Chapter Six

We met again at a charity basketball game seven years after high school. I had already received the transplant. He had already buried Lila.

I recognized him before he recognized me.

He was standing near the players' entrance in a dark suit that did not quite fit his shoulders. He had started his first company and was still poor enough to check the price of every drink before ordering. I was healthier than I had been as a teenager, thinner, and confident enough to approach him without a pink envelope.

"Number seven," I said.

He looked at me blankly.

"You played forward. You missed two free throws against Westbridge in the regional final."

"We still won."

"Because your teammate made the last shot."

His surprise became a smile.

At the time, I thought I had impressed him by remembering. I did not know he had already seen my name on the event program. I did not know he had spent months confirming that I was the one carrying Lila's heart.

He asked me to coffee.

Our courtship moved quickly because he designed it around things I wanted. He remembered that I disliked crowded restaurants. He learned my medications. He brought a folding chair when we attended an outdoor concert because long periods of standing made me dizzy. He told Daniel he would never let pride prevent him from asking for help if my health failed.

My family loved him for that answer.

So did I.

When he proposed, he did not choose a public stage. He brought me to the empty college gym after sunset. Someone had left the old scoreboard on. Seven glowed in one corner.

"You watched me before I deserved it," he said. "Let me spend the rest of my life deserving you."

I said yes before he opened the ring box.

Every detail had felt personal.

Now, looking back, I could see the research beneath the romance. He chose the gym because my old attendance records proved I had gone there. He chose the ridge house because it stood near Lila's grave. He chose our wedding date because it was the anniversary of her death.

But not every moment fit the plan.

There were mornings when he woke before me and watched the sun move across my face. There were evenings when work calls ended and he remained in the kitchen to wash dishes beside me. There were times he laughed before remembering not to.

I had built a marriage out of those exceptions.

Adrian had built his revenge out of the rule.

The result was the same: I was dead, and he was reading a letter from a seventeen-year-old girl who had loved him without knowing anything about Lila.

He turned the envelope over. A stain marked one corner from the trash can where he had thrown it.

His thumb covered the stain.

"I didn't know," he said.

It was not an apology. It was barely sound.

I answered anyway.

"You never wanted to know."

Adrian read the last page twice.

Then he returned it to the envelope, smoothed the bent flap, and placed it beside the sweater.

I left the room.

Death should have removed embarrassment. Apparently, the soul kept some useless instincts.

Behind me, Adrian said my name once.

Softly.

I did not go back.

Near midnight, Adrian's oldest friend called and invited him out for a drink.

Adrian accepted.

During our marriage, I hated the private club where his friends gathered. I would call and ask when he was coming home. He told them I was possessive. They believed him because I never had the chance to explain that I was alone in a locked house and sometimes needed to hear another human voice.

When Adrian entered the club that night, three men greeted him with surprise.

"Well, look who finally made it out," one said. "Where's your wife?"

Adrian poured whiskey and drank it too quickly.

"She's mad at me."

I stared at him.

He could have said I was dead. The words required no explanation.

Instead, he chose a lie that kept me alive somewhere beyond the room.

"Again?" his friend asked. "What did you do this time?"

"Nothing."

The men laughed.

One of them leaned against the bar. "Evelyn runs a tight ship, but no woman takes care of a man like that unless she loves him. Apologize. Buy flowers. Go home."

Adrian looked into his glass.

"She won't listen."

The laughter stopped.

His friend studied his face, seemed to understand that something was wrong, and changed the subject.

Half an hour later, a jeweler from another table approached with a small gold box.

"Mr. Vale, I was going to call your office. Your wife's order has been ready for weeks, but we haven't been able to reach her."

He placed the box in front of Adrian.

Inside were two rings.

I had designed them after Adrian and I threw our original wedding bands into the garden pond during a fight. The new rings had narrow wings engraved along the sides. Mine carried his initials. His carried mine.

I had ordered them in a weak moment, after he brought me medicine during a fever and sat outside the bedroom door all night. I had mistaken one decent act for proof that our marriage could be saved.

Adrian touched the ring made for him.

"Are you all right?" the jeweler asked.

Adrian closed the box.

Then he shot to his feet so fast his chair tipped over.

He left without his coat.

Back at the ridge house, he opened every cabinet, closet, and drawer.

There was almost nothing to search.