Page 106 of Just Ten Seconds

As he puffs out air, he makes a statement, “You’re not the idiot.” He looks down at the ground as if it is more worthy of his attention. “I’m the idiot. An idiot for not asking the right questions. An idiot for not seeing the signs. An idiot for letting a woman I didn’t know into my and my daughter’s lives.”

“No, Dean. You and Amanda are the best things to happen to me.” I step forward, pleading with my eyes for him to look at me. I want to touch him, but I know better. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“You let it happen, Mara. What about Tracey, Lauren, Kevin, and Cynthia? Week after week, you sat in a room with those people and told your stories. You let them believe you were one of them. That you experienced a grief they wouldn’t wish on anyone. And you pretended to feel that.”

“I did feel that,” I try to explain. I gasp at the cold air and hold my arms out wide. “Maybe I enjoyed having everyone think my husband was dead instead of him being the man who shot and killed his best friend. Maybe I wanted to be the grieving widow instead of the girl who helped her husband embezzle money, so she could live on Park Avenue and then paid the price.”

From the way he’s looking at me, like I have seventeen heads and a scarlet letter on my sweater, I know he thinks I’m certifiable.

“You know what your problem is?” he asks. “You’re stuck in the past because the only future you know is the one you couldn’t have. There’s a reason the bereavement group worked for you. You lost someone you loved. The husband that you knew died that day. That’s why you could go there and talk about Benjamin the way you did. Because you lost him.”

I cling on to the statement, relieved that he understands what I’ve been saying. My relief is put on hold as his eyes glaze over, and he swallows back the tears.

“But there’s one major difference,” he continues. “Every single person in that room wishes they’d had more time. One moment … one more chance to see that person again. To tell them they love them or hate them or just hold on to them a second more. We can’t. We lost that right a long time ago. But not you. You have the chance to take that moment. You’re a fraud to think you feel what we feel.”

His words are purposeful. He places a hand on the handle and opens the door up. His eyes are still down as he climbs into the cab. His head is staring at the dashboard. “You aren’t moving on because you don’t have closure.”

“Dean,” I say in a plea.

“Shame you gave up on acting. Turns out, you’re a better actress than you thought you were.” The door slams in my face.

“Dean, wait!” I shout over the rumbling engine.

My feet are moving with the truck as he pulls out of the spot. As he drives out of the parking lot, I chase him some more, but there’s no use.

He’s gone.

The man who saved me has just driven off with my heart.

I curl forward and get sick to my stomach.

Freight train. Like I’ve been run over by a ten-thousand-ton piece of steel. That’s pretty much how I feel right now.

I only had three … four—wait, how many shots of tequila did I have last night?

I slowly sit up and notice I’m wearing a Harvest Café T-shirt and my underwear. My clothes from last night are draped over my desk chair. There’s a half-drunk bottle of water on my nightstand and a bottle of Tylenol. I pop in two and drink the rest of the water.

Walking over to my dresser, I look at my reflection and frown. My eyes are sunken, and the circles underneath are large enough to land a small plane. I wipe away the mascara that stained my cheeks.

As bad as I look, I feel a thousand times worse. Not just my physical body, but my heart. If I thought my heart couldn’t hurt any more than it already did, I was wrong.

The look on Dean’s face last night plays over and over in my head. Anger. Sadness. Betrayal. Shock. Disgust. Pity. I never knew someone could show all that emotion. But he did. And it shattered me.

I slide on a pair of yoga pants and walk to the bathroom where I brush my teeth three times before washing my face and pulling my hair into a high ponytail.

Looking down at my desk, I see the pocket watch, the one I had engraved so long ago. It sits with the time stopped in the most meaningful way.

I sniffle as I walk down the hall, clutching it in my hand, and into the kitchen. There’s a pot of coffee on and a mug sitting next to it. I make a cup and then walk into the living room. Jackie is on the couch, curled up in a ball with her head scrunched into the corner.

“How are you feeling?” she asks in a groggy voice.

I shrug, not entirely sure how to answer that. I hold up my mug in thanks. “ ‘Thank you for the coffee, monsieur. I shall miss that when I leave Casablanca.’ ”

She gives a halfhearted smile. “It doesn’t count when you say the name of the movie in the quote.”

I lean against the wall. My eyes drift down to the hardwood floor. There’s a splinter in the grain. Beaten over decades of wear. “I remember when I first saw this apartment. I liked it for two reasons. One, it always smells like home-cooking. And two, it’s on the ground floor. After Park Avenue, I didn’t want to be in a tower anymore.”

“You could have stayed with Nick and me as long as you wanted, but I know you only see it as where you completed your house arrest.”