The Light We Lost

I put down the pen and picked up my fork, taking another bite of the pasta I’d thought I was finished eating, just so I didn’t have to respond right away. What I wanted to say was: I’m more than adorable. What I wanted to say was: I need you to understand how important my career is to me. What I wanted to say was: I need you to love me because of that, not in spite of it. But so much about Darren was wonderful, and he was apologizing—he didn’t mean to hurt me. Besides, he was a smart guy. I figured in time he’d understand.

I swallowed my mouthful of pasta. “I hope you think I’m more than adorable,” I said.

“Of course!” he answered. “You’re beautiful, too, and sweet and funny and smart. Do you want me to keep going? There’s no shortage of adjectives that describe you.”

I laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t mind a few more . . .”

Darren smiled—relieved. “Hmm, how about sexy? How about thoughtful?”

“Those are good ones,” I said.

I wonder, sometimes, if I should’ve taken that conversation more seriously. If I should have pushed it further and said all the things I was thinking but kept inside. Because he still doesn’t understand. Not truly.

xxxvi

In preparation for Darren’s birthday we got saddlebags for our bikes and three pairs of bike shorts each, and made reservations at bed-and-breakfasts in Sayville and Southampton. We decided to celebrate a little early and do the ride over Memorial Day weekend. Since we’d gotten a share in a house in Montauk that summer, we figured we could spend the final night of our trip there and then take the train home. Everything was coming together perfectly, which was exactly how Darren liked things.

We’d gone on training rides starting at the end of March, biking up to Westchester, or over the George Washington Bridge, or out to Coney Island. Darren insisted on packing our saddlebags with snacks and blankets and water so we could have impromptu picnics wherever we went—and so we could practice biking with the proper amount of weight on our bikes. For our last training ride, we biked over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, then up to the Cloisters. The day was gorgeous—sunny and cool—and we ended up laughing about a million different things that if I told you about now wouldn’t even seem funny. But we were in one of those moods where humor was everywhere.

“I’m so lucky to have found you,” Darren said, when we got home that day.

“We’re both lucky,” I answered. “To have found each other.” And it felt that way, at that moment. It really did.

• • •

ON THE MORNING we were set to head out, I got up extra early. With images of our last long ride together in my mind, I was excited about the trip, but also a tiny bit worried. This was going to be the longest Darren and I had spent together alone. It felt like a trial run for the future. What would it mean if we got sick of each other? Or more than that, what would it mean if we didn’t?

But then Darren woke up and rolled over so both of our heads were on the same pillow. “Thank you so much for doing this with me. It’s gonna be great. And I just want you to know that if we have to stop and rest or take the train part of the way, it’s completely fine. No pressure on either of us, okay?”

The nervous part of me relaxed. I kissed him and said, “But we’ll make it.”

The first day was fun, though about thirty miles in, it started to get a little boring. We couldn’t talk much, and all we were doing was pedaling. Darren went first since he knew the route, and I followed along, memorizing his back and his T-shirt and the speed at which he moved his legs. I sang some songs in my head until he said, “Sandwich break!”

Before we left, he’d made ten peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, getting smooth peanut butter especially for me and crunchy for himself. We both preferred strawberry jelly.

“Milady,” he said, when we’d pulled to the side of the road and rested our bikes in the grass, “can I interest you in one sandwich or two?”

I stretched my muscles and laughed. “One for now.”

We took off our helmets and our biking gloves, then rinsed our hands and sat down to eat.

“Digestion break?” he asked, as he leaned backward, lying on the grass, resting his head against his saddlebag.

“Digestion break,” I agreed, leaning my head on his chest.

“This is amazing,” he said. “Did I ever tell you that last year, on my birthday, I wished that in the coming year I’d find an awesome girl who was beautiful and daring and funny and smart . . . and then there you were not even three months later in that beach house?”

I sat up so I was looking at him. “You might want to be careful what you wish for this year, then, if your wishes are so powerful,” I told him.

