rock, and the other hand is holding your wife, and you’re getting weaker and you know that there’s no way you can save both your wife and yourself. So you either have to let go of your wife—and live with her death—or you both have to die and allow your children to be orphaned. In that situation, neither decision will make you happy. That sort of thing.”
I thought about what she was trying hard not to say.
“You’re talking about choosing between me and the other guy.”
She nodded, her mouth a tight line. “But I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay? It’s all I’ve been thinking about since I last saw you, and I’m so tired and I’ve been drinking. It’s not the right time. I’m not ready.”
“Okay,” I said, with difficulty. I loved her. I longed to talk about us, about our future. I wanted to convince her that she could be happy with me, that I’d do everything possible to show her she’d made the right decision by choosing me. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Nothing,” she said. “But can you just sit here and hold me for a while?”
I pulled her closer, and we sat in silence on that cool and dark spring evening. In the distance, I saw cars passing over the bridge; lights were glowing in the houses across the river. The air was growing moist, thickening, and I predicted there would be a heavy layer of fog in the morning, blurring the verdant landscape into a world of shadows.
Natalie dumped the remainder of her wine into the water, barely making a splash; I focused on the heat of her skin and the way her body curved into mine. I thought back on our date, and the softness of her lips the first time we kissed. Closing my eyes, I knew that I loved her, no matter what.
We would get past this, I told myself. It would be hard for her—perhaps even excruciating—but I was willing to give her the time and space that she needed. I knew that she loved me the same way that I loved her. It might take a while, but I felt she would reach the same conclusion, and that we would find a way to be together.
And yet, as hard as I tried to convince myself of those things, I feared that I might be wrong about all of it.
But I said nothing. Nor did she, and we sat together, on a night that should have belonged to us but somehow didn’t feel that way. Finally, I heard her exhale.
“We should probably be going,” she said again. “I’ve got some errands to run first thing in the morning, since I won’t have time this weekend.”
I nodded reluctantly. Rising, I offered my hand to help her up, then grabbed the wine bottle and cup. I walked to the spot where I’d climbed up, and while I was worried that the wine would make her unsteady, she climbed down easily. I followed, discarding the wine bottle and cup into the garbage can on the first level, and we started down the pier. As we walked, Natalie reached for my hand, and a wave of relief washed through me. I knew she’d made her decision and I felt suddenly lighter than I had all night.
We walked across the lawn toward our cars. When we reached hers, I cleared my throat.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to drive.”
“No,” she agreed, “it isn’t. I need to get my bag, but can you bring me home?”
“I’d be happy to,” I said.
She pulled her handbag from the passenger seat while I unlocked my car. Opening the door for her, I waited until she was settled, then rounded the car and slipped behind the wheel. Pulling out into the street, I turned to her.
“Which way?”
“Head back to the highway toward New Bern. I live in the Ghent area. Do you know where that is?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Take the first exit after the bridge and turn right.”
After only a few minutes, Natalie directed me to turn on Spencer Avenue. It was a pretty street, with mature trees and houses dating from the first half of the previous century. Natalie eventually had me pull into the driveway of a charming two-story home.
Turning off the engine, I got out. Natalie did as well and together we made our way toward the front door.