“What?” I asked.
“How much of this is about Maren Devine?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how much of this feeling sorry for yourself is because you talked yourself into believing she’s better off without you?”
“That’s the truth,” I fire back.
“You’re miserable, Dallas. She’s miserable, too.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“What about you?”
I said nothing.
“You should reach out to her. She’s worried sick about you.”
“She’ll forget about me sooner if I don’t. Talking to her will only make things worse.”
My brother exhaled and ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t know what to do with you, Dallas. I think you’re making a mistake. Several mistakes.”
“What else is new?” I heaved myself out of the pool.
“It’s not like that, so don’t get all worked up.” He stood up and faced me. “I don’t think you’re making mistakes because you don’t know better—I think you’re choosing to suffer. I just don’t know why.”
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t.” I went over to the fence where I’d hung the beach towel I’d been using the last couple days and wrapped it around my waist. It was no surprise to me that Finn didn’t know what it was like to feel you weren’t worthy of something. For fuck’s sake, his problem was that he’d assumed his wife would never leave him.
“Look, don’t go.” He checked his watch. “I have to get to work, but let’s talk this over some more, okay?”
“Did you write her back yesterday?” I had to know.
He paused. “Yeah. I did. I told her—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, changing my mind and walking over to where I’d taken off my running clothes. “It’s between you and her. I don’t need to hear it.”
“But it’s about you.”
“I don’t need to hear it,” I repeated, angrily piling my sweaty things in my arms.
“You’re acting like a stubborn child, Dallas! ”
“Fuck you! I’m acting like a man who wants to make his own decisions and have his family respect them for once.” I stormed toward the house.
Finn followed me. “I’m sorry, Dallas. Don’t go. Please. Let me help you work through all this.”
“You can’t,” I said, sliding open the patio door. “It’s too late.”
Sixteen
Maren
Despite the fact that I’d barely gotten any sleep Sunday night, I got up and went to the studio on Monday in time to teach a six a.m. class. What I really wanted to do was stay curled up on my couch all day and cry over a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts, but I knew that wouldn’t help me. I needed to get back to my routine in order to get through this.
Allegra took one look at me and opened her arms, and I went into them, glad to have a shoulder to cry on. But when she asked what was wrong, I found myself unable to go into it. I just didn’t have it in me. Instead, I told her I was still having the nightmare and didn’t know what I was going to do.
“If I point you in a certain direction, do you promise to have an open mind?” she asked.
“Of course.” I grabbed a tissue from the box on the studio desk.
“Okay.” She grabbed a pen and Post-It note and wrote something down. “Call this woman.”
I looked at the paper. “Madam Psuka? Is that how you say it?”
“Yes. Like Puh-suka.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s a lot of things. Psychic, medium, intuitive, dream interpreter. She’s a little odd, but I consulted with her all the time when I lived up north.” She shrugged. “That’s the only problem. She’s not local.”
“Where is she?”
“Traverse City.”
“Oh.” Something clicked in my head. “You know what? My sister invited me to go up north with her this week. To Old Mission Peninsula.”
“Oh my God, that’s like right there. You should go!”
I bit my lip. “But it would be Wednesday to Friday. And I already took the weekend off.”
Allegra shook her head. “You worry too much about unimportant things. This is your health, your well-being. It matters the most.”
“I know, but—”
“Listen, are you gonna go broke if you have to pay a sub and someone to cover the desk for a few days?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Then go. I think she might be able to help you.” She touched her chest. “If I’m wrong and she can’t, I will take full responsibility. I’ll cover the sub with my own paycheck.”
“Stop. You are not doing that.”
“So will you go?” she asked hopefully.
I sighed and looked at the name on the paper. It seemed a little out there—I believed people could intuit things about their own consciousness, but I wasn’t sure a stranger could read anything into mine just by looking at my palm or whatever—but I was exhausted and unhappy and willing to try anything. “I’ll look her up.”
Allegra rubbed my shoulder. “Good.”
I checked my email repeatedly throughout the day Monday, but never got a reply from Finn Shepherd. Had he seen my message? Was he ignoring it? There was no way I’d gotten the wrong Finn Shepherd, Associate Professor of Neurology, was there?
