I laughed, a little breathless. “Hi.”
It was awkward at first. Gentle. We talked around our lives instead of straight into them—where we lived now, how strangeit felt to be this age, how fast time moved when you weren’t looking.
I told him about my husband.
“He’s an accountant,” I said. “Safe. Dependable. The kind of man who remembers to pay bills early and never forgets a birthday.”
I smiled when I said it, because it was true. “He does taxes. He’s… steady.”
I told him we live near the shoreline in Jersey. Not on it—never quite could afford that—but close enough that every morning I can take my coffee outside and smell the salt. Taste it in the air if the wind’s right.
“It keeps me grounded,” I said. “Like a reminder.”
He understood without me having to explain.
He told me about his divorce. About Hayden.
“She’s eight,” he said. “She likes ice cream more than she should and asks questions I don’t know how to answer.”
I smiled at that. I told him about Cole and Anna. Soccer tournaments. Fishing trips. Early mornings and late nights and the constant juggling act of being everything to everyone.
“I love my kids,” I said quickly. “Don’t feel bad for me.”
“I know,” he said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
We talked about how hard marriage actually is. How raising kids is nothing like the fairy tales. How working, parenting, and trying to stay connected to another adult takes more effort than college or high school ever did.
“I used to think adulthood was freedom,” he said. “Turns out it’s just… responsibility stacked on responsibility.”
I laughed. “With no syllabus.”
There was a pause. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that surprised me.
Then I told him something I’d never said out loud before.
“Every anniversary of 9/11 is hard. It brings all of it back. Not just that day. I cry and everyone cries but no one really knows it was all of us that hurt me the most.”
“I know he says. I never talk about that day either, I keep it locked up just like those years. Part of me is afraid t talk about it because it’ll hurt so much… it’s a part of my life I can never get back. But somedays Beth… I want it back even all the heartache and bad nights with her. I want them back so badly I taste it in the morning.”
Silence hangs between us. The Comfortable kind. The knowing kind.
“Every summer,” I said, “we go up to the Cape for a long weekend. I don’t really tell anyone why it matters so much to me.” I could hear him breathing on the other end. “It took me ten years to go back,” I admitted. “The first time I did, I cried. A lot. But now it feels… cathartic. Like therapy.”
Those nights. That life. “They’re still a part of me,” I said softly. “No one else would understand that.”
“I do,” he said. And I knew he meant it.
We talked about meeting up next summer. Just casually. Lightly. Both of us knowing we probably never would—but that saying it felt good anyway.
Then I said the thing I’d been carrying for two decades.
“For years, I regretted what I did,” I told him. “Calling the police. Telling you what she was doing. She couldn’t get a job for a long time after that. No health insurance. She waited tables. Worked bars. I think she might’ve been homeless at some point. At least that’s what the rumor was.”
My voice wavered. “I thought I was helping her. I really did.”
There was silence.
“I know,” I said. “I was angry for a long time about everything. I missed what we had before 9/11… before Sage. Ihad a crush in you. Although, I hid it well. That’s why I never sent the friend request. I cut everyone off.”
