Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Marilyn
The next week crawled by in fits and starts. I worked late, organized files I’d neglected for years, even started jogging again—anything to keep my mind from circling the drain of longing. But no matter what I did, the knowledge that I still loved Michael sat like a stone in my gut.
After four nights of restless sleep, I finally sent him a message: “Can we meet? Somewhere public.” He replied almost immediately, suggesting the overlook above the marina, late afternoon, just before the fog rolled in.
I arrived early, parking in the lot and walking slowly down the path to the water.
The sky was the color of pale milk, the kind of Bay Area afternoon that made the world feel suspended, like a painting.
Michael was already there, leaning against the railing, hands in his pockets, staring out at the sailboats bobbing on the bay.
For a few seconds, I stood behind him and tried to summon the anger that had carried me through the first months of our separation. But it was gone, replaced by something quieter and more stubborn—a need to be heard, to be seen, even if it changed nothing.
He turned when he heard my footsteps. “Thanks for coming,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.
He smiled, a little uncertain. “Anytime.”
We stood in silence for a while, neither of us sure how to begin. Finally, I blurted, “I hate that I still love you.” The words came out sharp, but the moment I said them, I felt lighter, as if some ancient burden had rolled off my shoulders.
Michael didn’t flinch. He just nodded, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the horizon. “I know,” he said. “I hate that you have to.”
I laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was the only response left to me. “I thought I’d be over it by now. I thought anger would burn everything else away.”
He looked at me, really looked, for the first time in months. “I never expected you to forgive me, Marilyn. I just didn’t want to lose you entirely.”
I took a deep breath, feeling the sting of cold air in my lungs. “That’s not your call, Michael. If I leave, it has to be because I want to, not because you made it impossible to stay.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood there, hands gripping the metal rail until his knuckles went white.
“I’m not saying this because I want to get back together,” I said. “I just needed you to know. I needed to say it out loud, so maybe it would stop eating me alive.”
He nodded again, silent, letting my words settle in the space between us.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of salt and eucalyptus. I turned to leave, then stopped. “I want you to be happy, too, Michael. But I don’t want that happiness to come at the cost of everything I am.”
He smiled then, sad but genuine. “That’s fair.”
We walked back to our cars in silence, footsteps in sync. When I drove away, I didn’t look back.
For the first time, I felt like I’d said the thing that mattered most—not to get a reaction from him, but to reclaim something for myself.
It wasn’t closure, exactly. But it was a start.
I expected that to be the end of it, but Michael texted two days later, asking if we could talk again. Not at a restaurant, not over coffee, just “a walk, like old times.” I said yes, mostly because I wanted to see if he’d let me say no in person.
We met in the park near our old house, a place where we’d once pushed strollers and later, walked the dog after dinner. The paths were muddy from last week’s rain, and the trees still looked bare and battered.
He showed up in running clothes, as if this were a casual jog and not a post-mortem on our marriage. “You said you hated still loving me,” he said as soon as we fell into step. “But I never stopped loving you, not for a second.”
I felt the heat rising in my chest. “You loved me when you followed her upstairs?”
He stopped walking, shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Yeah. I did. I never stopped. That’s what makes it worse.”
I wanted to scream, to tell him that love was supposed to be the insurance policy against betrayal, that loving someone was supposed to make you immune to the worst version of yourself. But all I managed was, “So it’s my problem that your love isn’t enough?”
He shook his head, rainwater beading in his hair. “No, Marilyn. It’s my problem. I’m the one who couldn’t make it enough.”
We stood there for a while, neither of us saying anything.
I realized, with a sick jolt, that I was still waiting for an apology, still desperate for some act of penance that would undo the past. But there was nothing left for him to say.
I could see it in his eyes—a bottomless regret that was never going to fix what was broken.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I said finally.
He shrugged, eyes wet with something that might have been rain or something else entirely. “I just want you to know I never took you for granted. Not even for a second. Even when I was doing the worst possible thing.”
I nodded, unsure what to do with that information. “Thanks for being honest,” I said. It sounded like a line from a therapy workbook.
He smiled, brief and real. “Thanks for letting me.”
On the drive home, I let myself cry, just once, loud and ugly, until it passed.
It was the last piece of the old story, finally gone.
I didn’t know what came next, but I knew I was done asking love to prove anything.
I had survived Michael’s worst, and my own, and it was time to start building a future that wasn’t measured in what I’d lost.