Page 28 of Ardently Yours

A hysterical squawk bursts out of me. One of the librarians, an older woman with a halo of curly light brown hair and ruddy skin, shushes me, and I slap my hand over my mouth.

I kissed a former president’s grandson. I sent this man digital photos of curtains I sewed for my trailer last week.

Oh, God. I complained to him about period cramps and hormonal acne. Did he know I didn’t know who he was?

I scroll to the next article. A series of photos of Arden and Henry pops up on the screen, and the air freezes in my lungs. I would give almost anything to go back in time and never click this link.

Tears well in my eyes and track down my face so suddenly, I don’t have time to process what I’m feeling.

In the photographs, beautiful, reserved, dignified Arden holds Henry as he screams and tries to throw himself on his mother’s casket. Arden’s expression is a mask of pain so deep that it hurts to look at him. Eyes dry, but rimmed in red, his unfocused gaze stares straight ahead. Arden’s face is frozen, never changing from photo to photo as he tightens his grip on his flailing son and holds Henry's head against his chest.

Comments beneath the article appear in a box. People criticize Arden for allowing his son to attend his mother’s funeral. People say Arden looked like a robot and was probably glad she wasdead. People pity him. People talk about the way his parents were noticeably absent and “refused to honor a drug addict”—

I didn’t cry at Steve’s funeral. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me break down in public. But here. Now. In a library so silent that all I hear is the occasional cough and the hum of the computers and overhead lighting, grief hits me like a truck.

A shuddering sob tears out of me. Then another. And another.

It isn’t fair. And maybe that’s a child's lament, but I don’t fucking care, because It. Isn’t. Fair. Those boys will never have their beautiful mother. Arden lost his wife. I lost the only man I ever loved. The only man I will everlet myselflove.

Bronnie doesn’t have a father to carry her on his shoulders or sing her to sleep. She doesn’t have Steve, andhe was good. He deserved every wonderful thing in this world. He was going to make a difference. He had such big dreams. And he loved me like it was the most important thing he would ever do.

And then he was gone. Taken away from me by a patch of black ice and an out-of-control semi like he was nothing. As if my world didn’t need him to keep it turning.

And through it all, I had this fucking town telling me I had no right to mourn him. No right to his last name. No right to give hischildhis last name.

If the man who took Arden and Henry’s photos were in front of me, I would spit on him.

I know the mask Arden is wearing in those photos because it’s the same one I’ve worn myself.

The librarian who shushed my laugh earlier approaches quietly and puts her hand on my shoulder, passing me a tissue.

I take it and shake my head, trying to control my sobs and failing miserably. “I’m sorry. I’m leaving.”

She wraps soft arms around me. Her scent, Liz Claiborne, combines with the saltwater of tears in my nose. I’ll never smell that perfume again without remembering grief.

“No rush. Take all the time you need,” she says.

The kindness of a near stranger is almost too much to bear. “My fiancé died, but it was two years ago. I was doing fine. I was okay. I don’t know why . . . now. I don’t know.” It’s a lie.

It’s because I kissed Arden today. I told myself I wasn’t interested in a relationship, but I was attracted to him. He reminded me of everything I’ve lost and everything I’ll never have again.

Then those photos sucker punched me in the heart. “Too much. It’s just . . . too much.”

“It’s like that sometimes,” she says gently. “Grief isn’t linear. Don’t try to put it in a box. Let yourself feel what you feel. There’s time enough to dust yourself off tomorrow.”

I should walk away from Arden now. I have to be realistic. He and I? We’re not headed anywhere “good.” I can’t tempt myself with “wants” when what I need is the polar opposite. Arden isn’t a man who would ever understand the choice I made. If he knew, he’d turn me in so fast I’d get whiplash. That much was obvious when he told me his opinion about having “criminal” friends.

The memory of Arden holding Henry forms in my mind, and I know it’s too late. I can’t push him out of my life. For all his wealth and prestige, his famous family, and the respect of his peers, Arden and his children are so very alone. No matter how pragmatic I want to be, when it comes to people I care about, all bets are off.

I Want It That Way

The Emails

Two Days Later

November 11, 1996

Dear Charlotte,

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