Free From Scratch by Rachel Goodman Page A

forgiveness, right there by the Stouffer’s lasagna. Not when he stormed out of the store and drove away, leaving Annabelle to fend for her own ride home. Not even when he showed up at their rental house hours later and emptied his side of the closet into three suitcases and a duffel bag. He loaded his things into the back of his Jeep and left. She’s tried to apologize—attempt number eight being only a few moments ago—but Wes still refuses to even look at her.
    “Is this why we’re at the bookstore?” I ask.
    Annabelle rests her forehead against the steering wheel. “No. Him being here was the universe fucking with me.”
    “Do you want to tell me why?”
    Sighing, she straightens up and says, “We’d been fighting for a while . . . it’s just . . . what kind of couple that’s been together since they were kids isn’t married by now?” She sees me flinch and says, “Shit, sorry. You and Nick aside. I only meant that I’m thirty. It’s normal for me to want a husband and kids. Hell, most people already have both of those things by our age.”
    “And what did Wes want?”
    “Not that.” She shakes her head as if dislodging a memory. “He’s been dating a bit. I think he’s trying to punish me. I can’t blame him, but it still hurts so damn much, Lillie. When does it stop hurting?”
    A lump forms in my stomach as I recall the fateful night five years ago when I stumbled off the plane in Chicago with my heart shattered into so many pieces I was sure I’d never be able to put it together again. How despite my best efforts to move forward and hold my head high, around every corner and down every street, Nick’s ghost haunted me, refusing to let me forget all we had and then lost.
    I remember once when I was walking down Michigan Avenue on my way home from taking a final exam, I swore I saw Nick standing outside Crate & Barrel, in front of a window display outfitted with glittery ornaments and signs advertising Christmas sales. His cheeks were red and his breath escaped in clouds in the bitter cold and falling snow. Resting in his gloved hands was a steaming cup. As I crossed the street to approach him, I remember thinking how free he looked—so different from the man who ran his life like he conducted his operating room, with controlled, steady precision—and for a moment, I allowed myself to hope. That maybe he came to apologize, to confess how much he loved me and that he was a fool to let me go. That we could return to that cherished place where we were still two kids, counting the licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop. But before I could reach him, he was gone. A figment of my imagination.
    “I don’t know when the hurt goes away,” I say, unsure if it ever does. Maybe the pain just scabs over until a memory, a chance encounter, a conversation causes it to crack open and spill out. My mind drifts to Nick in the Prickly Pear, the sound of his laughter, those piercing blue eyes, the expression on his face when he saw my engagement ring and the overwhelming sadness I felt. “But sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a second chance.”
    “Is that what Drew is for you?”
    I bite my lip, unsure of what to say. Drew isn’t a second chance. He’s the bandage that made everything okay again. He’s easiness and warmth and comfort.
    “Loving Wes has filled my whole life,” Annabelle says when I don’t respond. “I don’t want to let him go, but I don’t have it in me to fight for this anymore.”
    I’m struck by an eerie sense of déjà vu, remembering how I uttered similar words to Annabelle one dreary afternoon five years ago. How I looked her in the eye and finally admitted aloud what we’d all already known—Nick and I had become strangers. Nothing like the foolish teenagers who used to crave each other in a crazy, addictive kind of way that is sacred to first love, back when our world was new and full of possibility and I still believed in magic.
    But Wes and Annabelle aren’t