Page 82 of I’m Already Gone

“I love you,” I tell her again.

A soft, sad smile touches her lips. “I know that, too.”

She doesn’t say it back. The words aren’t there yet, and I don’t expect them to be. But I can see the flicker of something hopeful in her eyes, a reflection of the man she might allow me to become again, or better.

My eyes fall to her lips, and I lean in without thinking, pressing my mouth against hers. I linger, savoring the salty taste of her tears and the softness I missed so much.

“I love you so much,” I whisper again against her mouth, my forehead resting on hers. I drop my hands from her face, already missing the warmth of her skin against mine.

“Good night,” I tell her, walking backward toward the door, forcing myself to leave.

The last thing I see is her touching her fingertips to her lips. And then I shut the door, leaving her alone.

Ethan

This proximity is torture. I can barely breathe, not with being close enough to catch a whiff of her lavender scent whenever the door creaks open. It’s tearing me apart. I yearn for the feel of her skin against mine, for the sweet smell of her hair, like berries on a summer day.

I miss her.

But I have to keep reminding myself that she is giving me a second chance, letting me back into her life. Small, cautious baby steps. That’s all I can ask for right now.

Sorting through the bedroom closet, I clear out space for more of my belongings. As I reach the top shelf, my hand brushes against something solid. I pull it forward, and a box tumbles to the floor. I glance down, stunned to see what the contents are scattered everywhere.

The corner of my lips lift. It’s some of our favorite pictures, still in their silver frames. And my old faded gray college shirt she used to wear toward the end of our marriage. I always thought she’d tossed it, but now I know she just tucked it away safely.

My fingers brush against something stiff beneath the photos.

A purple photo album.

I shouldn’t touch it. It feels like picking a scab. But I can’t help myself. I sit on the edge of the guest bed, the single lamp casting a weak circle of light, and I turn the first page. From the first page to the last… I don’t just cry.

I break all over again.

An album of Lily and me. Our memories. All through middle school, high school, right up to our college years. A whole messy, beautiful timeline of us. There are goofy birthday parties, sun-drenched boat rides, blurry shots from the fair, and then all the awkward, amazing stuff from high school.

There’s the picture of the first time I asked her to be my girlfriend.

Our first kiss. I let out a choked-up laugh, remembering how I fumbled the camera, holding it at a weird angle to snap the shot. I told her then that I needed to remember that exact moment, how my stomach was doing backflips, convinced I was going to screw up the kiss.

I didn’t.

It was perfect.

She was perfect.

I keep turning, flipping through the pages. Our prom, graduation day, and the first day of college. Each one is a fresh stab to my gut.

Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. I slam the book shut, rage and grief making it hard to breathe. My vision is a watery mess as I clutch the book to my chest and crumble into myself.

Is this what it feels like to mourn? To mourn the irretrievable loss of every single day and night I wasn’t there for my wife and children before the divorce?

How could I have been so negligent? Looking through these photos, reliving each memory, is like a stab to the heart, a reminder of what I took for granted. A reminder of what was right in front of me. And I walked away from all of it.

This is it. My second chance to plead for forgiveness, to show her how deeply I love her and how committed I am to us.

She was my wife.

My best friend.