Page 93 of A World Without You
Bennett shakes his head. “If I did, I wouldn’t have helped with the master plan to get him to talk to you and save Christmas.”
I smirk at his sarcasm but mostly just absorb his answer and rotate my wine glass on my knee, staring at the fireplace burning bright in the corner of the room.
“It’s probably too soon anyway, right?” I ask, and Bennett shifts toward me, waiting for me to elaborate. “As you said earlier, the ink hasn’t even dried on my divorce papers, and I was ready to leap back into a relationship that ended a long time ago. Or at least I was hopeful to make amends.” I think for a minute and appreciate that Bennett doesn’t try to fill the silence. “But I don’t know Colin anymore,” I confess.
He inhales sharply, nodding and raising his eyebrows as if he understands the sentiment all too well. He doesn’t say,I told you so.
“It’s natural for you to wonder about Colin. I mean, the way you ended was rather dramatic, and that relationship bled into your marriage. And then with all your weird visions.” He rainbow-hands the last word, and I restrain myself from punching his shoulder and toss a throw pillow at him instead.
“They’re not visions!” I say with a laugh.
“What are they? Revelations?” he asks.
“God, you’re so biblical tonight. First, Jesus bones, and now this,” I sneer, and he almost laughs.
“Predictions?” he suggests. “Come on, Ms. Fortune Teller, tell me what they are?”
“They’re just dreams,” I say with a breath.
“Dashing through a dream,” Bennett mock-sings and I roll my eyes.
“They’re just stupid dreams,” I reiterate, but it tastes like a lie rolling off my tongue. “Right? It’s like you said, that relationship bled into my marriage, and my marriage is over. And now I’m back at square one, wondering about everything that could have been if I had made a different choice.”
“I thought you said you predicted the future. You have celiac. The snow on Thanksgiving. The waterline burst. Did it snow in your dream last night?”
I narrow my eyes. “Yes,” I force myself to say. Even I don’t want to believe it. “It feels so disjointed from this life, though.”
“Because it is. You didn’t choose that life. You chose this one,” he says, grabbing the second bottle of wine of the night off the coffee table and topping off my glass and then his. “And I don’t know why it’s happening to you, and I only halfway believe it’s true, but regardless of the why, you need to decide how you’re going to live in this one. Everyone chooses something.”
They do. I’ve seen what happens when the one I love doesn’t choose me, I’ve seen what happens when he does, and I’ve seen what happens when I’m the one to walk away. It’s a gross, yet undeniably revealing awakening to the meaning of love when it whittles down to a choice.
“This is awful, Bennett,” I confess, yet again. My truths being poured out of me night after night. “You know when I decided to leave Seattle, I thought I was being so honorable and wholesome. I thought,oh, look at me, moving to a small town to marry the good boy and make a familyand now...” I let out a sound of disgust.
“That can still be an honorable choice,” he counters. Always playing the devil’s advocate.
“Not if you hurt people in the process,” I argue vehemently. “But what if the girl doesn’t get the guy in the end?”
Brick by emotional brick is building on my chest begging to break free and cry. Bennett reaches out and takes my hand, stopping me from continuing.
“It doesn’t matter if the girl gets the guy in the end, as long as she gets herself,” he says, gently pressing his hand on my chest over my heart. “Do you hear this heart? It’s worthy of love and friendship and life and no one gets to take that away from you. Do you hear me?”
I nod, knowing my heart is pounding hard against his palm.
I stare at him for a long moment, conscious of everywhere we’re touching. His hand on my chest. My legs draped over his lap. His other hand resting on my knee. Just two friends sharing a bottle of wine and discussing my nightly hallucinations as if I’m not crazy at all. The longer I stare at his light brown eyes, the more I realize, “They’re green.”
“Annnndmaybe you’ve had enough,” he says, reaching for my wine glass, and I stop him as I laugh.
“Your eyes,” I clarify. “I always thought they were this light brown color, but they’re really green.”
He shrugs with a shy smile. “They’re hazel.”
“They’re almost emerald.”
“They change with the lighting.”
“They’re gorgeous.” As soon as I make the comment, the room stills. His Adam’s apple glides down his neck and back up.
“Thank you,” he says finally, his voice raspy in the quiet room.
