Reckless Hearts (24 page)

I
can’t think about what he’s just said, so I turn instead
to the boat and pull back the tarp.

I
gasp. He didn’t just rescue Harold—he restored it, too.
The last time I saw it, the boat was peeling and old, those base
boards splintered with a gaping wound cut clear through the deck.
Now, it’s like he never went down at all. The boards have been
replaced, so seamlessly you would never know they were damaged at
all. Every inch has been repainted, smoothed and sanded, repaired by
hand.

Tears
well up in my throat. It was broken, and Will fixed it. Because he
knew how much this old boat mattered to me, the memories it held.

Can
it really be so easy? I stare at it, feeling helpless. Can you just
replace the broken pieces, and have the scars painted over, better
than before? Or do those cracks last a lifetime, shadows of the
damage that went before?

I
stand there a long time, feeling the weight of it all crushing down
on me. Not just Will, now, but the questions I’ve been
grappling with for years now. The ones I still have no answers to.

I
go get back into my car, and drive—to the only person I want to
talk to now. The only one who might have some understanding for me,
more than anyone in the world.

My
mom.

The
house is empty, but I find mom out back in what used to be the garden
shed, but has somehow been transformed into an art studio, complete
with whitewashed walls, an easel, and shelves crammed full of paints
and art supplies.

“When
did this happen?” I ask, surprised in the doorway.

Mom
looks up from behind thin, wire-rimmed glasses. She’s in front
of a canvas daubed with watercolor flowers. “Oh, hi sweetie, I
didn’t know you were here.” She sets down her paintbrush
and hugs me at arm’s length. “Sorry, I’m such a
mess.”

“That’s
OK.” I step inside the small space, still curious. “I
didn’t know you were painting.”

“What,
this?” Mom gestures modestly, “It’s nothing. I used
to paint all the time. I stopped when you were younger, but your
father suggested I give it a whirl again. He signed me up for classes
in the spring, and even did all of this with the shed, isn’t
that sweet of him?”

“Well,
it looks great.” I pause, not sure what to say, but Mom’s
busy rinsing off her brushes and setting things aside.

“So,
to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she asks.

“I . . . was
in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by and say hi.”

Mom
gives me a curious look. Despite all the trailing scarves and
watercolors, she’s still the sharpest one around. “We
haven’t heard from you in a while. I thought maybe you and Will
were enjoying some time to yourselves . . . ?”
She pauses, hinting.

“We
were.” I stop. “I guess . . . I
wanted to talk to you about it.”

If
Mom’s shocked I would ever be coming to her for romantic
advice, she hides it well, and she shows me outside to where some
chairs are set up under the old cypress tree. I sink into the
cushions and pull my knees against my chest. She’s watching me
expectantly, but I can’t dance around it with small talk and
half-truths. It’s been plaguing me for years, and now, it seems
more vital than ever to know.

“How
did you forgive him?” I ask, my voice breaking. “When
Daddy cheated. He lied, and he left us, and you act like it never
happened now. I don’t understand.”

Emotion
flashes across my mom’s face, and she exhales a long breath. I
feel awful for bringing it up like this out of nowhere, but I’ve
kept silent about it for so long, and I have to hear her side of the
story if I’m ever going to figure out what to do.

“Did
Will do something?” she asks, her voice sharp.

“No.”
I find myself defending him. “Not, not like that. But, he
betrayed my trust, and I just . . .” I stop and
shake my head. “It’s not just about Will. I need to know
this for me. I’ve tried, Mom, I really have. I’ve tried
to just respect your decision, I know it’s your life, but I
can’t wrap my head around it.”

Mom
gives me a sad, quiet smile. “Oh, honey. It’s not a
simple answer.”

“So
explain,” I plead. “I want to understand.”

She
looks away for a moment, over the yard, and I can tell she’s
picking her words carefully. When she looks back, her face is
content. “I guess what it comes down to is that I chose a life
with him rather than one without.”

She
says it so simply, but it can’t be simple. The cheating, the
betrayal. How can she just sweep it aside? Make a calm calculation
and then just move on?

