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 identification. I bet Francine gave him cash and told him she’d take care of getting him everything he needed.
“Yeah,” Jesse says. “Now. Life is too short to be sitting in some restaurant drinking wine we don’t care for, eating a lobster we don’t like.”
That is absolutely true.
We run to the car and I hop in the passenger seat, quickly shutting the door behind me. I rub my hands together. I stomp my feet. None of it warms me up.
“The wind is nuts out there!” Jesse says as he starts the car. I have offered to drive every time I’ve been in the car with him and he keeps turning me down.
“I’m still hungry,” I say to him.
“And the night is young.”
“Should we head down to the Italian place and grab some subs or a salad to go?”
Jesse nods and heads out of the parking lot. “Sounds good.”
The roads are dark and winding and you can tell by the way the trees sway that the wind isn’t letting up. Jesse slowly pulls into the makeshift parking lot of the restaurant. He parks and turns off the ignition, leaving the heat on.
“You stay here,” he says. “I’ll be back soon.” He’s out the door before I have time to respond.
In the quiet dark of the car, I have a moment to myself.
I use it to check my phone.
Work e-mails. Coupons. Texts from Marie and Olive asking how I’m doing. I open up a few of the work e-mails and find myself overwhelmed by one from Tina.
Dear Colin, Ashley, and Emma,
It is with a heavy heart that I have to render my resignation. My husband and I have decided to sell our home and buy a condo outside of Central Square.
Unfortunately, this means I will be leaving Blair Books. Of course, I can stay on board for the standard two weeks.
Thank you so much for the opportunity to work at your wonderful store. It has meant a lot to me.
Sincerely,
Tina
There were assistant managers before Tina and I always knew there would be assistant managers after her. But I’m having a hard time imagining it all running smoothly when she leaves. My parents are also taking a step back in the coming months and that means that everything really will rest on me—and only me—in the future. On any other day, I think I’d probably have some perspective on this, but for right now, all I can do is ignore it. I archive the e-mail and am taken to the next message in my in-box. I quickly realize it is from my wedding venue.
Dear Ms. Blair,
Our records indicate that you have inquired about the cancellation fee for your event scheduled for October nineteenth of next year. As discussed in your initial consultation, we reserve the right to hold the entire deposit.
However, as we also discussed at the time, that weekend is a popular one. Seeing as how a number of couples have expressed interest in your date, our owner has agreed to release half of your deposit if you cancel before the end of the month.
I hope this answers your question.
Sincerely,
Dawn
I didn’t contact Dawn. Which means there’s only one explanation.
Sam’s really prepared to leave me.
I’m truly on the verge of losing him.
This isn’t how my life is meant to go. This isn’t what my inbox is meant to look like.
I am supposed to have love notes. I am supposed to have cat pictures and e-mails about caterers and invitations.
Not messages from the Carriage House telling me that my fiancé is a few clicks away from canceling our wedding, that I could lose him, lose a wonderful man, because of my own confusion, my own conflicted heart.
What am I doing here in Maine?
Have I lost my goddamn mind?
I am suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to get in the driver’s seat and drive home to Sam right now. But if I did, if I went back to him right now, could I honestly say that I wouldn’t think about Jesse anymore?
If I go home to Sam, it needs to be with the confidence that I will never leave him. I owe him that much. I mean, I owe him everything. But taking him seriously and not toying with him is the absolute least I can do. And I’m aware that even then it might not be enough.
By loving the two of them, I am no longer sure about either. And by being unsure, I might just lose them both.
Romantic love is a beautiful thing under the right circumstances. But those circumstances are so specific and rare, aren’t they?
It’s rare that you love the person who loves you, that you love only the person who loves only you. Otherwise, somebody’s heartbroken.
But I guess that’s why true love is so alluring in the first place. It’s hard to find and hold on to, like all beautiful things. Like gold, saffron, or an aurora borealis.
“The guys inside said it’s going to snow tonight,” Jesse says as he gets back in the car. He has a pizza in his hand. “I got us a pepperoni and pineapple pizza, your favorite.” He puts the pizza in my lap.
I feel myself feigning a surprised smile. I can’t eat cheese. “Great!” I say.
And then we’re off, heading back to the cabin over the same snowy streets. Jesse takes the turns confidently now, like a man who knows his way around.
But the roads are winding and they curve unpredictably. I find myself grabbing on to the handle above my head not once but twice.
“Maybe slow down?” I offer after the second time.