“Oh, I already have that wish planned.”

I smiled. “Of course you do.”

He laughed. “But you know I can’t tell, because once you tell a wish, it won’t come true.”

“That’s right. Gotta keep it secret.”

He brushed my bangs to the side.

“We’re going to be sore tonight,” he said. “But I brought mineral ice and Advil. And Vaseline for our butts. You know, in case they get chafed.”

“What?” I said.

“I wouldn’t want to ride with a chafed butt,” he answered, with a bashful look on his face that made me understand exactly what he looked like when he was six and eight and thirteen. I saw his whole life in that look. He seemed so sweet just then, and my heart filled.

“I love you,” I said. It was the first time either one of us had said it.

He looked at me, still for a moment, and then smiled. “Me too,” he said. “I love you too.”

Then he sat up and kissed me. “Can I tell you a secret?” he asked.

I nodded, not at all sure what he was going to say.

“I’ve loved you for months. Ever since we took those hilarious dance classes. I loved you then.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.

“Because I didn’t want to scare you off,” he said.

His honesty was refreshing. And disarming. I kissed him again because he was right. He would have scared me off.

Darren understands so much about me. He has, right from the start. Though he’s definitely never understood my connection to you—but I don’t blame him for that.

xxxvii

There are people we come across during our lives who, after they drift out of our worlds, drift out for good. Even if we see them again, it’s a quick, meaningless hi and how are you? There are other people, though, with whom things pick up right where the relationship left off, whenever we run into them. The level of comfort—it feels like no time has passed.

That’s what it was like when I saw you again. It was a little more than a year after you left. A few months after your phone call. You e-mailed me saying:

Hey Lucy,

I just landed at JFK. Are you around this week? I’d love to see you. Maybe a drink on Wednesday or Thursday?

Gabe

PS. Watched It Takes a Galaxy on the plane. Loved the way the dream episode came out.

I was at Darren’s apartment when the e-mail came through. It was a Sunday and we’d just returned from Montauk. I wanted to get back to my place that night, but Darren had food in his refrigerator and I didn’t, so we were going to have a quick bite together before I went home to do laundry and get things ready for work the next day. Darren was unpacking his bag of damp beach stuff and dropping it in the bathtub so it wouldn’t mildew, and I was scanning the contents of his kitchen cabinets for extra items to add to our sandwich dinner. I’d pulled my BlackBerry out of my bag to see if any crazy work things had gone on while we were on the train. Nothing from work, but that e-mail from you. I was glad Darren was in the other room.

My body reacts so physically to you that it’s almost bizarre. It’s been like that ever since I met you, and I always assumed—perhaps hoped—that would change at some point. But it never has.

I saw your name, and my stomach flipped. I clicked on the e-mail. Even though part of me thought, This is not a good idea, I knew I would meet up with you. I wanted to see you, to hear how you were doing. I also knew I had to bring it up with Darren. Not to ask his permission, but because it would feel wrong not to tell him.

His face was completely calm when I said that I’d just gotten an e-mail from my ex. It cracked slightly when I told him I was planning to meet you for a drink but then went back to normal.

“Will you tell me when?” he asked.

“Of course,” I answered.

“Will you come here afterward?”

I wasn’t planning on sleeping with you. I wasn’t planning on staying out late either. But I had a feeling I’d want to be alone that night. Still, I knew I had to compromise a little. For Darren. Because I loved him.

“Absolutely,” I told him.

He seemed happy with that, and our conversation moved on. To the new guy Alexis was dating, the surfer she met at Ditch Plains the weekend before. To the three weddings we were going to that summer—all his friends—and whether we’d rather rent a car and drive to Philly for Brad and Tracey’s wedding, or take the train and cab it around the city once we got there. I was totally normal on the outside, having these conversations with Darren, but inside all I wanted to do was check my BlackBerry to see if you’d responded. To know when exactly I was going to see you again. This is why it was better when we weren’t in touch. Waiting is always excruciating.