Only Love Can Hurt Like This, page 23
“Text Anders,” he begs me. “Text him right now and ask him to meet you for a coffee.”
Maybe it’s because I’m tipsy and I don’t have the headspace to think about protecting my heart, but that’s exactly what I do.
Anders replies as we’re finding our way out of the maze. We’ve given up on the puzzle and are cutting a beeline straight through the corn because I’m desperate for a wee. Luckily, each stalk is planted far enough apart so that cheating humans such as myself can quit when we want to.
I’m at work on Thursday, Anders says, and my heart sinks until I read on. Could do dinner? You’re welcome to use the spare room if you want to stay.
And at that, my stupid heart soars.
32
I’ve left a key for you with my neighbor at #12. I’ll be back at around 6.
I close the door of Anders’s apartment behind me. It looks the same—it’s stylish, clean, and tidy—but everything feels different.
As I put my overnight bag in the spare bedroom, I glance toward Anders’s room and jolt at the realization that Laurie’s photo is not on the bedside table. I didn’t know I was looking for it until its absence was the first thing I noticed.
Where has it gone? What does this mean? Anything? Nothing? Everything?
I’ve been feeling edgy all day, even though the day itself has been great. Dean walked me through some of the projects he’s been working on and he even took me to see the amazing Visitors Pavilion at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. I feel so inspired. I would love to work with him, but there’s a lot to consider. He told me I could take my time to think about it because his employee isn’t going off on maternity leave until the end of the year. I don’t imagine he’ll have any trouble filling the position.
Anders comes home just after six. I’ve relocated to the breakfast bar and am tucking into the bottle of white wine I went out and bought from the deli up the street. At this rate, I’ll be an alcoholic by the end of the month. My nerves are shredded.
“Hi,” Anders says, and his expression is as soft as his greeting.
He looks tired, and maybe even a little sad, but he’s still heartrendingly gorgeous.
“Hi,” I reply.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“Good.” I straighten my shoulders and offer up the bottle. “Do you want a drink?”
“Sure.” He gets another glass out of his cupboard and comes over to sit beside me at the bar.
He doesn’t hug me, nor did I expect him to, but his nearness alone has every nerve ending in my body pulling toward him. It’s an effort to act like nothing has happened, but technically, nothing has. He has no idea how heartbroken his departure left me. It’s a small mercy.
I pour wine into his glass and slide it toward him along the countertop.
“I saw your driver came second in the championship,” I say, wondering if I can force things back to the way they were, if moving forward is not an option. “Congratulations.” I clink his glass as he picks it up.
“Thanks,” he replies with a small smile.
“Bet he would have won if you hadn’t taken the time off,” I joke.
“Don’t.” His quiet laugh warms my blood. “Ernie keeps saying the same thing.”
That’s the name of his driver.
“Do you get on with him?” I ask, trying to appear unaffected, as though my whole body is not aching with longing.
“Yeah, he’s all right. He’s got a bit of growing up to do, but he’s quick. He’ll get there. Did you make it to Circle Centre Mall?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t come here to go shopping. I was catching up with Dean.”
“Dean?” He’s perplexed. “My friend Dean?”
“I thought he might have mentioned it to you. He has a position coming up at his practice. He wondered if I might be interested.”
“His practice? Here? In Indy?”
I nod.
I don’t know what to make of the look on his face. His eyes flare wide and he turns away from me, staring across his kitchen at the wall.
“You would consider moving to America?” he asks in a detached monotone, his jaw tensing.
“Why not?”
Why does he seem so unnerved?
“Actually, I’m going to go take a shower.” He slides off his stool and leaves his glass where it is. “Are you hungry?” he calls over his shoulder, and I sense he’s making an effort to sound normal.
“I am a bit.”
“I’ll be quick. Leave in ten?”
“Sounds good.”
We walk to the restaurant, a German place called the Rathskeller, which is in the basement of an ornate nineteenth-century theater building only a few minutes away from Anders’s apartment. Anders tells me it’s the city’s oldest restaurant still in operation today and it’s like nowhere I’ve ever been. There’s a quaint formal dining room that has the feel of an old Bavarian inn about it, and outside is a biergarten where they often have live music.
We sit in the lively Kellerbar, where multiple moose heads look down at us from the walls and old-fashioned medieval castle banners hang from the high wooden ceiling. Our server leads us to a cozy table for two that’s set against a rough stone-clad wall.
“Another great place you’ve taken me to,” I say warmly.
“There’s a server here named Wayne who has the most incredible memory. A buddy of mine who went to live abroad came back after eight years and Wayne brought over the German beer he used to like drinking, as well as the loaded fries he loved, without him even asking.”
“That’s amazing!” I look around the bar. “Is he here tonight?”
“No, must be his night off.” He peers down at his menu, so I do the same.
“I should probably go for a German sausage or something, but I’ve got to say I really fancy the sound of those loaded fries.”
