It was Saturday morning—the day after I learned about Daniel—and I had vowed to move on. Yes, I still felt married. But I wasn’t and so refused to indulge any more in the fantasy because Matt deserved better. I deserved better.
When Jenny told me Daniel had married Margot, I initially felt like one does on a roller coaster when the safety bar slams into your chest on a particularly tight drop. It hurt, a lot, and took my breath away. By the time Jenny finally left my place, after I assured her I was okay and made her promise not to call Matt like she wanted to, I was bone tired and unable to keep up the pretense everything was fine. So I locked myself in the bedroom with a bottle of water and one of Matt’s protein bars and refused to come out. It was juvenile and far too dramatic of a reaction, but I needed to be alone.
I scared Matt enough with my refusal to open the door that he called my parents to come over, and the three of them pleaded with me to let them in. Mom said she was making us a pot of tea, and would I come out to have a cup and chat? I’d shouted at her then, “I do not want a cup of tea, Mom! Stop it with all the goddamn tea, okay?” and then felt terrible when I heard her say to Dad she was going to go put the kettle on regardless, in a shaky voice I wasn’t used to hearing from my mother.
They all thought I locked myself in the bedroom because I was upset about Daniel and Margot (Jenny had folded with guilt, told Matt what happened at Bobbette & Belle), and I was upset, but that wasn’t all of it. I also felt betrayed by Matt, Jenny, my family, because they’d decided they knew better than me about what I could or could not handle. And in a way I was also embarrassed—mortified actually—to be the last one to know.
Eventually I calmed down and fell asleep. And the next morning I unlocked the door and joined the living again. My parents had gone back home at some point in the night and Matt was asleep on the couch, still in his work clothes with his phone lying on his chest. I tiptoed to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, then sat on the coffee table across from him and shook his arm gently.
He stirred, cracked open an eye. Then he bolted upright, his hair a disheveled mess and his button-down shirt twisted and crumpled. “What time is it?”
“Early,” I replied. “About seven.”
He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at me. “You okay?”
I nodded, ready for the inevitable conversation where we’d apologize to one another (me for my theatrical reaction, him for not telling me what he knew about Daniel and Margot), and he would take responsibility for making sure I was okay and I would let him.
But instead he said, “That stunt last night? That was bullshit, Lucy.” He wasn’t concerned about making this easier for me; he was mad. Then he stood and stretched, yawning wide as he did. “I’m having a shower and then we’re going out. Wear something warm.”
* * *
We walked in silence to our car—a VW Golf with bike racks I had no memory of owning—and aside from him saying, “Running shoes,” when I asked what I should wear on my feet, Matt didn’t even attempt to engage me in conversation. I didn’t try, either, unsettled by this dynamic between us and having no idea where we were going or what to expect once we got there. Eventually he would have to speak to me, but I wasn’t sure what he would say when he did. I considered this might be the beginning of the end. I had pushed him too far, and the idea made me unexpectedly sad. I wasn’t prepared to let go of Matt, even if it might be best for both of us. But what he wanted was out of my control, which was a sobering realization.
Lakeshore was busy as usual, but thanks to it being Saturday it wasn’t long before we were turning into High Park, Toronto’s giant green space smack in the middle of the city. Matt easily found a parking spot—it was only eight in the morning, and most people were still waking up—and then he turned off the car but didn’t make a move to get out. So I waited, shored up my emotions in preparation for whatever came next.
Matt stared out the front windshield and I watched him. When it appeared he still wasn’t ready to speak, I shifted my gaze, saw a woman jog by pushing a running stroller. Another couple with two tiny dogs and one big one, all in matching plaid coats, walked the path toward the off-leash park. The snow was entirely gone now, the grass a muted green-brown color that soon would be lush and vibrant with a little more rain and sunshine. I wondered if Matt could hear my rapid heartbeat, which was thunderous in my own ears.
“I know you don’t remember this, but we used to come here a lot on the weekends,” Matt said, and I jumped because I had been lulled into the silence. “We’d go for a run and then have breakfast at the café.”
“I run?” That didn’t sound like me.
He nodded. “You run. You’ve done three half-marathons. But you’re a bit of a fair-weather runner, so you usually don’t train through the winter.” I glanced at my legs, encased in jeans, and tried to imagine them propelling me for that many kilometers. “We were going to do the full in May actually, so you were putting in a lot of mileage before your accident.”
A full marathon? That was, like, more than forty kilometers. “Are you sure I’m a runner?”
Matt laughed then and I relaxed somewhat. He didn’t seem angry anymore. “I’m sure.” He undid his seat belt and opened the car door. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, getting out of the car. “Not a run, I hope.”
“We’re not going for a run.” He locked the car, then took my hand and I let him. Curled my fingers around his, liking the way it felt. “Not today, anyway.”
He led me across the road that encircled the center of the park, and we walked through a small parking lot and into the Grenadier Café. I took a deep breath of the smells of breakfast cooking in grease, and my stomach grumbled.
“I may not remember eating here, but I think my stomach certainly does.”
Matt smiled, and a sensation of happiness spread through me. We sat at a table and took off our coats, then grabbed trays and lined up at the food counter.
“What do I usually get?” I asked, looking over the menu.
Matt paused for a moment. “Why don’t you order what you’re in the mood for?”
