The Days I Loved You Most by Amy Neff

Author:Amy Neff
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Park Row Books
Published: 2024-05-16T14:48:42+00:00

Thirteen

Violet

November 2001

I return from a morning run, annoyed to see Connor’s car still parked in the driveway. I peel off my gloves and stow my hat and windbreaker in our overstuffed mudroom, an explosion of puffer coats and mittens and muddy boots. With Patrick already off on the school bus, I was looking forward to the respite of our empty house. My lungs jagged from the cold, only a few more weeks of my usual loop to Bernard Beach and through town before winter sends me back to the Y. Not like it makes much difference. Ever since my parents told us their plan, things that usually bring me peace, like the cadence of my feet against the pavement, the calm of low tide at dawn, do nothing for me.

Especially since I can’t escape them. There they were, the pink streams leftover from sunrise, Captain’s Rock glowing in the morning light past the shrinking sandbars and my parents, huddled together on that massive quilt we use for beach picnics, unaware of me as I huffed past. When was the last time Connor and I set out on purpose like that, packing a blanket and a thermos to watch the day begin? I rack my brain but come up empty, mornings dictated by routine, by children, by tackling the chores that consume us, but rarely sunrises.

I bring a glass to the sink, run the tap and see my father once more, visible out my kitchen window, raking mulch beds. The porch door opens behind him, and my mother appears, bringing him a cup of coffee, leaning on the railing to hand it off. They linger in conversation and my cup overfills as I watch them, trying to decipher their body language, desperate for a hint of disquiet between them, but as always, there is only ease.

I can feel the rank smell of cold air and sweat on me, and cock my ear to the stairwell, hear the distant rush of water, Connor running late and only now in the shower. I’m grateful he isn’t poking around in the kitchen, grateful I don’t have to pretend to be fine. Meanwhile, my parents still manage to fit romance into their morning, despite everything. A more romantic morning than I can remember having in years, no less. How sad, how sick, to be jealous of my mother in her condition, to make this about me—it makes me hate myself—but I can’t help but compare our marriages as they play out side by side.

What would Connor do, if I stripped under the cover of steam, opened the glass door and slipped in behind him? It’s laughable. I usually undress with my back to him in the dim lamplight, aware that my nudity is only a necessity between changes of clothes, rather than something that excites him. If I joined him now, he would say, I’ll get out of your way, or, I gotta run, or worse, thanks, next time, ok? Gratitude laced with pity, recognizing my attempt but not wanting it, or me, at all.

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