“They are great,” he replies. “You should have what you feel like.”
“Is the pretzel nice?”
“Yeah, let’s get one to start with. You’ll love it.”
From the moment he came out of his bathroom, wearing the same outfit he wore on the day of the storm—a black-and-white-and-gray–checked shirt over a white T-shirt and black jeans—I’ve found it hard to pull my eyes away from him.
He, on the other hand, seems to be struggling to meet my eyes at all.
What I wouldn’t give to know what’s going through that head of his.
We place our order and our server takes away the menus.
“I finished Bambi,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“You did?”
I nod. “Dad helped. And Jonas too. He came and did the electrics.”
“How’s he looking?”
“Jonas or Bambi?”
He snorts. “I was talking about Bambi.” His brow pinches and those two furrows appear. “But is Jonas okay?”
He didn’t want to part from his brother so abruptly. So why did he?
“Jonas is fine,” I reply.
I tell him about the farm and what’s been happening since he left, how the preparations for movie night are coming along. He’s entertained when I describe us trying to cut the maze, but at the same time, he seems sad that he missed it.
“Why don’t you come back to the farm for the weekend?” I ask. “The maze is opening on Saturday, families will be picking pumpkins, it will be good ole country fun,” I add with a grin, mimicking Jonas. “And you should see the scarecrow Sheryl has made for the middle of the maze. It’s one scary motherfucker.”
He throws his head back and laughs and when he looks at me again, his eyes are dancing, lit from within.
“You left so suddenly.” I can’t hold the words in.
He sobers up and casts his gaze downward.
“Why, Anders?” I press him gently.
He doesn’t answer at first and I’m not sure he’s going to at all, but then his eyes meet mine and the intensity in them knocks the breath out of me. The air between us feels charged. But then he sighs quietly and his expression changes into something I’ve seen somewhere before.
It comes to me in a wave of déjà vu: this is how Scott looked at Nadine when he realized he was in love with her.
“Anders,” I whisper, sliding my hand across the table toward him.
He freezes, staring at it. And then he gives me a tortured look. My stomach bottoms out, but as I begin to withdraw, he breathes the words, “Fuck, no,” and catches my hand with his.
Goose bumps spring up along my entire arm, racing all the way to my neck and down the other side. And they’re not butterflies inside my stomach, they’re fireflies, and they’ve lit up my insides with a warm glow, swooping and whirling.
I’m overwhelmed by the unguarded emotion I see in his eyes, the raw need and unadulterated longing. And I’m engulfed with love—and also relief, because I’m not alone. He does care for me too.
But then he glances past me and his expression morphs into one of pure horror. I watch, confused, as he slowly straightens, sitting back in his chair and slipping his hand from my reach, leaving me wanting.
I look up as a woman arrives at our table. She’s in her mid-to-late fifties, blond, attractive, and well-dressed, with light blue eyes. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, her facial features taut with distress.
“Is this why you haven’t visited as much lately?” she asks Anders, jerking her chin at me.
“Kelly—” he starts to say, shaking his head.
“In sickness and in health!” she hisses, and he visibly recoils. “You swore it, Anders!” She stares down at me, and I balk at the ferocity in her blue eyes. “And you’re okay with it, are you?”
“Please, Kelly,” Anders begs. “She doesn’t know.”
“Know what?” I ask.
“That he’s married!” Kelly cries with disbelief. “He’s married! To my daughter, Laurie!”
A cold sweat breaks out over my skin. Anders has gone gray.
“I thought Laurie died in a go-karting accident.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own.
“No. My daughter, his wife,” Kelly says, nodding pointedly at the man opposite me, “is very much alive.” She shakes her head at him damningly, and then her blue eyes begin to water.
“I will call you tomorrow,” Anders promises her quietly as he pushes his chair out from the table and stands up. He lays his hand on her arm, but she shakes him off and his jaw ticks as he gets out his wallet and places some notes on the table. “Wren, we should go,” he prompts.
I push my own chair out and stand up, my legs feeling unsteady.
What the fuck is going on?
“I am so disappointed in you,” Kelly says to Anders as he passes.
He flinches as he guides me out through the bar.
33
What just happened?” I ask as soon as we’re outside.
“Let’s talk when we’re back at my apartment.”
“Anders? Is Laurie still alive? Are you married?”
“Please, Wren, I’ll explain at home.”
“Is she in a coma or something? Anders?”
“Please,” he begs, casting me such a devastated look that my mouth abruptly closes.
It’s the longest five-minute journey of my life. Thoughts and questions are attacking the walls of my brain, desperate to be heard. I’m shivering even though it’s balmy, and beside me, Anders is pale and silent, his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans.
He unlocks his apartment and nods, stoically, toward the living room. I feel nauseous as I make my way to his sofa and sit down.
Anders pushes his coffee table out of the way and swings a chair into its place, sitting down directly in front of me. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped between them as he stares at me directly.
