The Girl He Knows (25 page)

“He never said anything.”

“Remember spring break our junior year of college, when Hank came home on leave?” She’s playing with the hem of her dress.

I nod and wait for her to continue.

“I think he was planning on saying something then. You were dating Trevor, but you were pretty indecisive where he was concerned. Hank asked me if I thought you were done with Trevor.”

I sit back in horror. “I was going to break up with Trevor when we got back to school. He surprised me when he showed up and proposed.”

“Everyone was blown away when you accepted. Hank was devastated. I tried to get him to say something, but he said if Trevor was the kind of guy you wanted to spend your life with, you weren’t the girl he thought you were.”

My heart is breaking all over again.

“Why didn’t you break up with Trevor? Why did you accept his proposal?”

She’s never asked me this before, and I now know I mistook her silence as approval.

Conversations replay in my head. “He said... Oh my God. Fear. I’ve lost so much because of my fear.”

I stand, bumping the table and causing the glasses to wobble. I look around at my friends and open my mouth to say something. Nothing comes out. I walk over to Josie.

She pulls me into a hug. “We’re leaving in five minutes. When we drive off, I expect you to run your ass to your car and drive as fast as you can to his house. You understand?”

“I hope it’s not too late.” My voice trembles.

“Me too. Good luck.” We hug again, and I make my way back to the table to get my purse.

Gigi stands and hands me my clutch. She’s crying too. “John’s gone to bring your car around. Please don’t be mad at me.”

We give each other a quick hug, and she brushes the tears from my face.

“Never,” I tell her. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

“Don’t let him turn you away. Don’t give up,” Kenley tells me and hands me my bag of birdseed.

“Come on, they’re moving. Let’s get you in a good spot,” Heather says as they push me toward the exit, where people are waiting to send off Josie and Brinn.

I’m panicky, like time is crawling and every moment is a moment lost. I want to scream at the photographer, who apparently wants to get a picture of every single step Josie and Brinn take.

My hands shake as I toss the seed. As soon as they’re in the car, I sprint as fast as my heels allow to my waiting car. My friends cheer me from behind.

Speeding down the interstate, I sit on the edge of my seat, clenching the steering wheel. When I left the wedding, my GPS told me it was going to be fifty-three minutes until I got to Hank’s house. They’re a long fifty-three minutes as memories from our childhood, high school, and even more recent times keep flooding my mind. Tears zigzag down my face at record speed.

I’m close to his house and pass each Jacksonville exit as fast as this car will move, pressing my luck with the state speeding laws. His exit is next, and my stomach clenches in a spasm, as if I might get sick. What will I find when I arrive? What will he say? I’m crying too hard, barely able to see past the tears, to keep driving, my legs are shaking, and I know I look a mess. I pull over onto the median, put on my hazards, and give in to my self-loathing. If I show up like this, nothing will be achieved other than making a fool of myself.

I’ve been so stupid. Incredibly shortsighted.

He’s right about who I am now and who I used to be. He’s right. I was delusional to think once Trevor and I divorced I would go back to being myself. But this change happened long before Trevor. This was more than letting myself be manipulated. This was a deeper fear.

Fear of loving and losing it, of being lost without them. Fear of having a lifetime with someone and it not measuring up to everything I thought, hoped, or wanted. Fear of not finding someone, or even worse, settling. Fear of loving with my entire being and not being loved in return.

For years after my dad died, my mom cried herself to sleep and wandered aimlessly through life. What would my life be like without Hank in it? My mind races with the things he said, with what I want out of life, with what I thought to be true and isn’t. Like with Gigi and John.

He’s right about everything. I always look to him for help. The only time I didn’t count on Hank was when I was married to Trevor and those were honestly the worst four years of my life. I was lonely the entire time. Trevor was always at a study group, dissecting something, or hanging with the other med students. Being with Trevor was a constant dance of learning my profession, supporting our small family, and accommodating his needs.

