I scrubbed at my hair, working the shampoo in over and over, nails scraping at my scalp until it felt almost raw. I scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed again, angry thoughts streaming through my mind as steadily as the water flowed from the shower head. Lathered, lathered some more, skipped the rinse, and repeated. Then I stood, closing my eyes and letting the steam seep into my pores, flushing out my hurt. Finally, when my legs had turned to jelly and I felt like I couldn’t hold my arms up anymore, I dipped my head under the spray. When the suds had all rinsed out, I sat down on the edge of the tub, staring at my toes.
He left. I told him I was just going for a run along the beach, that I needed to blow off steam. I made him promise we would talk more when I got back. I’d looped all the way around our tiny hometown of South Bay Island for more than an hour, silently howling at the dark clouds in the morning sky until they inevitably erupted with rain. Then I turned and let my feet carry me home.
But when I got there, he was gone.
Daniel and I never fought. This was the first time in almost eight years together that we’d had anything more than a mild clash of words. We were one of those nauseating couples that everyone hated. We agreed on everything, laughed at all the same jokes, held hands everywhere we went, kissed like no one was watching. We even sometimes finished each other’s sentences. We were gross, and we knew it. But we were happy. We were us.
“And we’re still us,” I growled as I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the backs of my hands.
So we didn’t agree on this one thing. We could get through it. We’d just been so stressed lately, what with the grand opening of Soundtrax a couple of months ago. Clearly, we’d let the pressure of starting a business get to us. But we could work this out. We were young; only twenty-three. There was still plenty of time to think about this. One of us could have a change of heart long before it got to be too late.
But either way, we could still be happy. We had each other, and that could be enough for me. It would be enough.
Resolved, I turned the now-tepid water off and stepped out of the tub. I hummed to myself as I dried off, an old R.E.M. tune randomly popping into my head and providing my internal soundtrack. I ran a comb through my tangled hair, threw on the first clean clothes I could find, and toed into my shoes without bothering to lace them up. Daniel had probably just gone for a bike ride on the boardwalk. He did that every now and then, when he wanted some alone time.
Well, I would just have to go after him. I needed to see him, needed to talk it out with him. I needed to know we would be okay.
I glanced out the rain-streaked window, the flash of lightning over the Great South Bay telling me a summer storm was well under way. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I had to find Daniel. I had to reassure him that I was okay with his decision. As long as I still had him, I could be okay with anything.
Grabbing an umbrella from the hall closet, I turned to leave through the back door. But a flash of white in the kitchen caught my eye, and I stopped.
There was an envelope propped up on the counter.
I hadn’t seen it earlier. But then, I’d been a seething mass of anger and pain when I got home and realized Daniel wasn’t there. I’d stormed through the house, seeing nothing but his conspicuous absence, until I ended up in the bathroom. At that point, all I’d wanted was to shower off the stink of sweat and rain and rage until I couldn’t think anymore.
I picked up the envelope, instantly recognizing the familiar slanted block letters spelling out my name. It was the same writing that used to fill the notes he’d pass me between classes back in high school. It was the same hand that had written his vows out on the back of a paper napkin from a fast food chain. The ketchup-stained square was now framed in a shadow box on the mantel, alongside a dried peony and a photo of our first kiss as man and wife, more than four years ago now.
The corners of my mouth tipped up as my fingers ran over the letters. He’d written my name out in his careful print, with a little heart above the ‘I.’ He typically wrote all in caps, except for that one letter, and only in my name. That ‘I’ was always lowercase and dotted with, as he called it, the symbol of his heart.
Like I said, we were disgusting.
I took a deep breath, feeling relief wash over me. He still loved me, and it was going to be okay. We’d figure it all out. This was not the end. I flipped the envelope over, digging a fingertip into the flap, eager to read the words of comfort and reassurance, the love letter I was sure would be inside.
But I was interrupted before I could open it. Someone was ringing the doorbell.