I was just as obsessive about my texts, thinking maybe Dallas would come to his senses and reach out to me, or at least let me know he’d arrived in Boston safely and was going to do what the doctors said.
But he never did.
After work, I called Emme and asked her if I could come over.
“Sure,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I told her, fighting tears. “I’ll tell you when I get there.”
Nate opened the front door to their house and looked at me strangely. “Maren?” he said, almost like he didn’t recognize me. Admittedly, I was looking pretty haggard from the lack of sleep and all the crying, and I was on the verge of another meltdown right there on their front porch.
“Yes,” I squeaked, trying to hold it in.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded and squeaked again. “No.”
Emme appeared behind him, her eyebrows rising. “Maren! What’s wrong?”
One look at my big sister and I burst into tears, and I stood there wailing on their doorstep for a few seconds while they stared at me in shock. Nate recovered first and took me by the arm. “Come in, come in.”
I stumbled into their front hall and threw my arms around Emme. “He’s gone. He has a brain tumor and he’s gone.”
Emme gasped and embraced me. “What are you talking about?”
“Did someone die?” Nate asked.
I realized what I’d said. “No, no. He’s fine. I mean, he’s not fine—Dallas has a brain tumor—but he’s alive.”
“Oh my God.” Emme hugged me tightly and let me go. “Come sit.”
I went into their living room and sat on the couch. “Do you have any tissues?”
“I’ll get some,” Nate said, heading into the kitchen.
Emme sat next to me. “So what happened? Are you serious about this brain tumor thing? That’s what was going on with him?”
I nodded, trying to compose myself so I could at least get through the story. Nate returned with a box of tissues and handed it to me before taking a seat across from us in a leather and chrome chair.
“Okay if I’m in here?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” I said, blowing my nose. “Embarrassing, but fine.”
I told them about the conversation Dallas and I had had last night—how he’d attempted to break things off without telling me the truth, how I’d figured it out and confronted him, how he didn’t want anything to do with me going forward.
“He s-said he d-doesn’t love m-me,” I blubbered. “He said it w-was a m-mistake.”
“My God, you poor thing.” Emme rubbed my back. “That had to be so hard.”
“How much of this is about Maren Devine?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how much of this feeling sorry for yourself is because you talked yourself into believing she’s better off without you?”
“That’s the truth,” I fire back.
“You’re miserable, Dallas. She’s miserable, too.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“What about you?”
I said nothing.
“You should reach out to her. She’s worried sick about you.”
“She’ll forget about me sooner if I don’t. Talking to her will only make things worse.”
My brother exhaled and ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t know what to do with you, Dallas. I think you’re making a mistake. Several mistakes.”
“What else is new?” I heaved myself out of the pool.
“It’s not like that, so don’t get all worked up.” He stood up and faced me. “I don’t think you’re making mistakes because you don’t know better—I think you’re choosing to suffer. I just don’t know why.”
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t.” I went over to the fence where I’d hung the beach towel I’d been using the last couple days and wrapped it around my waist. It was no surprise to me that Finn didn’t know what it was like to feel you weren’t worthy of something. For fuck’s sake, his problem was that he’d assumed his wife would never leave him.
“Look, don’t go.” He checked his watch. “I have to get to work, but let’s talk this over some more, okay?”
“Did you write her back yesterday?” I had to know.
He paused. “Yeah. I did. I told her—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, changing my mind and walking over to where I’d taken off my running clothes. “It’s between you and her. I don’t need to hear it.”
“But it’s about you.”
“I don’t need to hear it,” I repeated, angrily piling my sweaty things in my arms.
“You’re acting like a stubborn child, Dallas! ”
“Fuck you! I’m acting like a man who wants to make his own decisions and have his family respect them for once.” I stormed toward the house.
Finn followed me. “I’m sorry, Dallas. Don’t go. Please. Let me help you work through all this.”
“You can’t,” I said, sliding open the patio door. “It’s too late.”
Sixteen
Maren
Despite the fact that I’d barely gotten any sleep Sunday night, I got up and went to the studio on Monday in time to teach a six a.m. class. What I really wanted to do was stay curled up on my couch all day and cry over a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts, but I knew that wouldn’t help me. I needed to get back to my routine in order to get through this.
