This Story Might Save Your Life(62)

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Joy, I’m gonna need more. Are you sure there isn’t another way?”

She visibly shrank. I felt her disappointment like a burning ulcer as I fumbled for words. We were so close to signing the biggest deal of our lives. Had I been given the full picture I wouldn’t have questioned it, but what did I have to go on? Whatever this was, it felt rash and ill-advised. I couldn’t imagine it being our best option. And still. Still. Staring at her crumbling face, I knew there was only one thing to say. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I nodded, then sat there unmoving, watching as if out of body as she cleared her throat and pressed record.

“Today’s episode is a departure from the norm,” she said into the mic. “I’m not sure how to do this, so I’m just going to say it.” Here, the tears began. After a moment of charged silence, she wiped her face with her sleeve and said, “I can’t.”

I assumed she’d changed her mind, and for a moment I was relieved. Until she said, “I’m sorry, Benny. I have to do this alone.”

It was as if she’d poured a bucket of ice water over my head. “What? No. No no no. Let me help. I’m sorry, I’m—I’m here. What do you need?”

“You should leave.”

“But why? Please, Joy, just tell me why.”

She shook her head, lips pressed in a tight line.

I felt desperate. This was so unlike her. Joy had her bad days, but this wasn’t that. This was different, and I’d be damned if she kicked me out without giving me a chance to help. Not again. Not ever again. “Does this have something to do with Xander?”

I’ll admit—when she didn’t respond, my desperation gave way to hope. I hoped he’d messed up somehow. That I could be the shoulder to lean on. The one to pick up the pieces for once. “It’s our podcast,” I said. “Ours. Yours and mine. Whatever’s going on, I’m here for you.”

She picked at the hem of her pajama shorts.

I scooted forward so we were knee to knee and pressed my forehead against hers. “Hey,” I whispered. “You can talk to me.”

“I can’t. Not like this.”

Her breath was sweet, a late summer strawberry. Taking it in, I felt suddenly calm. I exhaled. “I can do this all night.”

I felt her relax, melt into my forehead. “I can too,” she whispered.

“Do you remember the time we dressed as Waldo and Wenda for Halloween, and we spent the whole night hiding from each other?”

She let out a little huff. “You were so easy to find.”

“There weren’t enough people at the party.”

“No, you’re just bad at hiding.”

I chuckled softly and stared into her deep brown eyes. “Where are you now?”

She shifted in her seat, but kept her forehead pressed to mine. I hoped she was changing her mind, gearing up to tell me the truth. Instead, she said, “What happened between you and Luna? Why didn’t you make it?”

I inched backward, not out of her orbit but far enough to be able to see her more clearly. Scanning her face, I asked, “Luna?”

“You said when it all came down you couldn’t find enough reasons to stay married. But why did you start talking about divorce in the first place? Was it the baby stuff? Because you wanted kids and she didn’t?”

My heart beat faster. “There was no one thing.”

She looked disappointed, but what was I supposed to say? This shift in conversation had thrown me, and my first instinct was to change the subject. I’d been doing it with or without success for the better part of a year.

“Let’s say you’re trying to tell your best friend something sensitive,” she said, “but you don’t know how, and you’re so worried about how he’ll respond you can barely breathe.”

“Sensitive,” I repeated. It took courage to ask the next question. “Is this about … us?”

She nodded. My heart galloped. I thought—hoped—I knew what she was saying, and I understood why she was afraid. Why she had to do this when Xander wasn’t home. Why she couldn’t invite me over in front of Mallory. I thought of our moment together in the Fox Theatre. And in my hotel room. And all the moments before, when I almost said something. All the times I held my tongue. I thought all the way back to when it was just us, just me and Joy. This felt like that. There was never a right time before, but this was different. Joy wanted the truth. If ever there was a time to tell her, it was now. Head lightening with fear and possibility, I said, “Luna divorced me because she knew I could never love her enough.”

“But why?”

“Because she knows I’m in love with you.”

The ensuing silence throbbed in my ears.

“Oh, Benny,” Joy eventually said.

I died a thousand deaths. I wanted to take it back. I wanted to infuse the room with amnesia-inducing gas. It was the painful truth, the truth that hammered the final nail in my marriage’s coffin, and still it wasn’t enough. It was not enough. Because this wasn’t about me, and I’d made it about me, and no matter what happened from this day forward, these words, this moment, would be a wall between us—the moment I finally told her I loved her and she made it clear she didn’t love me back.