Page 42 of I Will Always Love You (Maybe)

“September,” she says. “And thank you. We’re so excited. Between us, the wedding planning has been interesting.” She laughs. “Kind of the easiest thing in the world. We’re going to do it at Quinn’s tree farm, her sister-in-law Morgan already has a binder the size of a wedding cake filled with every detail, her sister, Frankie, is taking pictures… I’m just sort of stepping back, nodding, and smiling. I swear after running my own business all these years, it’s blissful, letting everyone else take the reins.”

After we chat a little bit more, I tell her I need to get home and back to Kona, since this is the first time she’s been alone, and refrain from saying something super awkward like I’m glad I have her blessing to move forward with Josie.

Because every second that passes, every breath I’m breathing, every freaking heartbeat, I know this is what I want. To move forward. With Josie.

One the way home, I stop at the light when I feel my phone vibrate.

Josie

Sleeping alone last night was the worst. I’m absolutely taking you up on the offer to come back to your place for the night.

If I thought that smelling baked goods turned me into Pavlov’s dog, it pales in comparison to the flutters that run rampant in my stomach and beeline to my core from this one single message. I didn’t like waking up this morning and not having Josie in the house. Sure, she’s only slept in my bed once, but now that I’ve had it, I want it again.

With Amelia, I was never codependent. We had such independent lives, work, friends. Sometimes we even took weekend trips without each other. So, it takes me a moment to process if all these new sensations are codependency or not, but it’s not. It’s simply knowing that I prefer having Josie here than not having her here. And something about that feels wonderful.

Back at home, Kona is clearly less worried about me leaving her than I was. She peeks up from her nap, more annoyed that I woke her up than anything, then closes her eyes again to continue her mid-morning snooze. I fill up my water bottle, then head to the recording studio.

I have to record at least two episodes this week to make up for what I missed, and there are a ton of unread emails and DMs to my account. Which is fine. I’m allowed to take a week off just like anyone else. Just because I haven’t taken any time off since I’ve started this show, I don’t think my listeners would think any differently of me if I do.

The headphones feel different today than last week. Heavier maybe? Almost uncomfortable. I take them off, adjust the height, and finally set them to my side. I tap on the list of emails I had earmarked a while ago for this next recording. A husband convinced the wife likes the dog more (might be true), a burned-out mom feeling the husband might like video games more (also might be true), work flirting going too far, a wife that’s becoming a little obsessed with the sapphic romance books she’s reading and comparing her own wife to the ones on the page.

Oof. There’s a lot to go through. I swallow and slide on my headphones. “Hey there! Welcome to Love ’Em or Leave ’Em, I’m your host, Ruby Reanne.” My voice cracks, sounding unnaturally off-key. Something doesn’t feel right. I hit stop on the recording, take a sip of water, shake out my limbs, and try again.

And I fail, once again, to sound like the Ruby Reanne that I’ve cultivated. Shit.

I know what it is. Although I still stick by my thought process that this is my private creative space, that I don’t owe anyone my real name, that I say at the beginning of my show that I have no professional credentials whatsoever in the relationship department, there’s a layer of deception happening here. But… shouldn’t people be listening for entertainment? I mean, honestly. When I listen to podcasts made by the Brené Browns of the world, I take their advice to heart because they’re researchers with credentials and letters behind their name. When I listen to other shows whose hosts are actors, football players, or comedians, I know it’s entertainment. So really, others should be looking at my podcast with the same critical eye, and I can’t help it if they’re not.

Right?

And along those same lines, I still don’t know if I need to tell Josie about it. Do authors with pen names tell their partners? Not that Josie is my partner… yet… I don’t think… but are you really obligated to share something like this? I honestly don’t know. I’m trying to think of my own advice—my Colby advice, not my Ruby advice, and I’m coming up blank. God, if she never heard of the show, it’d be so much easier. And if she never followed some terrible advice from the show and got humiliated, this would really be a hell of a lot easier.

So, am I not telling her because this is my private life, and I’m keeping it as such? Or because I didn’t tell her before, and I let her open up to me, and didn’t stop her when she told me how this show pushed her into a humiliating situation? Or am I not telling her because I’m scared that I messed something up for her, and she’ll be mad?

I take off my headphones and retie my ponytail. I’m trying to justify all of this in my head, but really, I think I know deep down that I need to come clean. But we just started this relationship, and God, I don’t want to do something to screw it up. I’m getting the tiniest slice of happiness pie after all this time, and the very, very last thing I want to do is have it end prematurely.

She’s happy. I’m happy. It’s not fair for me to ruin this for her because I feel the need to clear my conscience. Right? Right.

I clasp my fingers on the nape of my skull and tap. Everything changed yesterday with Josie. I want to go down this path, see where it leads me, where it leads us, and take a chance on something both terrifying and potentially wonderful.

But there’s something I need to do first. Something that I’ve needed to do for a long time but didn’t have the strength. My breath feels tight against my throat as I pull back on my headphones and move to my journal.

“Hey, Amelia,” I say into the recording. “Well, Josie and I…” I trail off. Yes, again, I know that I’m just speaking into a recording, and not actually to Amelia, but she doesn’t need all of the details. “Anyway, she’s so wonderful, you know? When you died, I really didn’t think there would be anyone else. I was prepared to spend my life alone. I spent six years of my life, just knowing that my fate was sealed the day you died, and it would be me, alone in my grief, in my solitude, until I joined you in the afterlife. And now… I think this is the start of something really amazing with Josie, and everything that I’ve thought since that day in the hospital has shifted.”

My lips tremble and stinging tears well behind my eyes. I swipe at a few that trickle down my cheek and swallow. My chest is hurting at the same rate it’s healing. The rips in my heart that I’ve carried all these years feel like they’re finally suturing.

The image of Amelia’s face starts to pixelate and haze. I close my eyes and picture myself hugging her at the ocean. The waves crash around us, the seagulls fly high, and I’m squeezing Amelia as tight as I can. She’s hugging me back, her mouth at my ear. “It’s okay, Colby. Time to let me go. I’m okay, and you’re okay.”

I sob into my hands and speak into the recording. I’m terrified of truly letting this piece of me go, but I need to. It’s no longer fair for me to hang on to Amelia, and it’s not fair to anyone I may want to be with to have her ghost lingering over us.

I’m crying so hard now that I hear Kona patter down the hall and stand outside the door. I cry for my wife who’s gone, for the relief that her memory stayed with me for so long, for the freedom I feel knowing that I am finally at peace with what happened.

The air in my lungs sputters with the sobs, but my chest lifts with the release. “I need to let you go, Amelia. You’ve been with me this whole time, and I’m going to miss you. Fuck, I’m going to miss you so much. You were my first love, the one that captured and held my heart, and you will always have a piece of me.”

Tears stream down my face and I swipe them off my chin. Everything in me knows that this is time. A closing of a door while a new one opens. “Thank you for being there with me while I hung on to you, but I’m ready now. This will be my last recording to you.” My chin trembles and I pull in air until my sobs stop and my heartbeat evens.

“I love you. I will always love you,” I say into the laptop. “But now I’m ready to love someone else. Goodbye, Amelia.”

TWENTY-SEVEN