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Actually, I would go on to learn all sorts of things when it came to Ellis Byrd, and most of them would have something to do with love.
“I got in,” he says. “I got into Davis.”
“We did it” comes Sam’s reply.
“We did it,” he says quietly to me.
“You and I can celebrate on our way back with our own trip.”
It’s hard to stay too vague in this, but just know that the people I’ve hurt the most and let down the most are the ones I love the most, too.
there are different kinds of hurt. There’s the kind you inflict sharply and quickly—like emotional blunt force trauma—and then there’s the other kind, like a slow-building poison in your veins. I think it starts with withholding love, but maybe it starts with withholding hurt, too.
I grew up with my great love, so I think maybe my heart took shape around his.
Even the most consuming love doesn’t necessarily mean happiness in the end. I can attest to that. I can look back on everything now and see the beauty in my own personal history and the good things it gave us, and yet I can’t quite pinpoint where it ultimately died, you know?
that—I think even sex was ruined by the end. It was great, don’t get me wrong, but it also felt like a crutch for connecting when we weren’t otherwise.
She is a stranger to me; it’s easier to justify this in part because this is like meeting her all over again. But she’s also not.
But to say she can’t pinpoint where it went wrong? I know exactly when it did, exactly how many months of negative tests there were: thirty-six.
I know the exact day and time she almost died on a hospital table when it turned out to be ectopic, and I can remember the color of the dark circles under her eyes for months after with disturbing clarity. I remember how it felt when I told her I didn’t want to try anymore. I thought the vasectomy would eliminate it from our life altogether, but things only got worse, and the weight of her resentment became a living, breathing thing.
hissed. I could feel where her palm still bled and I hoped she drew some from me, too, some animalistic part of me hoping they’d mix and bind her back to me somehow.
I should have fallen to my knees and tasted her one last time. My mouth waters at the thought of it. I should have told her how perfect she was, how beautiful she was, flushed and wet and swollen pink with need.
And I spend every second of it coming to accept that I’m still in love with my wife.
“Don’t act like she’s some abstract thing or idea to me. She’s my wife.”
“She’s not, though, Ellis. She hasn’t been for more than four years.”
I don’t think it’s fair for you to suddenly, miraculously come to this realization on your own and charge in to take care of it all on your own like you’d inevitably try to.” “But what if I could?” I croak. “Fix it, I mean. Wouldn’t it be worth trying?”
“It’s not that I don’t think you deserve to be happy again, or to be happy with Wren, Ellis. You guys had the thing everyone wants for themselves, I know that. And yeah, I’ve never seen two people more in love … But I’ve also never seen two people be so—so gone when they lost it.”
“You were haunted. The both of you were. Don’t dredge up old ghosts. Not now. Let that shit stay buried and find happiness for yourself somewhere else. Let her, too.”
“And … I won’t.” Not until I get myself to a place where I feel like I might deserve her again. Not unless she wants me again, too.
As far as dreams go? I want to be connected with my wife again. I want to learn about her dreams and make them come true. I want to love without restraint. I want to say the good things without reservation and not be afraid to say the bad or difficult things, too.
discovering. I’m actually just scared all the fucking time.
Living my life in pencil, because I don’t think I can get shit right the first time. Maybe because I think it’ll save me some pain. So far, I’ve been wrong.
“You don’t put a burnt cake back in the oven,”
But what if it’s not burnt? I think. What if it just didn’t turn out like it was supposed to? Couldn’t you walk through the recipe and figure out where you went wrong—
I started to feel gratitude for what we had. I even felt grateful for those letters, even though they reminded me of what I lost.
I found myself genuinely hoping that she’d find love like what we had. Find something better, even. I still didn’t feel like I belonged to myself enough to give anything to someone new, though.
“I did find your paper on the counter,” he says abruptly. “If that’s what you’re going to ask.”
“But you’re not,” Ellis rasps. “That means you’re not already closed. Not entirely.”
“But are you over us?” he says urgently. “Seems like if you were, you wouldn’t care about writing us down.” “We’re divorced,”
“We already gave up. And, hold on, haven’t you been seeing people?”
“...
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“Wren, I haven’t been on a date in over two years.”
“Does any part of you think about us still?”
“Ellis, I’ve … slept with other people. I’ve done everything to try to move on.”
“I just mean that there has been a lot of life in the last five years.”
“Wren, you remember when you had me read all those baby books when we were younger?”
“Well, obviously, a lot of shit went out the window the minute he was born and we started running on adrenaline and instinct, but one thing that I thought was particularly amazing was how, no matter what, your anatomy would forever be changed.”
“I’m just saying. My DNA mixed with yours, and it altered your very bones, Byrd.”
“I don’t give a fuck who you’ve slept with or how many times. I don’t give a fuck if you have a boyfriend right this minute. We belong to each other in ways no one else ever will.”
“This trip. You … It’d be to see if we should give us a chance again?”
“Yes,”
“I want to be up front about my intentions. But I also would like to celebrate something that we did together—together. I’d like to go have fun with you, Byrd. Even if you just want to go as friends.”
“All I know is that I’m not sure we’re through.”
“I think you and I are worth seeing about. Even if all that comes from it is a … a happier ending. Closure.”
I miss you, too sounds glib. You have been missing from me is more accurate. There’s a void where you lived in me.
“All I know is that if I found out heaven was real and got there first? I’d hang back in the waiting room and save you a seat.”
His eyes find mine immediately, like they always do, and I can’t stop myself from staring back this time. Hope is cruel in its persistence. It’s a tease. I know that we chose to let each other go before and how devastating it was. The kind of pain no one would willingly risk twice. And yet knowing he wants to see if we should give it a shot again is continuously sending an electric current of hope right to my heart.
