Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [36]
We celebrated in my father’s backyard, the same backyard in which Henry, at least in my memories of what I thought to be true, chased Katie in their failed quest for (those stupid took-me-hours-to-dye, my-fingers-were-pastel-hued-for-days) Easter eggs. Torches lit the lawn, and bouquets of more gardenias drenched each table, and mirth and conversation filled the dusk air. It was a private, quaint, nearly perfect evening.
When you looked at us, when you watched our first dance or when you noticed Henry kiss the top of my head before standing to give his speech, you’d think that we were many times blessed. And, best as I can remember, I thought we were, too.
“Please forgive me,” Henry said in front of the crowd on the wood dance floor that my florist had laid down the day before. “Because I’m about to get sentimental, which, for those of you who know me, is quite an aberration.”
Our guests tittered with amusement at the truth of his statement. Of the many things that Henry was—logical, precise, loyal—overly emotive was not one of them.
“As most of you know, I am an only child,” Henry continued. “Which has its perks, certainly—all the toys you can hope for as a kid—but also has its downsides—no siblings at the ready for constant companionship or a younger brother to beat up on.” He paused for laughter. “But the one real downside is that you do spend your life looking for someone who is on your side, who has your back. I spent a lot of my life looking for that.” He cleared his throat and looked over to me, and I tried to dislodge the tangible ball of emotion clogging my throat.
“And then, I met Jillian, who, when work explodes or I need someone to lean on, well, she’s there. She’s just always there, and for me, as someone who has lived his life without someone else always being there—no offense, Mom and Dad—it is everything. She is everything.” He wiped away tears that flowed down his tan cheeks. “So I raise my glass to you, Jill, who has filled that space for me that I’ve searched for for thirty-one years. To my Jillian, I love you more than the moon and the stars.”
Our guests roared out thunderous applause and held their champagne glasses high, and Henry wove his way back to me, kissing me hard and lovingly until I finally pulled away.
So yes, you would think that we were many times blessed. You’d think that you were so damn happy that we’d found each other, and even though this was our life, not yours, your eyes would well with tears at the thought of such happiness because we, you told yourself, were what you strived for. And seeing us now, you knew that this love, this bond between two people who started out as nothing more than strangers but who grew to discover that each was the other’s half, wasn’t unattainable, and if we could have it, so too could you.
Chapter Eleven
Slowly, the assured grip with which I once held my future is coming unraveled. When this endeavor began, I could foresee most, though certainly not all, of the events that were to rear their heads, like daffodils bursting out of spring soil. True, the little things—who would pop into my office, where Jack and I would eat for dinner—had long since fled my memory, but the bigger, more impacting things—an earsplitting argument over a dreaded and demoralizing weekend at Jack’s parents’ weekend home (this time, rather than endure the hysteria and the withering commentary that spouted from each of us, I simply agreed to the figurative jail time), a flare-up at work over misplaced film from the photo shoot (try calling the cab company, I suggested now)—have been easy enough to dodge. There is a reason, I suppose, that the cliché is a cliché: Hindsight truly is twenty-twenty.
But now, things have started to radiate like waves. Like a nearly