I glance at the speedometer. He’s going fifty in a thirty-five-mile zone.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’ve got it.” And then he looks at me briefly and smiles. “Live a little.”
I find myself relaxing even though we’re going just as fast. In fact, I become so at ease within the car that I am actually surprised when I hear the whoop of a cop car stopping us.
Jesse pulls over, slowly but immediately.
My heart starts racing.
He’s driving with no license at all.
None.
“Jesse . . .” I say, my voice somewhere between a panicked whisper and a breathy scream.
“It’s going to be fine,” he says. He’s so confident about everything. He always has been. He’s always the one who believes everything is going to be fine.
But he’s wrong, isn’t he? Everything isn’t always fine. Terrible things happen in this world. Awful things. You have to do your best to prevent them.
A middle-aged man in a police uniform comes up to Jesse’s window and bends over. “Evening, sir,” he says.
He has a no-nonsense haircut and a stoic stance. He’s got a short frame, a clean-shaven face, and hard edges. His hair, even his eyebrows, are starting to gray.
“Good evening, Officer,” Jesse says. “How can I help you?”
“You need to take these turns a bit more cautiously in this weather, son,” the man says.
“Yes, sir.”
“License and registration.”
This is my nightmare. This is a nightmare I am having.
Jesse barely shows a moment’s hesitation. He leans forward into the glove box and grabs a few papers. He hands them over to the officer.
“We’re in the beginning of a storm. You can’t be driving like it’s the middle of June,” the cop says as he takes the documents from Jesse and looks them over.
“Understood.”
“And your license?” The officer looks down, staring at Jesse directly. I look away. I can’t stand this.
“I don’t have it,” Jesse says.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t have it, sir,” Jesse says. This time I can hear in his voice that he is struggling to maintain his composure.
“What do you mean you don’t have it?”
I just sort of snap. My arms start moving on their own. I grab the envelope I left in the car when we drove up here.
“Officer, he’s just come back from being lost at sea.”
The officer looks at me, stunned. Not because he believes me, but because he can’t seem to believe someone would try a lie this elaborate.
“She’s . . .” Jesse tries to explain, but what’s he going to say? I’m telling the truth.
“I can prove it to you,” I say as I look through the envelope and pull out the article from years ago about Jesse being missing. His picture is right there, in the middle of the clipping. I hand it over to the cop.
I’m not sure why he humors me enough to take it, but he does. And then he looks at the picture, and then at Jesse. And I can see that while he’s still not convinced, he’s not entirely sure I’m lying, either.
“Sir,” Jesse starts, but the cop stops him.
“Let me read this.”
And so we wait.
The cop looks it over. His eyes go from left to right. He looks at the picture and then once again at Jesse.
“Say I believe this . . .” the cop says.
“He got back a couple of days ago,” I say. “He’s still waiting on a license, credit cards, really any sort of ID.”
“So he shouldn’t be driving.”
“No,” I say. I can’t deny that. “He shouldn’t. But after being lost for almost four years, all he wants is to be able to drive a car for a few minutes.”
The cop closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them back up, he’s made his decision.
“Son, get out of the driver’s seat and let this young woman drive.”
“Yes, sir,” Jesse says, but neither of us move.
“Now,” the officer says.
Jesse immediately opens up the door and stands as I get out of the car on my side and switch places with him. I walk past the officer and I can tell he’s not exactly entertained by all of this. I get in the driver’s seat and the officer closes the door for me.
“It’s cold as hell out here and I don’t feel like standing on the side of the road trying to figure out if you two are pulling something over on me. I’m deciding to err on the side of . . . gullibility.”
He bends down farther to look right at Jesse. “If I catch you driving a car without a license in this town again, I will have you arrested. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely,” Jesse says.
“All right,” the cop says, and then he turns back. “Actually, I’d like to see your license, miss.”
“Oh, of course,” I say, turning toward my purse. It’s at Jesse’s feet. Jesse leans forward and grabs my wallet from it, pulling my license out.
“I don’t have all night,” the cop says.
I take it from Jesse and hand it over to the cop. He looks at it and then at me. He hands it back.
“Let’s stick to the speed limit, Ms. Blair,” he says.
“Certainly,” I say.
And then he’s gone.
I roll up the window and the car is once again dark and starting to warm. I hand my license back to Jesse.
I watch the cop pull onto the road and drive away. I put on my blinker.
He’s staring at my driver’s license.
“You changed your name back?”
“What?”
He shows me my own ID. He points to my name. My younger face smiling back at me.
