When she was halfway down the hall, he couldn’t stop himself.
“I swear to you, Candy, the anniversaries hurt less over time,” he called out.
She halted for a moment, her back stiff. Then she lifted a hand in acknowledgment and kept walking.
Late that night,he lay on his couch and ached for Candy and her loss.
He also ached for his own losses. Old and new. Unavoidable and self-inflicted. Marianne and Candy. The woman he’d loved and married, and the woman he—
Well, he hadn’t let it get that far, had he?
The space he’d imposed between them, the time he’d requested to think and recover, he’d considered rational. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it had nothing whatsoever to do with reason.
Maybe it was a total dodge, born of fear. The instinct of a wounded creature swiping wildly at anything and anyone that came near, forestalling any further chance of pain.
He could love Candy.
He could. If he let himself.
Did he intend to wait until he no longer grieved Marianne’s death?
Did he intend to wait until he no longer thought of Marianne at all?
Did he intend to wait until he no longer feared another loss?
If so, he’d never move on. Never fall in love again.
Our hearts are large. They contain multitudes.
I don’t expect yours to be empty of anyone but me.
Did he really think Marianne would consider his attachment to another woman a betrayal? The same Marianne who’d always, always wanted only good things, only joy, for him? The gentle, generous woman he’d sworn fidelity to until death did them part?
Death had parted them in a brutal, sudden rupture. Three years ago.
Did he really think Marianne wanted him to throw himself on a figurative funeral pyre to prove his grief and loyalty to her?
In his dreams these past weeks, she raged at him in a way she’d never done in life. He’d woken with a pounding skull and wet cheeks, entirely ignorant of what she was trying to tell him in his sleep. What his brain was trying to tell him.
Now he understood.
For all her gentleness, Marianne would be fuckingfuriousat him. At thewasteof it all. At the veryideashe wouldn’t know he loved her still, even if he grew to love someone else.
The second part of his life was beginning, like it or not, and the two halves were going to be conjoined somehow. And all this time, when he’d fearfully considered the juncture, he’d thought in terms ofor.
He grieved Marianne, or he desired Candy. Marianne was his beloved wife, or he could find joy in his life after her death. He loved the wonderful, empathetic woman he’d married, or he could fall in love with the wonderful, indomitable woman in the classroom next door.
But his heart contained multitudes. It did.
Orwas a false dichotomy, as he’d once tried to tell Candy.
He’d chosen the wrong conjunction.
His heart, his life, his future—they wereand. Notor.
He grieved Marianne, and he desired Candy. Marianne was his beloved wife, and he could find joy in his life after her death. He loved Marianne, always would—and he was falling in love with Candy.
Candy. Loud, opinionated, sexy, whip-smart, devoted, hilarious Candy. Sweet as her name, although not everyone saw that.
