He sometimes felt like he had to learn how to breathe again. Without her.
Walking down cobbled streets and past rows of both battered and shining cars, he had to tell himself to take one breath, then another and another. Placing one foot in front of the other until he was home. Alone.
Breathe.
He'd still see her in his mind then, in the kitchen or on the couch, and he'd almost pick up his cell phone and punch in her number. Then he'd remember.
She was gone.
She'd looked at him distantly one day, and he could feel the heaviness crushing his chest, telling him he was no longer hers and she was no longer his. He could still watch her but only as an outsider.
And she said the words. I slept with Martin.
Apologetically almost, as if she knew she was shooting arrows into his heart.
The words still rang in his ears as he mechanically pushed through the day's work, wondering if she could tell that his heart wasn't in it. His heart was always in it, had always been in it, and now she had pulled it out of him.
But he had just nodded, almost curtly, remembering that he had no right to care. The divorce papers were in the lawyer's hands and he was still legally married. But she wasn't and could do whatever she chose. He wasn't supposed to care, wasn't supposed to watch where she went and how she walked or the girlish vivacity in her laugh.
It echoed in his mind now, but instead of smiling at one of the jokes they had shared, the only image his mind would conjure up was watching her from the window as she headed out for lunch with Martin the afternoon before, laughing. Looking at Martin the way she used to look at him.
Even though he wasn't supposed to care.
He hadn't realized that simple things like breathing would be so difficult without her. The smile that used to take his breath away had turned toward someone else, taking his breath with it. Forever. And he couldn't seem to find the strength to get it back.
He visited his father almost every day now, escaping to the world of unknown confusion rather than plodding home with her memory trailing along behind. It was easier to sit in stony silence of disorientation than hear the mocking laughter of rejection.
Humiliation, even. He must have wanted to believe so badly that she still cared that he'd mistaken every glance shot in his direction or the nights she had wandered slowly past his office. He had always smiled to himself, almost positive that she was trying to feel him out or think of a good enough excuse to come in. But he willed himself to look away every time.
And it was only now that, humiliated, he realized he had only been projecting his own feelings on her, that she was probably just on her way out with Martin.
Martin. Who took orders from him.
So he sat, reading the paper with his father, thinking about her. He cooked dinner—a dinner that would likely be pushed away by a man who no longer knew his own name—and wondered what she was eating. Then he'd remember that whatever it was, it was probably with Martin, and the little appetite he had would be gone.
When he showered, she was there. When he stopped by the bakery for coffee, she was there. When he sat in his office late into the night with no reason to go home, she was there.
There. And gone.
He once stopped by the monastery to say hello to Father Sean, who immediately sensed the anguish behind the dark eyes. He had nothing to say to the priest, uncomfortable talking about his troubles because he knew they would lead back to his sins, so he left feeling even more alone.
And it became harder to remember to breathe.
No one else could tell at work, he was fairly certain. He pushed himself with a vigor they hadn't seen before, knowing that if anyone wondered they would probably conclude that he had been through a bad split and was still dealing with it.
But she might know. If she cared.
Then he'd shake his head to remind himself of the look on her face as she walked into the office that morning, two large coffees in her hand and a bakery bag under one arm. Their bakery. And she'd plop the other muffin down on Martin's desk.
He knew that she didn't like muffins and found himself wondering why she was eating one. With that look on her face.
So he sent her into the field with Danny and Vivian, looking for any way to keep the look buried in some dark corner somewhere. He told himself he wished he had never seen it in the first place, but knew that wasn't true. It had kept him going when things were difficult, and although remembering it was almost drowning him now, he wouldn't trade it for anything.
He watched her disappearing into a cab behind Danny; swiftly she turned back and lifted slender fingers in a quick wave. His heart sank as he turned, expecting to see Martin standing behind him, munching on the burrito she had probably cooked him the night before.
But Martin wasn't there, and she studied Jack for a long moment with tears in her heart and anguish in her eyes, wondering how long she could keep trying to will herself to fall in love with Martin. It would be the right thing, she told herself again and again.