“But you could have started
again,” I argue. “Found someone else if you didn’t
want to be alone.”

Mom
shakes her head. “It wasn’t like that. You have to
understand, sweetie, we had twenty years together. Good years.
Laughing and waking up together and going to sleep in the same bed
every night. And raising you,” she adds with a smile.

“But
he hurt you.”

She
nods. “I never said he didn’t. When I found out . . .”
The shadow is clear on her face. “I thought I’d lost my
whole world. Some nights, I would tell you I was running errands,”
she adds sadly, “and I’d go take a drive and just sit in
the woods and cry.”

“Mom . . .”
Now I feel terrible for even bringing it up. I reach for her hand,
but she just squeezes it and gives me a smile.

“It’s
fine, sweetie. Ancient history.”

“But
that’s what I don’t understand. How could you ever take
him back after what he put you through?”

“Because
he asked.” Mom’s expression is still calm. “I lost
my best friend, but he lost me too. Whatever he thought he was
getting into . . . well, it didn’t come
close to what the two of us had. And once he realized what he was
losing . . . he came to his senses again.”

I
sigh, still confused. “Just like that, you took him back.”

She
looks at me wryly. “Don’t think I made it easy on him. I
was spitting mad, hurt, betrayed. I didn’t know if I could ever
trust him again. But he promised to do whatever it took. We went to
couples counseling, and it was months before I even let him back in
the house. It was work,” she admits. “To rebuild after
such a betrayal and let go of my anger. It took a long time to move
past it, and even longer to forgive him.”

“So
how?” I ask again, my emotions still so tangled up and
confused. “He broke your heart. He betrayed us both. But you
still found a way to forgive him in the end.”

My
mom sighs. “I know you think I was just being weak—”
I start to argue, but she stops me. “It’s OK, sweetie, I
know. You haven’t forgiven him, and that’s your right. He
hurt you too. But I stand by my choice. He’s the love of my
life,” she says, matter of fact. “And some things are
worth fighting for.”

We
sit in silence for a moment as I think over her words. I was hoping
she’d have something more for me: concrete advice, a handy
how-to-forgive guide. Foolish, I know. I guess however old you get,
you never grow out of hoping that your mom will have the answers to
everything. But instead, she made it sound different: a simple
choice. To be with him, or not.

Which
life she wanted more in the end.

Mom
pats my hand. “Your father will be home soon. Let’s go
put dinner on.”

I
follow her inside the house again. This isn’t the home I grew
up in, with creaking floorboards and clutter everywhere. It’s
sleeker and new, with polished countertops and a kitchen that’s
white and clean. “Is that why you moved?” I ask, suddenly
thinking of something. “To make it a fresh start, away from all
those bad memories?”

Mom
nods. She opens the gleaming refrigerator and pulls out a package of
chicken and an armful of vegetables. “It was part of my
conditions, that we would move, and he’d find a different job.
Away from her. But yes, I knew we couldn’t ever go back, so we
needed to build something new together. And we have.”

She
passes me a stack of potatoes and I rinse my hands and start peeling.
It’s good to focus on a task like this, while my mind turns
over everything she’s said. Will moved on too: he packed up and
came hundreds of miles for a fresh start. So what am I still so hurt
about: that he had a life—and love—I know nothing about,
or the idea that one day, he might want a fresh start from me, too?

“So
are you going to tell me what’s going on with Will?”

I
shake my head. I’m not ready just yet—not when I still
don’t know what I want her to tell me to do.

“I’ve
been worried about you, you know.”

I
look up. “What? That I’ll die alone?”

“No.”
She gives me an indulgent smile. “That you’ll miss out,
you won’t open yourself up to love. I know you’re
independent,” she continues quickly, “and I’m proud
of that, both me and your father are. But watching you act like these
relationships don’t matter, that it’s all just fun and
games . . .” She sighs. “I want more than
that for you, I want you to have everything. A real partner, somebody
to love, and support you, and build a life. I thought that maybe
Will—” She stops, catching the stricken look on my face.
“Never mind.”

