“I know. I’m glad she was there,” he says. His hand caresses my cheek; his fingers brush the hair back from my face. Still, I keep my eyes shut. “You need to eat something.”
“I’m sure Anna will force-feed me the soup she’s making. Or my mom will when she gets here in, oh, twenty minutes,” I say, finally looking over at him. He’s wearing my favorite suit—gray herringbone, cut perfectly for his lean, muscular body—with a white shirt and mint-green tie. “I assume she called my parents?”
Gabe shrugs and smiles. “You know Anna, she’s not known for her secret-keeping abilities.”
I sigh. Gabe and I often joked that the best time to share something with Anna was immediately after telling everyone else.
“I completely freaked her out,” I say. “She didn’t even comment on how cute the doctor was.”
“Man, that is serious,” Gabe says, his tone light. I smile. But a moment later, the smile drops from my face and Gabe’s laughter fades.
“It’s okay, Tegan. You’re just not ready yet,” Gabe finally says, when the silence becomes uncomfortable. “You need more time.”
“That’s what I told Anna.” I’m weary now. I really want to be alone. “I wish you could explain it to her. I think you could make her understand.”
“She’s doing exactly what you would do for her, Tegan.”
I nod, rolling onto my side. I can hear Anna in the kitchen, as drawers open and close, and the microwave timer beeps. A salty, fragrant smell hits my nose and I know the boxed chicken noodle soup—the extent of Anna’s cooking repertoire—is bubbling away on the stove. I hope I can get some of it down, if for no other reason than to appease everyone.
“I want to talk to you about that night,” Gabe says, pulling me back from thoughts of my churning stomach. “We need to talk about it.”
“No, we don’t,” I reply.
“It’s okay to be angry with me,” Gabe says. “You can’t possibly hate me as much as I...hate myself.” My strong husband, as broken as I am.
“I don’t hate you, Gabe.”
Oh, but I’m lying to you, my love. I do hate you. You ruined everything.
“Well, you should.”
I say nothing.
“I have an idea,” he says at last. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it, but I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, Teg?”
This is an interesting question. Six months ago I wouldn’t have hesitated.
“We need the jar of spontaneity.” His voice has regained its familiar positivity.
“I don’t know where it is, Gabe,” I say, although that’s not at all true. It’s on the top shelf of our closet, tucked out of sight behind stacks of unread magazines I’ll never get to. “I think Mom may have tossed it when she was cleaning up last week.”
“It’s in the closet behind your magazines,” he says.
“Okay, I’ll get it later.”
“I think you should get it now.”
With an angry sigh, I throw back the covers and step onto the plastic footstool in our closet. The jar can’t help. The jar is the last thing I need. But I grab the stack of magazines and drop them to the floor, the sound of their weight hitting the hardwood echoing harshly inside our small bedroom.
“You okay in there?” Anna calls out from the kitchen.
“Fine,” I say as loudly and confidently as I can, hoping she doesn’t come in to check on us. “Just dropped some magazines.”
“Okay. Soup is almost ready,” she says.
“Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute,” I call back. Then, stretching my arms, I reach for the jar, a large glass vase, really, and tuck it into the crook of my arm.
I let the vase drop onto the duvet and some of its contents spill out. “Here’s the fucking jar, Gabe. What would you like me to do with it?”
“Now,” he says, pausing for a moment. “Now we choose.”
Six months before the accident
“I like it,” Gabe said, his fingers caressing my ear with a gentle grace that belied their size. Self-consciously I touched where his fingers had just been, trying to tame a stray piece of bang. “It’s different, but it suits you.”
“I’m not sure what happened,” I said. “I asked for a trim but then I thought about all the blow-drying and told her to just chop it off.” My hair, best described as the color of mud except for when the summer’s sun added golden touches, had been just below shoulder length since high school. It was my safe length—long enough to feel feminine, but not so long I couldn’t quickly blow-dry it if whatever I was doing called for more than a finger-swept ponytail. I ran a hand through it again, still surprised at how quickly my fingers moved through the now short strands.
“Actually, it’s really hot,” Gabe murmured, his hand sliding down my bare neck, to my shoulder, to my breast, where it lingered. “I bet it looks even better when you’re naked.” I laughed until his lips met mine, warm, full and soft. I sighed and pressed closer to him, letting my sundress drop to our bedroom floor after he swiftly untied the neck strap.
“Just like I thought.” Gabe’s eyes trailed down my body, then back to my face. “It really suits you.”
Afterward we lay tangled in our sheets, and I rested my head against his chest. His heart thumped furiously.
“I have an idea,” he said, his fingers tickling up and down my spine. I shivered and snuggled in closer.
“Oh, yeah?” I tilted my head back to look at him. He kissed the tip of my nose and I breathed in his scent. Sweat mixed with the woodsy smell of his deodorant. “You really do like this haircut, don’t you?”
“That’s not it,” he said, smiling. “Although I would like you to hold that thought.”
“Tell me.” I settled back against his chest and closed my eyes. Contented. Happy.
“Well, seeing as we’re getting married in a few months, I thought we should think about what we want that to look like.”
“What do you mean? Everything’s already planned.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mean the wedding. I’m talking about life after that.”
“I already picture that all the time.” I smiled. I couldn’t wait for that wedding band to slide over my knuckle.
“I know we won’t be able to do this right away, with work and everything, but I had this idea to create a list of all the things we want to do, the places we want to travel to,” he said. “A list of experiences we can share.”
“So, sort of like a bucket list?”
“Yeah, sort of,” he said. “But that’s kind of grim, right? More like a wish list, you know?”
I kissed him hard on the lips. Again and again, my lips meeting his teeth as he laughed. “Tegan and Gabe’s wish list. I love it. Let’s do it,” I finally said.
“Now here’s the thing.” He jumped out of bed and grabbed a pad of paper and pen from his briefcase. “We’re going to write out each thing on a piece of paper, fold it up and stick it in a jar or something.” I nodded, grinning. “Then when we have vacation time or feel like life is dragging us down, we’ll pick something out and do that.”