My hands are shaking. I can’t decide if I want to scream or cry or laugh at the stupidity of it all. The whole room feels suddenly wrong. The paintings are too bright, the air too thick, the sunlight an accusation.
I am so deep in the spiral that I don’t hear Nathan come back up the stairs. He’s whistling, off-key.
He sees me with the letters, and for a heartbeat the entire world freezes.
“What are you doing?” he asks. The question is gentle, but his voice has gone thin and papery.
I hold up the letter. “Were you going to tell me about this?”
“Diane, it’s not what you think.”
“No, then what is it?” My voice is brittle, unfamiliar. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like you’re still in love with her.”
Nathan opens his mouth, shuts it. His jaw works, a tic pulsing at the corner. “It’s complicated, Diane.”
“God, don’t—” I start, but the words collapse. I can’t look at him. “I just… Today you made me feel like…like maybe I was the only one. The only thing that mattered.” I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, furious at the sting there. “But you can’t even finish a letter to her? You can’t even let go?”
He takes a step toward me, then another. “It’s not that simple.”
I shake my head. “It never is, is it?”
For a moment, all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears. The whole loft smells like loss, like disappointment and old paint and the heat of a body that is already slipping away.
Nathan sits on the edge of the futon, hands open and empty. “I was going to tell you about the letters,” he says, voice soft. “I just—I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to lose you before I even had a chance.”
“Too late,” I say, and the words shatter in the air.
I gather my clothes, barely registering the sound of fabric as I shove my limbs through sleeves and skirt. My hands are shaking so hard I can’t get the buttons right. Nathan stands, moves toward me, but I flinch away, the memory of his touch suddenly unbearable.
“Diane, please—” he tries, but I cut him off.
“I have to go,” I say, but what I mean is I have to run. If I stay, I will break, and I can’t afford that anymore. Not with Cassie, not with Sara, not with the part of myself I just started to get back.
I am out the door before he can finish. The stairs are steep, the boards cold against my bare feet, but I barely notice. I make it to the sand before the first sob punches out of me, so loud and guttural I have to double over to contain it.
I walk until the studio is out of sight, the boardwalk behind me, the only sound the slap of my own footsteps and the distant, indifferent caw of gulls.
When I finally stop, my face is wet, my throat raw. I wrap my arms around my ribs, hold myself together with all the force I can muster.
For a moment, I am sure I will never breathe right again.
But the air is salt and sun and the promise of rain, and eventually, I do.
One step. Then another. Then another.
27
Diane
The phone rings at 6:17 a.m., as if the universe wants to see how much static my system can handle before I short out. I stare at the caller ID, Nathan’s name in brutal, black-and-white text. For a split second, I consider answering, but I let the machine pick it up instead.
"Hey, Diane." His voice fills the room, a jagged shard of morning. "I know it's early… I just thought we could talk." There's a pause, and I can almost hear him second-guessing his every word. "Please call me back when you can."
The machine beeps off, and I sit there, staring at the flashing light of a saved message. I swing my feet to the floor and get out of bed, disturbing the quiet morning with my sudden movement.
The world is still dark. Dew beads on the windowsill. The air has that pre-dawn hush, the oxygen damp and slightly metallic, a taste that coats the back of my tongue. I wait for the panic to hit, but there’s nothing left this morning except a low, vibrating numbness, like I’ve been wrapped in a hundred layers of saran wrap and can’t quite breathe right.
From down the hall comes a single cough, then the heavy sigh of an old house resettling around the ache of its inhabitants.I slide out of bed and stretch, the muscles in my neck popping in protest, and walk barefoot into the kitchen. The house smells of last night’s tea and stale bread, a comforting scent that makes my stomach growl in response. I put water on the stove, counting the seconds until it boils, and let my mind drift to yesterday afternoon’s tryst with Nathan, his touch, the letters, and the horrible emptiness that came after.