I never complained. I liked having the mantle of marriage to prop me up. It showed I was normal, doing what I was supposed to. It was an achievement even when I knew Trevor wasn’t reliable, dependable, or trustworthy. Toward the end was the hardest because I knew we weren’t a couple trying to find our stride like my parents or Sarah Grace and Dan. We were two people who didn’t work together. Had either of us recognized earlier that we were meant to do nothing more than date, we could have saved each other a whole lot of heartache.

My divorce was painful, but I’ll never forget the overwhelming sense of relief I experienced when I moved out. I no longer held my breath or felt I was always compromising or sacrificing. The burden of carrying such a heavy load was gone, leaving me to face the open wounds left from marriage. But, even then, I didn’t look deep enough, never fixing what was broken.

I bang my hand on the steering wheel before I start digging in my center console for tissues. In my search, I pull out the heart place mat Hank gave me during his drunken weekend a few months back. I’d put it there with the intention of bringing it back to him. I press it to my face.

Like a bitch slap from a higher power, I have the mother of all epiphanies. In this moment, this breath, it’s clear how life would be without Hank. It’s a sucker punch to the gut, sucking the breath straight from my chest. Losing him would be another epic failure on my part.

I tuck the heart into my bra, wipe my palms across my eyes, and gasp in air. I draw in my courage, bundling it up to hold in my reserves. Checking my mirrors and scanning for cops, I turn off my hazards, throw my car in drive, pull into traffic, and cut across the lanes to the exit. I make it to Hank’s house in record time.

I slam my car in park behind his truck, jump out, stumble on my heels, but manage to run to his door. I don’t give myself a second to chicken out and start banging on the door right away.

He pulls it open, takes one look at me, and walks away, leaving the door open.

I follow him, stopping at the living room. He keeps walking toward his bedroom.

“I’m sorry.” It’s easy to say when he isn’t looking at me. He comes back and stands in the doorway. Looking me square in the eye.

“You were right about everything.” I don’t break eye contact. Tears start to flow again and the lump in my throat makes my breathing shallow. “You aren’t the first person to call me a coward. Sarah Grace has, Gigi, my friends. All in roundabout ways, of course. You’re right. I am a coward and I have changed.” I wring my hands.

He stands there, hand on his hip and looks away, toward the floor. “OK, well...is that it?”

I shake my head, unable to talk. His expression is ragged, as if my words fatigue him. I’ve done this to Hank, and it rips at my core. I no longer have any doubts.

“I love you, Hank.” I wipe tears away.

He brings his hand up from his hip to cross his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame. “That’s great. I’m glad you figured it all out. I bet being alone at a wedding really helped you see the light.”

“I wasn’t the only one alone and that’s not why I’m here.” I step toward him, wanting to cup my hands around his face. I need to ease the furrow in his brow.

The air hangs thick between us. He sighs and walks to his room. I stand there, uncertain. That’s it? I turn to leave, even walk to the front door. I stop, turn back, and march to his room.

“That’s it?” I cross the threshold.

He stands inside the room, facing the door.

“You walk away? At the very least you can gloat because I admitted you’re right.” I take a step closer to him and push my finger in his chest, repeatedly. “You can rest assured I won’t be saying those words again. And for the record, I’ve loved you for just as long, too. It only took me a while to figure it out.”

“And of course it has nothing to do with your fear of being alone and your need to be ‘married.’ Thanks for sharing. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He tosses a towel into a sea bag he’s propped up on his bed.

Using my palm to wipe away my tears I look past Hank’s face and see he’s dressed in khaki uniform pants and a white T-shirt. How I didn’t notice until now is beyond me.

There’s a sudden pounding on his front door, followed by a booming voice, “Get your purse, Nancy. We’re wheels up in two hours.” Surge comes around the corner, where he stops short, gaze darting between us.

“Paisley. Smoking-hot dress,” he says. “I’ll wait outside, brother.” With a nod to Hank, he leaves.

“I’m right behind you, Surge,” Hank says and puts on a matching khaki shirt, his last name across his left breast pocket, a series of small ribbons below that. He puts on a small hat, straightens it, and runs his hand along the crease down the center.

“Are you going somewhere? I mean, when will you be back?”