“Laurie is alive,” he tells me unwaveringly, and I think I die a little myself, right then and there in front of him.
“And you’re still married to her?”
“Yes.”
“You lied to me,” I whisper with horror as pain lances my heart.
He shakes his head fervently.
“You said you were married for a year and a half!”
“Before the accident.”
“But you spoke about her in the past tense!”
“Only when it was called for, not to mislead you,” he replies.
“You didn’t tell me! That’s lying by omission!”
He bows his head and nods once, accepting blame.
“Does Jonas know?” My voice has risen. “Of course he does,” I say bitterly. His parents too.
“I don’t like to talk about it, but it’s not a secret,” he replies. “There are people in town who know too, but it’s no one’s business but my own—and Laurie’s family’s, of course, but they live here in Indianapolis.”
“Is she in a coma?” I ask breathlessly, unable to shake this feeling of betrayal. I’ve fallen for a liar.
“No. She’s unaware and unresponsive.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“She’s in a permanent vegetative state.”
“What does that mean?”
“She’s awake, but she doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“She’s awake?” I really feel as though I’m going to throw up now. “Where is she?”
“At home with her parents.” He swallows, and then his eyes fill with tears. “Laurie might be alive, but she’s gone, Wren. My wife is gone. Her mom still holds out hope that she may regain consciousness, but it’s extremely unlikely.”
“Could it happen, though? Could she come back to you?” This is a living nightmare.
“It’s not impossible. There’s a case of a woman who regained consciousness after almost three decades, but for most, the possibility of recovery is nonexistent.”
“What is she like?” I mean now.
He draws in a long breath before launching into an explanation. “She blinks if you make a loud noise and takes her hand away if you squeeze it too hard. She has basic reflexes like coughing and swallowing, but no meaningful responses. She’s not listening when you speak to her, her eyes don’t follow you when you walk across the room, and she shows no sign of experiencing emotion. She doesn’t know who you are or what you might mean to her.”
“How are you so sure?”
“The doctors are certain. It’s heartbreaking, but it’s a fact.” The tears that have been swimming in his eyes break free and spill down his cheeks, and I watch them as though I’m dreaming.
“She wouldn’t want to live like this,” Anders says. “But when the doctors initially talked about withdrawing life support, Kelly went a little mad. The final decision was mine, as Laurie’s spouse, and I considered it, not just for Laurie’s sake, but for her parents’ too. We were all in limbo, unable to properly grieve or move on, but I didn’t have it in me to make the call. Kelly wouldn’t have allowed it, in any case. She would have fought me to hell and back, taken me to court, I know she would have. She was nowhere near ready to let Laurie go, and I wasn’t either, so when Kelly said she wanted to take Laurie home and care for her, I went along with it.” He takes another long, shaky breath before continuing. “But I think I might have made the most terrible mistake.”
“How?”
“Kelly gave up her job and put her whole life on hold to look after Laurie, and that’s what she does every single day. She feeds her, bathes her, brushes her teeth, empties her catheter. She does everything. Everything. Going to the Rathskeller would have been a very rare night out for her, and her husband, Brian, Laurie’s dad, must have been at home because Kelly would never leave Laurie on her own. Brian goes along with what Kelly wants, but it’s putting a massive strain on their marriage. He’s angry and bitter every time I go to visit. Laurie wouldn’t survive without Kelly caring for her, but she could live for years in that state. Decades, even.”
“And you think Laurie wouldn’t want that?”
“I know she wouldn’t.”
“Could you . . . Is there something . . . Could you still do anything about it?”
He says he wants the best thing for Laurie, for her family, but I hate myself for asking.
Anders stares at me and I’m half expecting his expression to transform into one of revulsion and disgust, but his face remains full of regret.
“I will never be able to set her free if I fall in love with someone else.”
And then this darkness, this cold wave of misery and despair, washes over me.
It’s an impossible situation. To show his wife compassion would be to destroy her mother, but he might have been willing to make that excruciating choice at some point in the future if he truly believed in his heart that it was in everyone’s best interests.
But if he falls in love with another woman, if he lets himself love me as I suspect he wants to, he will never be able to withdraw life support from his wife. It would be considered a selfish, despicable, murderous act.
Everyone would say he’d killed her to be with me.
He drags his hand over his face and shudders, and I can’t help but sit there in shock and stare at him.
34
I toss and turn all night long. In the end, I had to leave Anders alone in the living room, too shaken to talk anymore. He accepted it and, I think, welcomed it. It was a lot to take in, for both of us.
Laurie might be alive, but she’s gone, Wren. My wife is gone.
That’s how Jonas described Laurie too. He said she was gone. Not dead. Gone.
Even I phrased it, Casey said you lost your wife . . .
To use the word died would have sounded crass, but what if I had put it differently? What if I had said, Casey said your wife died in a car accident a few years ago? Would he have corrected me in the same way that he corrected the timing and the circumstances?
