It seems as though I need to apologize to you for yet another set of embarrassing actions. Only instead of anger and inexcusable vitriol, I must beg your forgiveness for my behavior last night. Upon looking at my phone, I see that I attempted to call you just about a dozen times and wrote you an email that includes misspellings, grammar and punctuation errors that make me want to stab myself in the eye (they really should revoke my status as a professor of the English language after that).
I just can’t move on from this, it appears. I’m starting to hate myself for how much I must have hurt you. But you know what else I’ve learned about you from this extended, awful silence? I’ve learned just precisely how strong of a woman you are. I knew it before, but knowing something in theory, and then experiencing that steel, being held at bay with it, is another thing entirely.
Any woman worth her salt should make a man beg and grovel and work harder than he’s ever worked before in his life to gain her forgiveness, especially if he’s spoken to her the way that I did to you.
So I will. I’m about to leave for my parents' house. The only one I’m looking forward to seeing is their giant Schnauzer, Randall. And that’s because he’s probably the only one who will greet me with happiness.
• • •
To: Alice Carroll
Date: Thursday, November 26, 2015 05:42 PM
From: Nathaniel Easton
Subject: The ghost of Thanksgiving Past
Maybe Charles Dickens wrote that story for the wrong holiday, because there’s no fucking way I could’ve waited until Christmas to learn this lesson.
I know that I’m not Ebenezer Scrooge in the literal sense, but he and I share many similarities. In fact, it truly didn’t hit me until I was driving home from my parents' cold and empty mansion. My car was so quiet, since I tend to not want to listen to music when I’m driving in the snow, and hand over my heart, I heard someone speak to me.
I’ve never believed in angels, and my view of God or a higher power is the slimmest version of being a theist, but it was almost like I knew what they were saying to me before the moment the voice hit my ears.
You need to give more, Nathaniel.
That’s what I heard. I don’t know if it was a memory, something Diana told me once upon a time, but it sounds like something she might have said. I’ve never wanted to tell anyone this story, Adele. Not in four years. Only my father, Diana’s brother (who hates my guts, incidentally), and now you, know this. And me not wanting to tell it is pretty irrelevant. Because the moment you slammed that door at my house, I knew exactly how much I’d fucked up. I had ripped the still-beating heart out of the one person who had made me find my own again. So that’s why I’m telling you this. Because I trust you enough to show you what’s inside of me, what’s been gnawing at my guts and my heart for over four years. You may not even want it anymore, but I’m giving it to you nonetheless.
Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I don’t think you need a background on my relationship with Diana. It was a good one, a solid one that made me happy, made her happy, too. We’d been married for three years, four months, and twenty one days on the day that she died. It hadn’t been anything but a normal day, other than the way it ended. I had some friends, at that time, and we often got together to play poker and drink some beer. Nothing crazy, just blowing off steam. It had been a few weeks since I’d seen them, and Maurice sent me a text before Diana got home from work, asking if I could come out to his place. He lived about forty five minutes from us, from the house you know, and it had been raining all day.
Diana was disappointed I was going to be gone all evening, but she didn’t forbid it, because that wasn’t her way. She just gave me a kiss and told me to be safe. Once I was with the guys, I had more to drink than I should have. Honestly, I didn’t even realize it until I went to grab another beer and it was the last in the six pack. I knew myself well enough to know I shouldn’t have been driving, but nobody else lived remotely close to where we did, so I called her, asked if she’d come and get me.
It was about eleven when I’d called, so I knew she was probably in bed. She was pretty quiet after I asked, quite apologetically, may I add. But she agreed, because she didn’t want me to attempt the drive on the slick, wet roads in my condition. I was saying “I love you,” when she hung up, and the guys ribbed me about having to sleep on the couch when I got home. They all left, leaving just me and Maurice. I told him to go to bed, I’d wait on the porch for Diana, since it was warm, despite the rain. In my buzzed state, I remember sitting on his porch swing and thinking it was the greatest night ever.