Chapter 47

Sawyer

I lead her back to my house and tell her to wait in the living room while I run upstairs and come back downstairs with my Lucy journal.

I open the journal to after we met at Maeve’s. I hold it out so she can read it for herself. There’s no entry for that night, because I got home too late and was too tired and (still) horny for her to write in the journal. Anyway, it’s not that night I’d want her to see, but all the nights following it. “Look.”

The entries after the night I met her at Maeve’s are all dated and addressed to Lucy but blank—until the very last entry.

“I couldn’t,” I explain. “I tried to write to her again after the night we met, but I couldn’t make myself do it. I’d get the date down, and my greeting to her, and then—nothing.”

Her gaze flashes to mine, confusion written there.

“Because I knew everything had changed. I knew meeting you had changed everything, and I didn’t want to tell her.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh.”

Her eyes are huge. She bites her lip.

“And then I moved in next door and it was even more true. I mean, maybe I didn’t know consciously, but some part of me must have known, because I couldn’t write to Lucy. Until the Friday night before the wedding.” I push the journal closer. “Read it.”

She hesitates. I can’t blame her. I don’t think many women would want to read what their lover had written to his dead wife—at least not any more than she’s already had to stomach. But I don’t think I can make her believe—really believe—unless she sees it for herself.

“That’s the entry I saw,” she says.

“I know.”

She drops her chin and studies the page. I read over her shoulder.

Dear Lucy,

I love you. I will probably always love you.

I have something I have to tell you, though. I met someone, and I’m going away this weekend with her. Her name is Elle. I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but I think it could be something real. Something serious. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it felt—weird and awkward. I hope wherever you are, you don’t have weird and awkward, and you get what I’m trying to say. Thanks for listening.

Love,

Sawyer

She looks up at me. Whispers, “I thought—”

“I know. I get it.”

“I’m so sorry. I only read the first line. And then I freaked out and my brain went blank and all the words blurred together.”

“I figured.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Nah,” I say. “You just have a little PTSD because your ex-husband is an asshole.”

That makes her smile.

I reach toward the side table and grab a pen. “Hey. Can I do something?”

Her eyes are quizzical.

“I want to write one last entry. I want to say goodbye to her.”

Her eyes open wide, and she bites her lip. “You don’t have to do that—”

“I don’t have to. But I want to.”

“Are you sure? I don’t have to watch—you could do it in private?”

“I want you to. If that’s okay with you.”

She nods, her face very serious.

I begin writing as she watches over my shoulder.

Dear Lucy,

I love you. I will probably always love you.

But it’s time for me to stop writing to you. Because of Elle. Because I’m crazy about her, Luce. Crazy. I’m head over heels in love with her. And I think there’s a chance if I run with it, we could be really, really good together. With the boys, too. A family.

So—there you have it. I hope you meant what you said about wanting me to be happy, because I don’t seem to be able to help it when I’m around her.

And I can’t write to you anymore because I need to give Elle this part of me now. All the things I’ve been telling you, I need to—I want to—tell her. So I’m saying goodbye. Again. I guess this is a bigger kind of goodbye than the one we said before. Or maybe just different? What do I know?

I love you. I’ll probably always love you. Goodbye, Luce.

Love, Sawyer

“Oh, Jesus, Elle, don’t cry,” I say, which is a ridiculous thing to say for so many reasons, not the least of which is that my own vision is blurred.

“I can’t help it,” she moans, her beautiful face streaked with tears. “I just have all these feelings. And they’re all mixed up. I mean, how can I want her to be alive and with you and Jonah and still be so glad she’s not here so you can be with me? How can I feel so bad for both of you and so happy for both of us, especially when those two overlap?”

“I don’t know,” I say, because, shit, I really don’t. “If I knew the answer to that—hell, I don’t know how I can be so sad and happy at the same time, either, but apparently it’s possible. And most of the time, to be perfectly honest, with the exception of these last few weeks, which have sucked, because I’ve missed you so fucking much, I’m just happy. Happy that you’re in the world, happy that you live next door, happy that you own those ridiculous rubber-duck pajamas and that goofy apron—”

She hug-tackles me.

“Me, too. Happy. And I’m in love with you, too. I love you.”

“I love you.”

I reach a hand out and cup her chin. Then we’re kissing again.

A long time passes before we come up for air.