Winter 2011
The room glows in dull gold tones against the dark yard. Pale yellow squares of light etched with darker lines form rectangles on the snow. Inside, lamplight and the low fire cast exaggerated shapes on the walls and wooden floors. Shadows hover at the edges of the room, softly creeping closer as his wife closes up the downstairs for the night. But light cocoons the room, wrapping filaments of warmth around it.
From the couch, he can hear her move quietly through the rooms. She will save the family room for last, not wanting to wake him until she has no choice. He shifts slightly, repositioning his weight on the cushions, and cranes his neck to see her. He catches a glimpse of her head as she bends to scoop up piles of jackets and scarves. The coat closet door squeaks slightly as she straightens the mess of clothing and he makes a note to find the oil can for the hinges. Backpacks and lunch boxes still crowd the kitchen table. Before she comes in to wake him up, she'll move those, too, and set the table for the breakfast.
The muffled clink of china and mugs on wood and the metallic rustling of the silverware tray confirm his suspicions. He should get up and help her, but he likes listening to her sounds as she moves across the kitchen. The whisper of her clothes as she puts down the small stack of plates, her soft footsteps as she tries not wake him. It's such a contrast to the days before. Before her, before their children, when his life was silent, not quiet. It's odd, he realizes now, as he lies on the couch, wrapped in light and listening to her, that the one thing he convinced himself he didn't need turned out to be the thing he needed most.
Spring 2004
He was watching Mattie and Jen giggle over something while sitting in a corner of the Roberts' yard. The young women sat close together and had their hands over their mouths to cover their laughter, but he could see their shoulders shake as they tried to control themselves. Twilight had settled over the backyard in a wash of deep blues and navy colored shadows. Paper lanterns, hung in the trees that were just beginning to bloom fully, cast colored rings of light around the lawn. The grill smoked and AJ ran around his father's legs. And he was very nearly a completely happy man.
His spine itched as he waited for her to arrive. She had been avoiding him for a month now. He figured that the party would be the first full glimpse he'd had of her in over a week. He knew why she was uneasy around him. He wasn't particularly anxious to talk to her either. On his list of things he never wanted to do again starting a conversation with the words "in five years" was quickly ascending to the top.
Whether or not he wanted to, because of those three words, he found himself watching her relationships with other men, tracking their progress the way an anthropologist studies other cultures. He ticked off each year and made notes every spring. Until here they were, five years later and both alone. Only, he wasn't alone like she was.
With Mattie's arrival, he'd been able to see what he missed by not having children. There was a part of him that would like to experience being a parent from the beginning, but if it never happened, then he was okay with the way his life was.
The events leading up to this night spread out before him like points on a time line. And although he could remember them like distinct pictures, he couldn't figure out where their friendship had dissolved. It disappeared so quickly that he never noticed until it was gone. Once he had thought he was in love with her, but his emotions were sent spinning when he saw her kissing another man. He couldn't stop love as it rushed to anger and dislike. Couldn't stem the flow of words or even bring himself to stop her when she stopped them before they even began.
He was just getting used to hearing her lips say Webb's name when they stopped. He had just adjusted to the fact that the deal no longer had any force or weight behind it because she was with another man when he realized she was alone. Now, those three words were like a living thing between them and followed them, mocking their relationship.
He tilted back in his deck chair and took a drink from the beer bottle dangling loosely from his hand. May seemed to be intent on apologizing for its behavior the year before. The air was soft and warm and a light breeze made the lanterns dance in the trees. He watched them bounce in brightly colored swoops against the dark branches. His friends dotted the law in noisy clumps and AJ, the birthday boy, was resting his head against his mother's arm as she chatted with the guests.
He heard her before he saw her. Her laugh bent around the corner of the house, carrying across the lawn and drifting on to the deck. He watched as she emerged from behind a large box, brightly wrapped and bigger than her torso. She handed it to the admiral before crossing the lawn to say hello to Harriet. Halfway across the yard, she spotted him and turned to wave and smile. A paper lantern hung over her head and she was caught between the light and the dark lawn. He waved half-heartedly, wishing, for a moment, for something that was never his.
Then
Mattie rushed up to his chair, flopping dramatically over his lower
legs and pretending to faint from hunger. She giggled as he groaned
and tried to move his legs out from under her. And the want drifted
away like the smoke from the barbecue, not gone but lessened, and
he was once again very nearly a completely happy man.