Chapter 25
The late dinner.
The canceled weekend.
Moments I had written down because I was afraid I would keep rewriting my own memories to protect him.
Mark looked at the napkin.
“What is this?”
“My reality.”
His eyes filled.
“You wrote all this down?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So I would stop convincing myself I imagined it.”
He closed his eyes.
That seemed to hurt him in a way my anger never had.
“I did that to you.”
“Yes.”
He handed the napkin back.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
For several seconds, we stood quietly.
Then Mark said, “I keep remembering all the times you asked me questions.”
I waited.
“I hated them.”
“I know.”
“No. I mean I resented you for making me feel guilty.”
I studied him.
“And I told myself that meant you were the problem.”
“Yes.”
He laughed bitterly.
“I was angry at the person noticing the fire because I didn’t want to stop lighting matches.”
The sentence sounded like something he had spent time thinking about.
I nodded.
“That’s close.”
He looked toward the kitchen.
“The light’s never on anymore.”
“No.”
“You really stopped waiting.”
I felt the truth of it settle inside me.
“Yes.”
Mark collected his clothes.
Before he left, he paused at the door again.
“Do you think someday you’ll forgive me?”
I thought carefully.
“I think I already started.”
His eyes widened.
“But forgiveness isn’t the same as coming back.”
The hope disappeared.
“I know.”
This time, when he left, he did not ask me to reconsider.
Several months passed.
I changed small things in the house.
Not because I wanted to erase Mark.
I could not erase twenty-two years, and I no longer wanted to pretend I could.
I moved the chair near the living room window because I liked the morning light there.
I replaced the gray throw pillows Mark preferred with ones I had always thought were too bright.
I started taking long Saturday walks.
I returned to concerts.
Sometimes with friends.
Sometimes alone.
The first time I went to one alone, I almost turned around in the parking lot.
Then I remembered how many evenings I had spent waiting for someone who had already chosen to be elsewhere.
I went inside.
I enjoyed myself.
That felt revolutionary.
Mark and I eventually sat at the same wooden kitchen table again to talk about practical things.
The house.
Money.
What came next.
Those conversations were painful, but they were honest.