“I would like to get what I always get.” I tried to keep the small burst of irritation out of my voice. He had brought me here for a reason, which I guessed was to help me make inroads to understanding our past. And right now, standing at the breakfast counter with Matt, all I wanted was to be that Lucy again.
“Pancakes. Side of tomatoes and potatoes. Double order of bacon,” Matt said. “Oh, and coffee and grapefruit juice.”
“Wow. Okay. That’s a lot of food. Tomatoes and potatoes, eh?” He shrugged and we placed our orders (three scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon, hash browns, coffee for Matt), then took our number and drinks back to our table.
Over breakfast I grilled Matt about other things. What else did we used to do on weekends, aside from jog ridiculous distances? Where had we traveled together, and where did we want to go? Did I like to cook? What was our favorite take-out spot? How did I get into running? I wished I had my notebook with me, but I tried to hold on to all his answers so I could transcribe them later into my list. And if it was hard for Matt to have to tell me answers to questions I should have remembered easily, he didn’t show it.
“I was training for a marathon and you said you were tired of being a ‘running widow’ on the weekends.” Matt stacked some eggs and bacon onto a piece of buttered toast. “So you told me you wanted to give it a try, see if it could be something we did together.”
“Huh,” I said, sprinkling salt and pepper on the fried tomatoes. “And just like that, I was a runner?”
“Not quite,” Matt said, laughing. “But you were a natural actually. It wasn’t long until you were keeping pace and we were covering a lot of distance. It was nice. Training together.”
“I’m sure it was,” I murmured. I’m so sorry I don’t remember, Matt.
He smiled and then pointed to my plate, which I felt like I hadn’t made much of a dent in. “How’s your breakfast?”
“Great,” I replied, stretching back against my chair to try to find more space in my stomach. “But I’m full. I can’t believe I used to eat all of this in one sitting.”
“You did, but it was after a twenty-kilometer run, so you were on empty.” He crushed his napkin and placed it on top of his nearly empty plate. “Ready for part two? I promise no running or food involved.”
I groaned and rubbed my stomach. “It would not be pretty if you made me run right now.” He laughed and took our trays back to the counter.
This time as we walked I took his hand, and our clasped fingers played lazily as we headed down a steep hill, enjoying the sunshine as it warmed us up enough to force us to zip open our coats. It was that strange time of year in Toronto where you needed to change clothes three times in a day, as the temperature could drop or rise easily by ten degrees from morning to afternoon. We walked in a comfortable silence, smiling and exchanging hellos and “Good morning” with other walkers and joggers.
“Warm enough?” he asked as we got to the bottom of the hill, veering to the right and following the path. Even though Matt said we had come here often, my only memories of High Park were from my university days. Jenny and I had joined an Ultimate Frisbee team that practiced at the park—but my participation in the sport didn’t last long, despite the fun social side where we’d drink pints postgames, as I hated the running and was a terrible thrower.
“Yep.” Though my body was heating up from the walk and sun, the tips of my ears were still a bit chilly, but not cold enough for the toque I had stuffed in my coat pocket.
Matt stopped in front of a path entrance that continued into the belly of the park, and I read the sign: Welcome to the Zoo.
“Oh, the High Park Zoo!” I said, my voice lifting with enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted to come here.”
Matt cleared his throat, looked at me uneasily. My stomach dropped and my prior burst of energy fizzled. “We’ve been here a lot, haven’t we?” I said.
“It was on our running route,” he replied. “You always made us stop at the capybara pen. Said you thought it was some sort of mutant guinea pig experiment gone wrong but they were still adorable.”
I smiled and pulled on his hand, determined not to let all the good feelings I was having be overshadowed. “Come on. Let’s go see if I still think that, okay?”
He resisted a moment, perhaps doubting the wisdom of this field trip, but then seemed to relax as I felt the tension leave his fingers and he fell into step beside me.
“You probably won’t remember this,” Matt began, and we both chuckled as I added, “What’s new?”
“Touché,” he continued, adding, “But Bonnie and Clyde escaped last spring and they were fugitives in the city for weeks.”
“Who are Bonnie and Clyde?”
“That’s what they nicknamed the capybara couple. They were quite the celebrities last year. And apparently absence does make the heart grow fonder, because now they’re the proud parents of three little capybabies.”
I snort-laughed. “Capybabies?”
He shrugged, offering a wide grin. “This city loves these damn rodents. Spent fifteen grand searching for them. Even the mayor’s office Tweeted out a capybaby birth announcement last week.”
“I wish I remembered all this. Or any of it,” I said, sighing gently. Matt stopped suddenly, forcing me to stop, too. We faced one another, and he took my other hand in his.
“I’m so sorry this is happening to you, Lucy.” So earnest, he was. He pulled me closer, but there was still a sliver of space between our bodies. I shivered and he noticed, rubbing his hands up and down my arms to get rid of the chill.
“Happening to us,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, too, Matt. I wish I could get better. Get back to—”
I was about to say “normal,” but then Matt was kissing me. And without hesitation I pressed my body against his. He tasted of salt and coffee and I kissed him back, eager to get as close to him as I could. To morph into past-Lucy, who ran twenty kilometers on a Saturday morning, ate pancakes and two servings of bacon and regularly kissed her boyfriend in front of the capybara pen at the High Park Zoo.
He pulled back enough to apologize for the spontaneous kiss, but I put a finger on his lips, asked him to be quiet. Then I kissed him and for a moment felt like maybe, one day, I could again be that girl I no longer remembered.