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One thing is for sure: she’s developed a pretty big jones for drama.
She wants privacy. But she looks phenomenal. Sensational. Like the kind of woman who could bring a madman to his knees. How misguided she is. I don’t know who could turn away from that.
Not me, that’s for sure. It’s a beast that feeds itself, consuming her. No matter how much I watch, or how close I get, the feeling that I missed something remains. It’s there, deep in the pit of my stomach, an itch or a longing, it’s hard to tell, but there’s the lingering notion that I haven’t experienced all of her. Seeing that we can’t be together all the time—not yet, anyway— I get a nagging feeling that I’ve rushed through moments when I should have been paying attention.
For a bit of perspective, I managed to dig up an old yearbook, back from her sophomore year of high school.
She was only featured three times. Once alphabetically—in the typical headshot type of photo, once for debate team (I should have guessed), and then there was the candid shot. That was the one that interested me most.
She was seated on a classroom floor, legs crossed, a slip of paper in her hand. Her hair was longer and lighter, her cheeks fuller, but otherwise she looks like a slightly younger version of the woman I’m coming to know.
I guess that’s why I cut the photo out. I carry it with me.
It wasn’t until today, until her second interview, that I saw the full potential of the situation. That’s when I knew. I’m not going to rush this. I’m fully aware that it might take a long time to sort out what she means to me. Looking at her sitting crisscross applesauce in that candid photo, I realize it might be more than I had originally thought. Maybe even more than the others. Whatever the case, I want to be that photographer. I want to know her that intimately.
It’s become important, both her and the photo, the kind of thing you wouldn’t want to lose. Taking it from the pocket of my suit, I position it next to my computer monitor, and I stare at her face for a long time. It’s funny how the things you most want turn out to be the things money can’t buy. Tracing the outline of her face, I imagine us having breakfast, for the simple fact that it seems more intimate than dinner. She won’t have to worry about intrusions. I’ll make sure it’s just the two of us in the restaurant. If privacy is truly important to her, that’s what I’ll give her.
I’ll give her anything she wants.
Of course, I imagine us doing ordinary things, as well. Given enough time, I’m sure she’ll share my hobbies. I picture us whitewater rafting, bungee jumping, climbing Kilimanjaro. Knowing her, she’ll probably insist on throwing something impetuous into the mix, something like deep sea diving. I’m claustrophobic, but I’ll go anyway, because I’ll be the only one watching.
Opening a new tab, I click over to the local news site. I hate that the media is bothering her so much, yet at the same time, I love how easy they are making things on my end. Every day a new detail is revealed. At the top of the latest story, is a video, the thumbnail features her standing in her driveway. Her house is one of the most unique houses I’ve ever seen, sleek and modern, nothing like I would have pictured.
I hated it from the first time I saw it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she likes it.
With a quick search, I got my answer. Her husband is an architect; he designed the place. All of a sudden, it made sense. She couldn’t tell him that she hates it, even if it’s the truth. I picture it going up in flames, the fire eating away the memories, erasing the history, and maybe even him.
She won’t be sad. Not for long. I’ll build her a house that she adores, maybe with my own two hands. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but not that. We’ll design it together from start to finish and all will be right in the world, and she’ll forget she ever lived in that other house, with that other guy.
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte
In every life, there’s a moment, or rather, likely a series of them—say, the birth of a child, or an engagement, or a divorce—the kind of event where you realize that from that moment on, nothing is ever going to be the same again. This is, for me, one of those moments. Standing in the kitchen, my husband at my heels, listening to the slow drip of the coffee pot, my mind wanders. You can have pretty much anything instantaneously these days. Everything except coffee, apparently. Good coffee, Michael swears, takes time.
“Good morning,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around my waist. His body firmly pressed against mine, he moves into position, pinning me against the counter. The stubble on his face grazes the back of my neck as he buries his face into my shoulder, his lips lingering on what we both know is my weak spot. “Morning.”
“You’re up early.”
“Yeah.” I’m contemplating what I’ve done, and then, pushing away from the counter, I turn to face him. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Our eyes meet briefly before he pulls me against his chest. My head rests perfectly in the space beneath his chin. “It’s Wednesday,” he says. “Did you forget?”
“No—”
“Good thing we don’t have anywhere we have to be.”
“Good thing,” I tell him with a half-hearted smile. He has taken the week off to be with me and the girls. Ever since the shooting, he’s been unbearably attentive, as though it has suddenly dawned on him that life is short and unexpected and then you die. This is essentially my worst nightmare. Every relationship has its own flavor. But, we are not, and never have been, that kind of couple. I am not looking to change that now, not this far in.
“Just think,” he says. “We can do anything we want.”
We cannot do anything we want. I press my lips together tightly. “Mmhmm.”
He slips his hand up my shirt. “Have any ideas?”
I try to come up with something, with anything. “Um…”