Allegra took one look at me and opened her arms, and I went into them, glad to have a shoulder to cry on. But when she asked what was wrong, I found myself unable to go into it. I just didn’t have it in me. Instead, I told her I was still having the nightmare and didn’t know what I was going to do.
“If I point you in a certain direction, do you promise to have an open mind?” she asked.
“Of course.” I grabbed a tissue from the box on the studio desk.
“Okay.” She grabbed a pen and Post-It note and wrote something down. “Call this woman.”
I looked at the paper. “Madam Psuka? Is that how you say it?”
“Yes. Like Puh-suka.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s a lot of things. Psychic, medium, intuitive, dream interpreter. She’s a little odd, but I consulted with her all the time when I lived up north.” She shrugged. “That’s the only problem. She’s not local.”
“Where is she?”
“Traverse City.”
“Oh.” Something clicked in my head. “You know what? My sister invited me to go up north with her this week. To Old Mission Peninsula.”
“Oh my God, that’s like right there. You should go!”
I bit my lip. “But it would be Wednesday to Friday. And I already took the weekend off.”
Allegra shook her head. “You worry too much about unimportant things. This is your health, your well-being. It matters the most.”
“I know, but—”
“Listen, are you gonna go broke if you have to pay a sub and someone to cover the desk for a few days?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Then go. I think she might be able to help you.” She touched her chest. “If I’m wrong and she can’t, I will take full responsibility. I’ll cover the sub with my own paycheck.”
“Stop. You are not doing that.”
“So will you go?” she asked hopefully.
I sighed and looked at the name on the paper. It seemed a little out there—I believed people could intuit things about their own consciousness, but I wasn’t sure a stranger could read anything into mine just by looking at my palm or whatever—but I was exhausted and unhappy and willing to try anything. “I’ll look her up.”
Allegra rubbed my shoulder. “Good.”
I checked my email repeatedly throughout the day Monday, but never got a reply from Finn Shepherd. Had he seen my message? Was he ignoring it? There was no way I’d gotten the wrong Finn Shepherd, Associate Professor of Neurology, was there?
I was just as obsessive about my texts, thinking maybe Dallas would come to his senses and reach out to me, or at least let me know he’d arrived in Boston safely and was going to do what the doctors said.
But he never did.
After work, I called Emme and asked her if I could come over.
“Sure,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I told her, fighting tears. “I’ll tell you when I get there.”
Nate opened the front door to their house and looked at me strangely. “Maren?” he said, almost like he didn’t recognize me. Admittedly, I was looking pretty haggard from the lack of sleep and all the crying, and I was on the verge of another meltdown right there on their front porch.
“Yes,” I squeaked, trying to hold it in.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded and squeaked again. “No.”
Emme appeared behind him, her eyebrows rising. “Maren! What’s wrong?”
One look at my big sister and I burst into tears, and I stood there wailing on their doorstep for a few seconds while they stared at me in shock. Nate recovered first and took me by the arm. “Come in, come in.”
I stumbled into their front hall and threw my arms around Emme. “He’s gone. He has a brain tumor and he’s gone.”
Emme gasped and embraced me. “What are you talking about?”
“Did someone die?” Nate asked.
I realized what I’d said. “No, no. He’s fine. I mean, he’s not fine—Dallas has a brain tumor—but he’s alive.”
“Oh my God.” Emme hugged me tightly and let me go. “Come sit.”
I went into their living room and sat on the couch. “Do you have any tissues?”
“I’ll get some,” Nate said, heading into the kitchen.
Emme sat next to me. “So what happened? Are you serious about this brain tumor thing? That’s what was going on with him?”
I nodded, trying to compose myself so I could at least get through the story. Nate returned with a box of tissues and handed it to me before taking a seat across from us in a leather and chrome chair.
“Okay if I’m in here?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” I said, blowing my nose. “Embarrassing, but fine.”
I told them about the conversation Dallas and I had had last night—how he’d attempted to break things off without telling me the truth, how I’d figured it out and confronted him, how he didn’t want anything to do with me going forward.
“He s-said he d-doesn’t love m-me,” I blubbered. “He said it w-was a m-mistake.”
“My God, you poor thing.” Emme rubbed my back. “That had to be so hard.”
