The First Husband

“I can’t believe how incredible it is here,” I said, as he reached into his knapsack. He spread out an oatmeal-colored blanket.

“You never knew about this place?”

I shook my head. “I’ve been missing out, apparently.”

“We’ll make up for it,” he said. Then he smiled at me, squinting his eyes, tightly. He had forgotten to bring his sunglasses. I reached into my bag and handed him my extra pair. They were on the enormous side, oval-shaped and cherry red. Feminine and ridiculous on him.

“How do I look?”

“Perfect,” I said, and smiled.

He handed me a wet suit, the legs folded awkwardly. “You’ll need to change,” he said.

I stared at it. “You brought me a wet suit?”

He nodded. “It would appear so.”

“You brought me a wet suit, but you forgot your sunglasses?”

“You’re stalling,” he said.

I pointed my finger at him. “But . . . see . . . I thought when you said we were going surfing, and I told you I haven’t surfed, you would understand that that meant you would surf and I would lie here on the blanket.”

“What fun is that?” he said.

I think not drowning is a blast, I wanted to say. But, all of a sudden, I couldn’t say it—because I could picture it, as clearly as if Nick were the one standing in front of me. I could picture him laughing at that. It almost made me fall down. I was suddenly and completely inundated by it. What had been lost in losing him.

I sat down on the blanket, trying to catch my breath. And trying to get a hold of my balance before I made a fool of myself.

Griffin bent down, so he was leaning on his knees, standing over me. “We should probably do it already,” he said. “Just get it over with.”

I looked at him. “What’s that?”

He sat down on the blanket, getting comfortable, holding up his index finger. “One,” he said.

“One?”

“One conversation in which you tell me everything you want about him and then we never have to talk about him again.”

“Just like that? Throw him out with the bathwater?” I joked. Then, I tried to say what I really meant. “I feel a little weird talking about him,” I said.

“I get that.” He nodded. “But don’t. You’re talking about him more by not talking about him.”

He was right. But, in a place where I was trying to be reductive, I didn’t know where to begin or end. So I sat there quietly, the beach heat kicking up, its strong breeze pushing my hair out of my face, leaving it bare.

“How about if instead of going into everything, I tell you the best thing about him and the worst thing?” I said.

He smiled. “Oh, so now you just want to make fun of me,” he said. “Fair enough . . .”

“No.” I shook my head. “I’m not. I’m really not making fun. Maybe you’re having an influence.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then go ahead.”

“Well,” I said. “The best thing is that we’d camp together. We both traveled so much for work, me especially, but when we were home, sometimes Nick would get back from work at the end of the day and we’d put a tent in the backyard, and sleep outside. It sounds silly, I know, but we’d end up staying up most of the night talking, locked into one sleeping bag, watching the sun come up together. It made me happy. And it made me feel safe.”

Griffin smiled bigger, not threatened, not with any sort of judgment. “That is a good thing,” he said.

I nodded.