And watched the man in the window.
Walking down cobbled streets and past rows of both battered and shining cars, he had to tell himself to take one breath, then another and another. Placing one foot in front of the other until he was home. Alone.
Breathe.
He'd still see her in his mind then, in the kitchen or on the couch, and he'd almost pick up his cell phone and punch in her number. Then he'd remember.
She was gone.
She'd looked at him distantly one day, and he could feel the heaviness crushing his chest, telling him he was no longer hers and she was no longer his. He could still watch her but only as an outsider.
And she said the words. I slept with Martin.
Apologetically almost, as if she knew she was shooting arrows into his heart.
The words still rang in his ears as he mechanically pushed through the day's work, wondering if she could tell that his heart wasn't in it. His heart was always in it, had always been in it, and now she had pulled it out of him.
But he had just nodded, almost curtly, remembering that he had no right to care. The divorce papers were in the lawyer's hands and he was still legally married. But she wasn't and could do whatever she chose. He wasn't supposed to care, wasn't supposed to watch where she went and how she walked or the girlish vivacity in her laugh.
It echoed in his mind now, but instead of smiling at one of the jokes they had shared, the only image his mind would conjure up was watching her from the window as she headed out for lunch with Martin the afternoon before, laughing. Looking at Martin the way she used to look at him.
Even though he wasn't supposed to care.
He hadn't realized that simple things like breathing would be so difficult without her. The smile that used to take his breath away had turned toward someone else, taking his breath with it. Forever. And he couldn't seem to find the strength to get it back.
He visited his father almost every day now, escaping to the world of unknown confusion rather than plodding home with her memory trailing along behind. It was easier to sit in stony silence of disorientation than hear the mocking laughter of rejection.
Humiliation, even. He must have wanted to believe so badly that she still cared that he'd mistaken every glance shot in his direction or the nights she had wandered slowly past his office. He had always smiled to himself, almost positive that she was trying to feel him out or think of a good enough excuse to come in. But he willed himself to look away every time.
And it was only now that, humiliated, he realized he had only been projecting his own feelings on her, that she was probably just on her way out with Martin.
Martin. Who took orders from him.
So he sat, reading the paper with his father, thinking about her. He cooked dinner—a dinner that would likely be pushed away by a man who no longer knew his own name—and wondered what she was eating. Then he'd remember that whatever it was, it was probably with Martin, and the little appetite he had would be gone.
When he showered, she was there. When he stopped by the bakery for coffee, she was there. When he sat in his office late into the night with no reason to go home, she was there.
There. And gone.
He once stopped by the monastery to say hello to Father Sean, who immediately sensed the anguish behind the dark eyes. He had nothing to say to the priest, uncomfortable talking about his troubles because he knew they would lead back to his sins, so he left feeling even more alone.
And it became harder to remember to breathe.
No one else could tell at work, he was fairly certain. He pushed himself with a vigor they hadn't seen before, knowing that if anyone wondered they would probably conclude that he had been through a bad split and was still dealing with it.
But she might know. If she cared.
Then he'd shake his head to remind himself of the look on her face as she walked into the office that morning, two large coffees in her hand and a bakery bag under one arm. Their bakery. And she'd plop the other muffin down on Martin's desk.
He knew that she didn't like muffins and found himself wondering why she was eating one. With that look on her face.
So he sent her into the field with Danny and Vivian, looking for any way to keep the look buried in some dark corner somewhere. He told himself he wished he had never seen it in the first place, but knew that wasn't true. It had kept him going when things were difficult, and although remembering it was almost drowning him now, he wouldn't trade it for anything.
He watched her disappearing into a cab behind Danny; swiftly she turned back and lifted slender fingers in a quick wave. His heart sank as he turned, expecting to see Martin standing behind him, munching on the burrito she had probably cooked him the night before.
But Martin wasn't there, and she studied Jack for a long moment with tears in her heart and anguish in her eyes, wondering how long she could keep trying to will herself to fall in love with Martin. It would be the right thing, she told herself again and again.
And watched the man in the window.