After 50 Years as Her Stand-In, I Walked Away

"She told me," Peter said.

"Said she likes me."

He gave a small laugh, half helpless.

"Says it's been that way for a long time."

I didn't say anything.

"Came out of nowhere." Peter flicked the ash off his cigarette. "We grew up together. I always thought of her as a little sister."

I glanced at his lips.

There was a faint smudge on his upper lip, a shade redder than the surrounding skin, the edges blurred.

Like something had brushed against it.

Kirsten had never kissed me on the mouth.

Fifty years. Not once.

On our wedding night, I leaned in, and she turned her head just slightly.

Said she was a bit of a germaphobe. Wasn't used to it.

I said okay. No rush.

I tried a few more times after that. Every time, she found an excuse to pull away.

A headache. Too tired. Bad breath, she said, embarrassed.

I believed her.

Told myself to be patient. Once she let her guard down, it would happen.

I waited fifty years.

In fifty years of marriage, the most intimate we ever got was her allowing me to kiss her forehead and her cheeks.

Every time, she'd wipe the spot afterward without thinking.

I always assumed it really was the germaphobe thing.

Now I understood. It was never about that.

She'd just been keeping one clean place for the person who was meant to have it.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

Peter's voice was vague.

"I don't know. She just woke up, still weak. I didn't have the heart to turn her down."

I took a drag and tasted something bitter in the smoke.

"Kirsten's a good girl. If you didn't have the heart to say no, then give it a shot. See where it goes."

Peter looked at me.

"What about you?"

"Don't you still li—"

I shook my head.

"You've got it wrong. There's someone else I'm interested in."

That was a lie.

But the truth wouldn't have served any purpose either.

Fifty years in my last life hadn't been enough to warm her heart. I wasn't going to spend this life trying again.

Peter stubbed his cigarette out on the rim of the trash can.

He patted my shoulder, turned, and walked back into the hospital room.

The door didn't close all the way. A sliver of light cut through the gap.

I didn't look inside.

About twenty minutes later, Peter came out supporting Kirsten.

She saw me, and something shifted in her expression.

It wasn't the kind of shift from a smile to no smile. It was something more complicated than that, harder to name.

Part awkwardness, part guilt.

But she collected herself quickly.

What replaced it was a wall of cold.

"I'll drive you two home," I offered.

Kirsten didn't look at me. She gave a small nod.

She was leaning her entire weight against Peter, one hand gripping his arm, knuckles white.

Like if she let go, he'd vanish.

Like if she loosened her fingers even slightly, he'd disappear.

At the car, I pulled open the rear door for them.

Kirsten pressed close to Peter in the backseat, practically molded against him.

I started the engine. The air conditioning blew cool against my face.

In the rearview mirror, I could see the two of them.

Peter sat a little stiffly, clearly not used to that kind of closeness, but he didn't pull away.

Kirsten had her eyes closed, her lashes trembling faintly.

The car rolled on for a while before stopping at a red light.

I glanced at the rearview mirror without thinking and found Kirsten's eyes open.

Our gazes collided in the glass.

She looked away fast, burying her face in the curve of Peter's shoulder.

Like a thief caught in the act.

In the days that followed, the two of them made it official.

Peter was the sentimental type. The three of us had grown up together, and now that he and Kirsten were a couple, he felt even more strongly that he shouldn't leave me behind.