Every song resurrected a specific memory of time spent with my father playing cards, washing cars, grilling hot dogs . . . anything. Whatever he’d wanted to do, I’d done with him, and he’d always chosen the perfect background soundtrack for every activity. Those stolen moments had also been a great way to escape my mom’s endless lectures and demands. She’d never yelled at me for skipping out on chores or being messy when I’d been spending that time with him. Probably because he wouldn’t let her.
At present, my restlessness matched the mood of a typical Bob Seger song, so I grabbed Beautiful Loser and slipped the record from its sleeve, resisting the urge to hug it as if it were my dad. I set it on the old turntable he’d also left me. As the few first drumbeats clangored, my heart kicked an extra beat or two—partly happy, partly sad. I glanced toward the bedroom door, picturing Max on the sofa, and then got to work.
It didn’t matter where life led me next. I had faith because my own personal angel was looking out for me now.
Que será, será.
CHAPTER THREE
AMANDA
My mother’s optimism had gotten me through the day, despite my being jumpy anytime my phone rang. I now sat in front of the computer, double-checking the online registry to make sure the items we’d selected were properly linked. The sweet-looking swaddling blankets and dresses made me smile, but I secretly most coveted one of the practical items—a handsome three-in-one portable crib, diaper bag, and changing station. What a marvelous invention!
I couldn’t wait to see my daughter’s face. To smell her skin and feel the downy baby hair. To listen to the baby gurgles and press strawberry kisses on her bare tummy. To nurture and teach and drown in all the love for her that was building.
After I’d double-checked everything, I closed out of the computer and made a pit stop at the restroom before collecting the mail.
Making my way back to the kitchen, I sifted through the envelopes, stopping midstride when I saw Lyle’s handwriting. He hadn’t sent me a love note since our first year of marriage. The envelope was postmarked from Miami two days earlier.
I set the rest of the mail aside and sat at the table while tearing into the letter.
Amanda,
I am writing because a phone call would be more difficult on us both. There is no easy way to tell you that I think I have fallen in love with someone else.
It felt as if my rib cage collapsed. Oh God, I’m an idiot. All day I’d thought the worst-case scenario was some stupid fling, but not this. This couldn’t be happening. I blinked back hot tears to keep reading.
I know the timing is bad with the baby on the way, but I didn’t plan it. It just happened. Now I owe it to myself—and to you—to be honest and explore my feelings.
With so much at stake, I need time to figure out what is best for all of us, so it makes sense to do that here while I nail down this deal. I trust your family will give you the emotional support you need while I work through my feelings. I know I’m asking a lot, but if you could give me a couple of weeks of space, I will be in touch as soon as I feel certain of my decision.
Lyle
Not even “Love, Lyle.”
As a teacher and lifelong reader, I’d known words could be more lethal than a bullet. Now my body was as cold as any corpse.
I think I’ve fallen in love with someone else.
Think? A universe of difference existed between “I think” and “I have,” didn’t it? And he hadn’t said he didn’t love me. Was I grasping? Everything Lyle did, he did with purpose, so he’d chosen that word carefully. Chosen this method of delivery for a reason, although I couldn’t figure out why except to guess that it left me no easy way to reply.
I slammed the letter down, then stood in my kitchen, dumbfounded. At once everything felt foreign, including my body. I couldn’t move—not even a twitch—his note having severed the connection between my brain and my muscles.
While I’d been loving my husband and nurturing our unborn child, he’d fallen in love with another woman. Absurdly, the musing lyrics of that ridiculous Talking Heads song Erin used to playact, “Once in a Lifetime,” became the soundtrack to this horrible moment.
Lyle hadn’t even respected me enough to end things before moving on, let alone been willing to work on our marriage. A memory of the first time we met raced forward. November 26, 2016. Two days after Thanksgiving, when I’d gone to the gym to work off all the gravy and pumpkin pie I’d consumed. The electricity in that exercise studio when our gazes locked—his captivating blue eyes luring me like a moth to light. The way he’d waited for me to exit the women’s locker room and then walked me to my car, his quick smile drawing me in.
The weekly pink roses he’d sent to my classroom those first few months.
The interesting phone conversations about our pasts and our dreams.
The surprise sailing trip on the bay.
The empathy . . .
“Amanda, if you marry me, I swear I’ll make sure you never feel second-best again.”
The look on his face when he’d made that vow flickered, causing another sharp inhale. My life with him—his reassurances—had helped me move on from my rivalry with Erin and her place as our dad’s favorite.
But apparently I was still easily replaceable.
I’d been fighting that truth my whole life.
The silence in our home sounded different now. More permanent. Yet somehow alive, as if Lyle’s ghost were brushing against me, raising the hairs on my skin.
I think I have fallen in love with someone else.
Suddenly, like a movie playing at high speed, I began revisiting the moments of our marriage, dissecting each one, looking for clues, asking myself, “Why, why, why?” Only one conclusion mattered, though: I’d failed at the most important relationship of my life.
Again, those stupid song lyrics taunted me.
I raced upstairs to our closet and grabbed a suitcase, planning to pack a bag and fly to Florida. Then I realized I had no idea where Lyle was staying now that he’d left Tom’s.
Enraged, I yanked my clothes off hangers and tossed them in a pile beside the suitcase. Instead of desperately hunting him down, I’d move out and “show him” everything he was about to lose. Ebba might be beautiful, but she wasn’t the love of his life. I was. He’d told me so a million times, and I was carrying his child, for God’s sake!
On that thought, I crumpled to the floor in a heap with my clothes, wailing a raw, otherworldly kind of sound, releasing all the self-pity in the world through gulping sobs. I have no idea how long I remained there.
Later, exhausted, I pushed off the floor and hung my clothes back on their rods and folded others to return to their shelves.
It was then that I noticed the box Lyle kept on the top shelf of the closet. I’d never before been tempted to snoop, but now I wondered if it might contain clues. Balancing on the top of the step stool, I pulled it down and began rummaging. A high school yearbook, old VHS tapes of movies like The Usual Suspects, a framed photograph of himself at eight or nine with a woman I presumed was his mother, and a small address book. I held the image of him and his mother closer, studying the woman I’d grown to hate despite having never met her. Where had her new life taken her, and did she ever miss Lyle?