“Okay,” she said, though she could not conceive of having to contend with Elizabeth and Becks along with everything else. “And thank you, Scotty. Truly.”
“Hang in there, Gretchen.” She gripped the edge of the bathroom counter tighter, as though he meant this literally. “Maybe try to distract yourself. Get out and take a walk or something. Thisisgoing to take some time and patience. But it is going to be okay. All you need to do is hold on, and weather the storm.”
I don’t believe in coincidences. I never have. Everything happens for a reason—the good, the bad, the ugly.
This country, this mountain—this trip—has made me realize how much time I’ve wasted. And for what? So I could be a good husband? What does that even mean? I don’t know. Idoknow you only live once. And that’s what I plan to do from this moment forward. Live. Before it’s too late.
And I know it’s a sign that she’s in this place and so am I—of course it is.
I may never have believed in that kind of thing before. Maybe I don’t even now. No magical-thinking crap for me. But I have always believed in being in the right place at the right time.
I know how to seize an opportunity. And use the tools at my disposal.
Before
Frankie
September 6
“Hey there.”
When I look up, there’s Richard, silhouetted by the sun. My breath catches. I never would have expected this of myself—this dumb girlishness. And yet, here it is. Here I am.
I lift a hand to shield my eyes. “Oh, hi,” I say. Like we just stumbled upon each other.
Richard shifts so that his shadow—the shade—falls over me. “Is that better?”
My eyes blink in relief. “Thank you.”
I can see him clearly now. In his well-fitting polo shirt, salt-and-pepper hair neatly brushed, he looks so different than the last time I saw him, when he was so exhausted and shell-shocked. He still looks sad, though. His eyes are puffy and red-rimmed like maybe he’s been crying recently. I get it. What happenedwashorrifying.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” He gestures in the vague direction of the seemingly fast-moving traffic. “It took a long time to get downtown…”
“Do you want to grab something?”
“Um.” He looks for a long moment, warily, toward the inside of the café. Rubs a hand over his face. Is he worried about being seen? Or am I inventing a situation here where none exists? Maybe Richard really does just need a friend.
He motions to the bench. “Can I sit?”
“Of course.” I scooch to the side. It’s an objectively small bench.
Richard sets his briefcase between his legs after he sits. It’sexpensive-looking, stylish. His wife probably bought it for him. I wonder if he told her he had to go into the office on a Saturday. If that’s where she thinks he is right now. We stay silent for a moment, Richard staring off into the distance. Once I think I see his eyes fill with tears. I should say something comforting, but I’ve never had anyone I love die. What do I know about comforting him right now? I don’t even knowhimall that well, even though I somehow also feel like I know what he needs to hear.
“The service must have been so hard,” I begin. “He was so young, and it was all so sudden—I still feel like I’m in shock. I can’t imagine how all of you feel.”
Richard nods and his shoulders drop. “It’s crushing,” he says finally. “I should have made him turn around when he wasn’t feeling well.”
I want to put my hand on his back, but that feels like too much. If I’m being honest, I want to wrap my arms around him. I’ve never felt such a visceral desire to comfort someone physically. And, in this situation, what else is there, really? But I won’t do that, I can’t—not with the way I feel. I clasp my hands together instead.
“You can’t do that to yourself. I mean, I understand. I’d feel the same way. But Van made the decision to stay. We were all there.” I pause. “Have you thought about going to see someone?”
He turns to look at me, his blue eyes aglow. “Like a therapist?”
I shrug. “It was traumatic. A literal trauma,” I press on. “That kind of thing can get stuck in your brain, your body. There are a lot of specific approaches therapists use to help people process.”
“You sound like you’re talking from personal experience,” he says.
Of course I am, about the trauma. Not about the therapy. That’s all stuff I’ve picked up from Noah. I shrug. “In a way. I also have a close friend who’s a psychiatrist. He deals with a lot of trauma patients. He could give me some names if you want.”
