“I’m so sorry, Skye.” She shakes her head ever so slightly. “I wish I could tell you what to do, but I can’t. But be gentle towards yourself. The truth will come.”
“Will it?”
“It may take time, but yes. It always reveals itself eventually.” Dr. Salam stands and smooths her pencil skirt. “I hate to do this, but we’re already past the hour and my three o’clock is here.” She taps her watch. “We’ll pick this up during the next session, okay?”
I nod. My stomach is a hard knot as I stand and poke my arms into my black puffy jacket. “Can I ask you just one more question, Dr. Salam?”
“Anything.”
“Do you think it’s possible that what Burke wrote in his letter and in the Moleskine could be true? That he wasn’t supposed to marry me, but did anyway? Because he really does love me?” Stale air escapes my lungs—a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I mentally replay Burke’s letter. You deserve to know that I loved you when I married you, and that I still love you. I know that’s not enough. Love isn’t enough. I never used to understand that expression, but I do now. You can love someone completely, and it still isn’t enough to make it work.
Dr. Salam is silent for several moments, her gaze fixed toward the window past my shoulder.
“Skye,” she says finally. “I wish I could answer that, but I can’t.” She sighs. “Love is a mystery. But I believe you’ll find a way to answer that question yourself.” She gives me a small smile and squeezes my arm.
“I’m scared.” The words come out hushed; I barely realize I’ve spoken them aloud.
Dr. Salam nods, her chocolate eyes landing on mine. “Being scared is a part of this journey called life. And sometimes fear has something to teach us.” She glances at her watch. “Come back and see me as soon as you wish. And call me if you need anything at all.”
I nod, biting my bottom lip. Dr. Salam waits patiently while I do my knocks on her office door. I want so badly to stay in the sheltered cocoon of her office, protected from the world. But I can already hear her calling the next patient’s name as I leave the room.
Chapter Forty-Five
Burke
NOVEMBER 2019—FORTY-FOUR DAYS WITHOUT SKYE
I’ve spent the past six weeks living in Todd’s guest room, waiting for what’s next.
The night I’d first arrived at Todd’s, suitcases in either hand, he sat me down and I came clean about everything. After I’d finished explaining the entire preposterous saga, he paced the apartment for about five minutes without speaking. Then he finally said, “I never could wrap my head around the fact that you’d taken a job in Dubai,” and we both burst out laughing. That’s the difference between women and men, I suppose—what might constitute a betrayal between women is swept under the rug by men. Or maybe that’s just Todd. He’s probably the most nonjudgmental person I know.
Todd was alarmed. He continues to be alarmed. I continue to be alarmed. Some nights, when Todd and I are grilling steaks and he’s drinking bourbon, the past year feels like a crazy dream, the kind you’re relieved to wake up from.
They officially arrested me a couple of weeks ago. It was nothing like my first arrest—when the FBI stormed my apartment and cuffed me in front of Heather at the crack of dawn—and I’m thankful for that. This time, all I got was a phone called from the NYPD telling me to come in to the station. I did—I wasn’t going to fight them. Bail was set for ten thousand dollars, and Todd—bless his soul—dug into his savings and got me out.
I’ve been indicted for grand larceny and assigned a lawyer by the state, though I don’t feel I need one. I already know I’m going to plead guilty. But Todd put his foot down—he says it’s essential to have legal counsel regardless of your plea.
Heather has called me several times since the night I moved out, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone. I know the kids will be home soon for Thanksgiving, and I know we need to tell them something about what’s going on, but the idea of even being in the same room as Heather makes my blood boil.
Most nights, lying in Todd’s spare bedroom alone in the dark, I miss Skye so much I can’t sleep. Some mornings I roll over groggily and reach for her body next to mine, a few seconds passing before reality hits me like a punch in the gut. Skye is not in bed with me. Skye will never again be in bed with me. Skye is gone. I’ve lost the woman I love, and I’m going to prison. Again.
I’ve accepted that I’m going to prison. My lawyer, a public defender named Brian Dunne, says my sentence might just be a couple years, but that it could be longer. He’ll know more after he speaks with Skye’s attorney before the plea hearing. There isn’t any way around a prison sentence, and I refuse to plead innocent. I’m not innocent. But when I get out, I’m going to find a way to live a better life. To be the best father I can possibly be for the three incredible humans that are somehow, magically, my children.
Maybe I’ll even find love again. Great love, the kind Skye showed me, the kind I never experienced with Heather. What Heather and I had—what I mistook for love all those years—was a naive, dangerous kind of loyalty.
Since I moved out, I’ve been going to AA meetings five days a week. It was Brian’s idea—he said it could make me look more sympathetic at the plea hearing—but it’s been both humbling and empowering. I wanted to go to AA all those years ago, after I got out of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, but Heather was turned off by the whole thing, so I never did. Ironically, AA has made me realize the unhealthy degree of power I granted Heather over my choices. Exploiting my guilt became her strongest weapon. She never understood that my addiction ran deeper than using drugs and alcohol; she never accepted my identity as an addict. She wanted that part of my makeup to simply disappear, by sheer force of will. But Skye did accept that piece of me. We forged a connection that was built from our mutual affirmation of each other’s interior worlds, wounded parts and all. That’s why the love I felt for her was so much deeper and more freeing than anything I’d ever had with Heather.
Today I finally mailed the letter I’d been drafting to Skye for weeks. The kindest thing is probably to let her hate me—hating someone is uncomplicated, a relatively easy and quenching use of energy. But—perhaps selfishly—I want her to know that I love her. I want her to carry on with her life knowing that, for what it’s worth, our love wasn’t a sham. That’s why I decided to send her the Moleskine along with my letter.
Part of the Moleskine, anyway. I had to remove the sections implicating Heather, but in a fit of blind hope, I figured sharing some of the truth was better than none.
Now that the package is in transit, I’m less confident. Maybe I’m just an imbecile who thinks the girl whose life I ruined will appreciate receiving my old shredded Moleskine in the mail, missing pages and all.
Thanksgiving comes, and with it a cold front sweeping southern Connecticut. The morning after the holiday, I wake up in my old house for the very last time. I’m on the living room couch, and through the windows I see a white blanket of snow coating the earth. I’ve always loved waking up to snow, how it makes the world appear so peaceful. Untouched. A clean slate.