“You changed your name,” he says again. This time it’s more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Are you OK?” I ask.
He puts the license back in my wallet and gets hold of himself. “Yeah,” he says. “Totally. You thought I was dead, right? You thought I was gone forever.”
“Right.”
I don’t mention that I’m not sure I was ever really comfortable changing my name to Emma Lerner in the first place, that I am and have always been Emma Blair.
“OK,” he says. “I get it. It’s weird to see, but I get it.”
“OK,” I say. “Cool.”
I pull onto the road and I drive us back to the cabin. It’s silent inside of the car.
We both know why the other one isn’t talking.
I’m mad at him for getting pulled over.
He’s mad at me for changing my name.
It isn’t until I pull up in front of the cabin, and the tires crunch over the gravel, that either of us speaks up.
“What do you say we call it even?” Jesse says with a smirk on his face.
I laugh and reach for him. “I’d love to,” I say. “Even-steven.” I kiss him firmly on the lips.
Jesse grabs the pizza and the two of us run out of the car, heading straight to the cabin.
We shut the door behind us, keeping out the cold and the wind and the cops and the fancy restaurants where we don’t like the wine.
It’s warm in here. Safe.
“You know, you saved my ass out there,” Jesse says.
“Yes!” I say. “I did! You’d be halfway to jail by now if it wasn’t for me.”
He kisses me against the door. I sink into him.
“Emma Blair, my hero,” he says, a slightly sarcastic edge in his voice.
I’m still a little mad at him and now I know he’s still mad at me, too.
But he pushes into me and I open myself up to him.
He runs his hands along my stomach, underneath my shirt. I gently bite his ear.
“You know where I think we should do this?” he says as he kisses me.
“No, where?”
He smiles, pointing to the kitchen counter.
I smile and shake my head.
“Remember?” he says.
“Of course I remember.”
He pulls me over there and stands up against it, the way he did that day. “I couldn’t get your dress off, so I had to push the bottom of it up around your . . .”
“Stop,” I say, but not emphatically. I say it the way you say, “Don’t be silly” or “Give me a break.”
“Stop what?”
“I’m not going to have sex with you on the kitchen counter.”
“Because it’s gross.”
“It’s not gross.”
“It is gross. We ate there this afternoon.”
“So we won’t eat there again.”
That’s all it takes. A very simple, very misconceived idea—and I’m doing what just thirty seconds ago I said I wouldn’t.
We are loud and we are fast, as if there’s a time limit, as if there’s a race to the finish. When we are done, Jesse pulls away from me and I hop down. I see a line of sweat on the counter.
What is the matter with me?
What am I doing?
Run-ins with the police aren’t as thrilling at thirty-one as they were at seventeen. It’s one of those things that was charming once. Ditto having sex in the kitchen and speeding. I mean, c’mon, I’m talking cops out of tickets and doing it next to a box of microwaveable bacon? This isn’t me. I’m not this person.
“We forgot to eat the pizza,” Jesse says as he gets up and walks to pick it up off the table by the door. He puts it on the dining table. I get dressed, eager now to be covered. Jesse opens the box.
I stare right at the pepperoni and pineapple pizza. If I eat it as is, my stomach is going to hurt. But if I pull the cheese off, I’ll just be eating gummy tomato bread.
“You know what?” I say. “You go for it. I’m not feeling pizza at the moment.”
“No?”
“I don’t really eat cheese anymore. It doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Oh,” he says.
It occurs to me that there are a few more things he should know, things I should be clear about.
“I changed my name back to Emma Blair because Blair Books is my store. I love it. And I’ve built a life around it. I am a Blair.”
“OK,” he says. A noncommittal word, said noncommittally.
“And I know I used to be the sort of person who always wanted to bounce around from place to place but . . . I’m happy being settled in Massachusetts. I want to run the store until I retire—maybe even hand it over to my own children one day.”
Jesse looks at me but doesn’t say anything. The two of us look at each other. An impasse.
“Let’s go to bed,” Jesse says. “Let’s not worry about pizza and last names and the bookstore. I want to just lie down next to you, hold you.”
“Sure,” I say. “Yeah.”
Jesse leaves the pizza behind as he leads me up the stairs to the bed. He lies down and holds the blanket open for me. I back into him, my thighs and butt nestled into the curve of his legs. He puts his chin in the crook of my neck, his lips by my ear. The wind is howling now. I can see, through the top of the window, that it is starting to snow.
“Everything is going to be OK,” he says to me before I fall asleep.
But I’m not sure I believe him anymore.