you remembered it. Each time you recollect a memory, you change it, ever so slightly, shading it with new information, new feelings. Over the past years without him, my memories of Jesse have become a copy of a copy of a copy. Without meaning to, I have highlighted the parts of him that stood out to me, and the rest have faded away.
In the copy of a copy, what stood out to me about him was how much I loved him. What faded into the background was how much he loved me.
But I remember it now, how it feels to be the recipient of this much love, this type of dedication.
I wonder what stood out to him when he remembered me. I wonder what faded to gray.
“All right,” Jesse says. “We can’t stand right here in the sun forever. I say we start running to the lighthouse, to warm up.”
“OK,” I say. “You got it.”
“On the count of three.”
“One . . . two . . .”
“Three!”
He takes off like a cheetah. I pump my legs as fast as I can to keep up.
As I run, the wind grows worse on my face but soon I start to heat up in my chest, in my arms, in my legs.
Jesse turns his head back and checks in on me as we’re running. And then we come around the bend.
Even though it’s still a bit in the distance, the lighthouse and the ocean are in plain view. The stark white of the tower against the dark blue-gray of the water is just as beautiful today as it was when we were married here. Back when I still believed that love was simple, that marriage was forever, that the world was safe to live in.
Can we start again, from this very spot?
“I’ll race you to the fence,” I say, even though I know that I have no shot of winning.
Jesse gets to the fence and turns around, claiming his victory. I slow down, giving up once I’ve lost. I walk toward him.
As I gulp the cold air into my lungs, it cuts like a knife. I take it slower; I calm my body down. There is a faint line of sweat on my skin, but it cools down and disappears in an instant.
“You won,” I say as I stand next to Jesse and put my head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around me.
We stand next to the lighthouse, catching our breath, looking out onto the rocky ocean. That’s the thing about Maine. The water splashes onto rocks more than sand, onto the side of cliffs more than beaches.
I can’t imagine living for years on rocks and sand, using an inflatable raft as shade from the sun. There is no way that Jesse can be adjusting as simply as he’s presenting.
I want to believe him. I want, so badly, to believe that he is this OK. I mean, I have to let him do this all at his own pace, don’t I?
It’s just so nice to think that things can be as beautiful as they once were.
“That was the happiest day of my life,” Jesse says. “Here with everyone, marrying you.”
“Mine, too,” I say.
Jesse looks at me and smiles. “You look so cold you might shatter.”
“I’m pretty freezing,” I say. “Should we head back?”
But then I stop counting. I just enjoy the view and the company, a sight I never thought I’d see again with a man I thought I’d lost.
Candles on the table. Pinot Gris in our glasses. Warm bread that I’ve managed to crumb all over the cream-colored tablecloth.
And one small, very expensive lobster on the table. Because December is not exactly the high season.
“What are we doing?” Jesse says to me. He’s sitting across the table, wearing a long-sleeve black shirt and gray chinos. I’m in a red sweater and black jeans. Neither one of us brought nice enough clothes to dine here. The maître d’ was clearly hesitant to even seat us.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It seemed like a nice idea, but I just think . . .”
Jesse stands up and puts his napkin on the table. “C’mon,” he says.
“Now?” I’m standing up.
I watch as Jesse pulls out a few bills from his pocket, counts out a reasonable figure, and puts it on the table, nestled under his glass. He doesn’t have credit cards or a bank account or any sort of