfectly. The decadent floral scent colliding with the hummingbird’s song, creating this visceral experience.
“It was… It is,” he says, his voice scratchy.
Shifting, I lean against the stool’s hard back. “No wonder it’s hard to go home.”
“Yeah.”
“How did it happen?”
“Car accident.”
“Were you with her?”
“No. I wasn’t,” he says, his tone harsh.
“I’m sorry if I—”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He pushes away from the counter.
“Yeah… I get it.” I fiddle with the hoodie’s strings, twining it around my finger and pulling it tight.
Too far. Those words flash inside me. I took it too far.
I seem to have a bad habit of that with Garrett.
It’s like I’m blind to the track’s boundaries and always try to tug him off course with the things I ask or talk about.
He’s been clear this isn’t his favorite topic, and I just keep asking anyway. Why do I do this with him?
“I’m sorry, Garrett… I—”
“It’s fine.” He picks up the now-empty plate and places it in the sink. “It’s late, so I should get you home. I’m picking you and Anker up by seven for breakfast before the airport after all.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s slammed that door shut as quickly as he opened it. This is Garrett. Every moment that I think he’s opening up; he shuts me out.
“I know you don’t want to talk about this with me, but besides telling the bag, do you talk about it with anyone?”
“Jensen,” he groans.
I hop off the stool and motion toward him. “Anker? Your family? A therapist?”
“Jensen.”
“I know it hurts, but it’s not healthy to keep these things bottled up. Clearly, you’re still very much struggling with—”
“Damn it, Jensen,” he mutters. “Why do you have to be such a pain-in-the-ass all the time?”
I toss my hands up. “Why do you have to be such a stubborn self-righteous prick?”
“And Feisty Jensen is back,” he huffs, rounding the counter.
“Yes, she is.” Brows linked, I tip my head up. “And she’s calling you out on your bullshit.”
“My bullshit?” he spits out.
“Yeah. You dragged me here to exercise my emotions about Miles while you clearly refuse to deal with your own shit. I’m sorry your wife died, and I hate that you’re in pain, but you know better than anyone that wounds left untreated fester and infect. Telling the bag is just a bandage on…”
I search for the word. None seem appropriate. I can only imagine that losing the person you thought you’d have the rest of your life with is akin to losing a limb. It’s painful. It’s life-altering, but not ending. You adapt. You figure it out.
The grief journey I navigate with the loss of my vision teaches me this. So much of my life focused on what I lost until the work I am doing with Dr. Nor helped me to mourn that loss while not losing sight of what I have.
“I know how hard it is—”
“You don’t know a thing about it,” he grits.
“I lost the woman I love, and the life I thought I was going to have. All in the thirty minutes from the time I told her to text me when she got home to when I got a call that she was dead. This isn’t some fuckboy not returning my affections or using me. ”
“I wasn’t talking about Miles…” I glare at him. “So much for pain being pain.”
He steps back. “What were you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re right. I don’t.” Emotion thickens in my throat from the freight-train force of his words slamming into me.
It’s foolish to think I understand what he’s lost. Garrett had, and lost, a great love. Fear riots within me that I’ll never know his pain, because I’ll never know the joy.
“Jensen… Fuck.” Heaving a hard breath, he closes his eyes. “I’m—”
“It’s late. I think it’s time for me to go home.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“And I shouldn’t have pushed, but that’s what we do with each other.”
Push. Pull. Hot. Cold. One moment, I imagine rising to my tiptoes and wrapping my arms around his neck to press myself against him and lean into how much I suspect we could fit together.
Then, there are moments like this where I know deep in my bones that Garrett and I aren’t even friends—not really.
That my crush on him is just another symptom of my fucked up head about men.
That I have my own bullshit that I need to deal with.
“Let me take you home,” he says.