He no longer wears a haggard look. Instead his face is without emotion. He’s all business.

“We’re all done here, Paisley. I hope you feel better, said what you needed to.” Cinching the bag closed, he slings it over his shoulder. Outside, a horn blares three short honks.

“Make sure you lock the door when you leave.” He walks out and doesn’t look back.

I knew loving someone so fully, completely would break me, especially if they never returned that love. Knowing I had his love and lost it leaves me raw, exposed. As if the sun has burned my skin, making me hot and three shades past pink. Only the pain is on the inside and it’s deep and writhes, scraping against my bared soul. I can’t live with this. Like this.

I could ball up, hide within myself and build protective walls. A part of me screams to do just that, the part that’s broken, but I’ve come too far to stop now. Hank Lancaster hasn’t seen the last of me.

I wake up to the sun streaming in, and I know it’s going to be another beautiful day. Beautiful and silent. It’s been one week and six days since Hank left me standing in his house. Thirteen days without any form of communication from him.

Not that I haven’t tried, because I like to punish myself. Though I still ache from our encounter, it’s more a chafing of the heart. I refuse to accept this finale.

I roll over and check my phone. Nothing. I check my spam mail just in case, nothing there either. To punish myself even more, I flop onto my back and scroll through the e-mails I sent him. It can’t be the silent treatment if one of us is still talking.

On day one, I wrote:

This isn’t over. I’m home alone (that means by myself) and I’m perfectly happy with the exception of you. I miss you, your face, your laugh—everything about you.

On day two, I wrote:

Still feel the same way in case you were wondering.

Day three I try something new:

Today I have doubts. Maybe all I really want is to have you take me around on your Harley. BTW: I drank all your beer before I left.

And because I didn’t know when to shut up, by the fifth day of no return communication, I wrote:

It’s weird having a one-sided conversation. If I didn’t know better I would think something has happened to you. I’ve mulled over the possibilities. This is my list:

1. You are a real life James Bond and incognito.

2. You are a zombie hunter and as I type this you have saved the world, again.

3. You’ve been kidnapped by aliens (hopefully a cool one like in the movie
Paul
with Simon Pegg).

4. You’ve been hit on the head and forgotten how to read or write this language (and wonder why in the hell you even know Gaelic).

5. You’ve been hit on the head and forgotten who you are (word would have gotten out by now if this was the case).

Funny enough, I still miss you. Not the things you do for me. But talking to you. Laughing with you. I even miss your stupid face.

In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m frustrated that you haven’t e-mailed back and I’m secure in admitting that. So there.

No response scares me out of my wits. Maybe he realizes now he has me, and he no longer wants me. What he wants is the chase, not the prize. Not that I think I’m a prize or anything. Maybe I’ve pushed too hard or have hurt him too deeply. If he felt anything like I did the day he left me standing in his room, no wonder it’s radio silence. I wouldn’t give me the time of day either. Thing is, I’m not so sure I deserve a second chance with Hank.

I groan in frustration as I journey down this path again. This is the same fear and self-doubt that may cost me Hank, cost me this chance at love. I will not let it get me again.

It’s weird to think of Hank in these terms. A few months ago, I would’ve never imagined I could scare him off with anything. Solid is how I would’ve defined us. Uncertain is the word I use now. Uncertain makes my stomach ache.

I toss my phone to the other side of the bed and jump up. There are a few short weeks of summer left. Getting back to work is right around the corner, and I’m going to enjoy what’s left if it kills me.

I shower, eat a light breakfast, and dress in a vintage periwinkle-blue dress, circa the 1950s. The boat neck and flared skirt make me feel pretty and happy and a dose of those right now is what I need.

My destination of choice is St. Augustine, Florida’s oldest town. Its Spanish roots and quaintness is what I seek. I want to stroll the brick streets and shop the eclectic stores. What I get isn’t something I expected. The streets are packed, full of supporters for the Wounded Warrior Project. The finish line of the Wounded Warrior Project 8K is at Castillo de San Marco National Monument, a three-hundred-year-old fort resting at the heart of Old Town St. Augustine.