“Well, I’d rather keep it all for myself,” she says, and puts one gloved hand on my chest. Kisses me, both my ski poles firmly jabbed into the ground.
“I can live with that,” I murmur when she pulls back.
“You sure you’re all right?”
“Just go enjoy yourself,” I tell her, and wave her away.
I wait until she’s turned and headed back for the lift before I make my way very, very carefully and slowly, toward the end of the slope.Back in the condo, I toss my key onto the kitchen counter, leave my coat and ski pants in a heap, and collapse on the couch.
I don’t move for at least half an hour, and secretly, I’m glad Delilah’s not here. It was bad enough that she practically had to hold my hand for most of today while I fell down a mountain, everyone else zipping by; she doesn’t need to see me collapse in an undignified pile.
Especially since I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that I’m the first boyfriend she’s had to teach to ski.
I push the thought away and do some mindless scrolling on my phone. I play some dumb games. Check Facebook. Text my brothers’ group chat about how much skiing hurts, and get back several sarcastic replies about my terrible free vacation.
Finally, I get off the couch. Walking doesn’t feel wonderful, but at least I don’t feel like my legs are rubber any more as I wander through Delilah’s condo, turning lights on and off as I check the place out a little more thoroughly.
Two bedrooms, two bathrooms: one in the master suite, one off the living room. A stone fireplace and leather couches; a small but gourmet kitchen; a balcony; a dining area.
And tiny, tiny traces of him. A man’s razor in a bathroom drawer. A single sock in a closet, neatly folded, on a shelf next to a pillow. A cigar, probably stale as hell, in a kitchen drawer next to some spatulas. They’re all things that were obviously overlooked and left in corners, but those whispers of his presence tickle at my brain, like I’ve walked through a spiderweb and can’t get the strands off completely.
Her life has whispers of him, but not of me. We were together for six years before she even met him, through high school and college. Big years. Important years, and yet I’m nowhere to be found. It’s as if she’s washed me away completely.
My phone dings, pulling me out of it.* * *Delilah: I’m gonna do one more run & then head in. You still in the hot tub?
Me: I will be.* * *She texts a bathtub emoji, and I put my phone back on the charger. Drink a glass of water. Rub my eyes, remember that I should shower before I get into the hot tub, and open a closet to find towels.
It’s top-to-bottom white linen except for a single, solitary cardboard box on the floor. The corners are ripped. There’s black marker on the side, text scribbled out so hard that it’s unreadable. It looks worn, old, and it’s so incongruous in this otherwise sparkling place that I can’t help but bend down and open it.
I don’t know what I’m expecting. Cleaning products, maybe. Old sweaters. A broken toaster, though none of those expectations account for the weight in my chest as I pull back the cardboard.
Haphazardly on top is a shining, pearlescent white book that says Mr. & Mrs. in delicate silver letters. The weight in my chest grows heavier, feels like it’s pulling on my lungs, and I swallow hard.
I should put it back without looking, and I know it. I came to her and offered a blank slate. I’m the one who wanted to forget everything and start over. I owe her my ignorance.
I open it anyway, already hating myself.
The very first page proves me right. It’s them, in front of the altar, deep in a kiss. He’s wearing black and she’s wearing a white strapless dress, hair piled stop her head, arms and shoulders blank.
I kneel on the floor. I stare, the weight of jealousy heavy in my chest, and I hate him. I hate him for swooping in and getting what I couldn’t have. I hate him for whatever he did to make her divorce him. I hate him for haunting her life still, with this album and the sock in the closet and the cocktail shaker she still has.
I flip some pages. They’re just wedding pictures, but they’re hers, and I can’t stop myself. She’s happy, glowing, beautiful, and so, so young. I remember her this young. I remember her younger, the two of us just kids.
Under the photo book is more, and I put the book down, glance in. There’s a jewelry box. Photo frames. Tchotchkes, a name plate, a throw pillow, and I should stop. She’ll be back soon, and I know -- I know -- I’m not meant to see this.