“Are you sure this is the right decision?”
I picture Amy sawing at her lower lip with her teeth. She’s been on the phone with me since I landed at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport, wavering between unyielding sisterly support and trying to talk me out of going to Corrine’s parents’ home. Amy drove me to the airport yesterday after I told her about what happened. She stayed up, texting me while I paced the length of the terminal during my midnight layover at O’Hare.
I don’t think this is what Jeremy had in mind when he suggested I be there for Corrine, and showing up at your secret ex-lover’s house, in a different state, seems a little forward. But I need to remind her what kind of man I am. The kind that shows up. And I had to do something while I waited for news on whether Linda Blunt was going to be okay. So I decided to do the thing I already have tons of experience in.
Taking care of her. Of them, all of the Blunts. If they’ll let me.
“I’m just worried they’ll feel like you’re intruding...” Amy says.
“If they do, then I’ll leave. But I have to do something. I’ll lose my mind if I don’t.”
She sighs over the phone.
I watch the suburbs of Minneapolis glide past, the overcast sky turning everything gray.
“Okay. Well... What are you going to say?” she asks.
I knock my head against the window. “I guess I’ll start with I’m sorry?”
She laughs. “And then?”
“How can I help?” I say after a moment.
The car pulls to a stop in front of a white, two-story clapboard house with a tidy front yard.
“I’m here,” I say as I pay the driver and climb out of the car.
“Okay.”
I can tell by the hesitation in her voice that she doesn’t want to hang up the phone.
“Thank you, Amy. You’ve helped so much.” The house has a white door and warm light coming through the window.
“I love you, Wesley.” Her voice is so strong, so clear, like she’s standing right beside me, and it hurts my heart that we don’t say those words to each other enough.
“I’m not going off to war,” I joke but the laugh dies on my lips. Because the thought of going into a home filled with the same pain, worry, grief that I know so well feels like a battle. One that I’ve lost before.
“I love you, too.”
I make my legs move up the flagstone path and onto a wooden porch. I raise my hand, bringing my fist down onto the door in three slow, morose-sounding knocks. The house is so quiet and I wonder if no one is here. Maybe they’re at the hospital.
I raise my arm, ready to knock again, when the door swings open. An older version of one of the teenage twins from the photo in Corrine’s living room faces me. His blond hair is short and already thinning and his shoulders fill the span of the doorway.
“Hi. I’m... I’m here to see Corrine.”
He stares at me like how the Terminator might look at Sarah Connor. He closes the door. From behind it he shouts, “Corrie! It’s for you.”
Corrie. I tuck this morsel of information away. Her family calls her Corrie but I’ve only ever thought of her as Corrine. I imagine a smaller Corrine being chased by her little brothers, shouting her nickname after her, Corrie! Corrie!
Corrie feels like a gift, a treasure after what already feels like too long without her. The house is quiet again. Until the door opens. And she’s an arm’s length away.
Her hair is down, falling past her shoulders, and she’s always beautiful like this. She seems tired, like she’s been crying. There’s no makeup on her face and she’s pale and small, and not just because she’s wearing a sweater three sizes too big, with the sleeves rolled up.
I open my mouth, ready to apologize and explain, but I can’t because my arms are filled with her. Her mouth covers mine, her tears wet my cheeks. I forget my words. I wrap my arms around her. I don’t let go.