I
feel a lump in my throat. “He lied to me,” I say softly,
concentrating on the vegetables. “He kept a whole part of his
life hidden. I know it’s not the same as what Dad did, but it
still feels like a betrayal. He’s sorry now, I know he is,
but . . . how can I trust him again?”

I
look up at her, tears pooling in my eyes. She puts the oven mitts
down and comes to me, pulling me into a warm, comforting hug.

“Oh,
baby. Only you can make that choice.” She holds me close. “Only
you know if he’s the one worth fighting for.”

I
don’t stay for dinner; I hit the road back to Oak Harbor
instead. It’s getting later, and the miles blur outside the
windscreen, my emotions still storming in my chest. Everything Mom
said has only confused me even more.

I
thought I had it all figured out: if you had to fight for a guy, he
wasn’t worth it. If you had to chase him, he didn’t want
you enough from the start.

But
here I am, and all I can do is think about Will. Wanting him. Not
wild and reckless, but those other, quieter moments too: my head
tucked in that nook against his shoulder, his hand, so steady on my
back. It kills me to think those moments could be lost forever, but
at the same time, there’s still a voice in my head saying I
can’t trust him again, that I’d be naïve to go back,
setting myself up to be hurt all over again down the line, but worse.
If anything could be worse than this.

All
my life I’ve been proud that I never needed a man to be happy,
and everything that happened with my parents only made me believe it
all the more. But that was before I met Will, and realized everything
I’d been missing out on—how good it can be to open up and
truly let someone into my heart, to know how it feels to depend on
someone and feel like they’ve got your back no matter what.

To
feel loved, like my heart is so full it could burst clear from my
chest.

It’s
not that I can’t go on without him; I love my life, and I know
that eventually, I’ll be OK.

But
what if I want more than OK?

What
if he’s the one worth fighting for?

As
I approach home again, I find myself turning past my street and
taking the winding highway out of town instead, towards Will’s
place. Trying to ignore him isn’t working; I just have all
these unanswered questions tormenting me every day. Maybe if I give
him a chance and talk, really talk, I can find an answer through all
of this.

But
I’m scared. Terrified he won’t have the answers I need,
or, even worse, that he will—but they won’t make me feel
any differently. But I’m missing him too much already, and my
heart is in my throat by the time I pull up that bumpy dirt road and
reach the house. There’s construction, and guys up on the roof,
but his truck isn’t in the driveway, and when I get out and go
around to the workshop in back, it’s locked up tight. He’s
nowhere to be found.

My
heart sinks.

“Hey.”
Ryland comes around the corner, carrying a stack of wood planks. “I
didn’t think I’d see you here. What’s up?”

“I
was looking for Will,” I ask, nervous. “Do you know when
he’ll be back?”

“He
didn’t say, but I’m guessing a few months or more.”
Ryland sets the wood down and looks up at the house, assessing.

“A
few months?” I echo, panicking.

“Yeah.
He’s gone back to New York.”

“So
that’s it. He went back to her.” I slump lower in my
seat, and take a mournful bite of donut, but even the sugar melting
on my tongue can’t make me feel any better. “I was just
the rebound, after all, and now they’re going to have their
perfect life together.”

“That’s
crazy, and you know it,” Lottie says sternly. She dropped by
the realty office with treats to try and cheer me up, but I’m
not cheering. “He doesn’t love her, he loves you.”

“So
what’s he doing eight hundred miles away?” I counter,
miserable. “He said he would be here if I ever changed my
mind.”

“And
have you?” Lottie presses.

“I
don’t know!”

“Yes,
you do.” She gives me a look. “You should go after him.”

I
shake my head. “I can’t do that.”

“You
went to him once already, to his place. That means something.”

“No,
I went to talk. Just showing up in New York . . .”

“Is
romantic,” Lottie declares.

“Stupid,”
I correct her.

She
shrugs. “Same difference.”

“You
mean love is about taking leave of all your senses?” I ask,
biting into the donut again. I finish it in a few short mouthfuls,
but for some reason, it can’t fill the aching space in my
heart.