It doesn’t matter if we don’t mean to do the things we do. It doesn’t matter if it was an accident or a mistake. It doesn’t even matter if we think this is all up to fate. Because regardless of our destiny, we still have to answer for our actions. We make choices, big and small, every day of our lives, and those choices have consequences.
We have to face those consequences head-on, for better or worse. We don’t get to erase them just by saying we didn’t mean to. Fate or not, our lives are still the results of our choices. I’m starting to think that when we don’t own them, we don’t own ourselves.
I roll back into the house and see Gabby, still lying on the floor, nearly catatonic. She’s staring at the ceiling. Her tears spill from her face and form tiny puddles on the floor.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever felt pain like this,” she says. “And I think I’m still in shock. It’s only going to get worse, right? It’s only going to get deeper and sharper, and it’s already so deep and so sharp.”
For the first time in what feels like a long time, I’m higher up than Gabby. I have to look down to meet her eyeline. “You won’t have to go through it alone,” I tell her. “I’ll be here through every part of it. I’d do anything for you, do you know that? Does it help? To know that I’d move mountains for you? That I’d part seas?”
She looks up at me.
I move one foot onto the ground and lean over. I try to get my hands onto the floor in front of me.
“Hannah, stop,” she says as I push my center of gravity closer to her, trying to lie down next to her. But I don’t have the mechanics right. I don’t have the right strength just yet. I topple over. It hurts. It actually hurts quite a bit. But I have pain medication in my bag and things to do. So I move through it. I scoot next to her, pushing the wheelchair out of the way.
“I love you,” I tell her. “And I believe in you. I believe in Gabby Hudson. I believe she can do anything.”
She looks at me with gratitude, and then she keeps crying. “I’m so embarrassed,” she says between breaths. She’s about to start hyperventilating.
“Shhh. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. I can’t go to the bathroom on my own. So you have no right to claim embarrassment,” I tell her.
She laughs, if only for the smallest, infinitesimal second, and then she starts crying again. To hear it makes my heart ache.
“Squeeze my hand,” I tell her as I take her hand in mine. “When it hurts so bad you don’t think you can stand it, squeeze my hand.”
She starts crying again, and she squeezes.
And at that moment, I realize that if I have taken away a fraction of her pain, then I have more purpose than I have ever known.
I’m not moving to London. I’m staying right here.
I found my home. And it’s not New York or Seattle or London or even Los Angeles.
It’s Gabby.
That night, Gabby and I decide to take Charlemagne for a long walk. At first, we were just going to walk around the block, but Gabby suggests getting out of the neighborhood. So we get into the car and drive to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.
Gabby says it’s beautiful at night. There is a light installation that shines brightly in the dark. She wants to show me.
We stop at Coffee Bean and get tea lattes. Mine is herbal because Gabby read an article that said pregnant women shouldn’t have any caffeine. There are about ten others that say caffeine is fine in moderation but Gabby is very persuasive.
We park the car a few blocks from the museum, put Charlemagne on the sidewalk, and start walking. The air is cool; the sun set early tonight, and it’s quiet on the streets of L.A., even for a Sunday night.
Gabby doesn’t want to talk about Mark, and I don’t really want to talk about the baby. Lately, it seems as if all we do is talk about Mark and the baby. So we decide instead to talk about high school.
“Freshman year, you had a crush on Will Underwood,” Gabby says. She sips her drink right after she says it, and I look at her to see her eyes giving a mischievous glance. It’s true, I did have a crush on Will Underwood. But she also knows that just mentioning it is enough to make me mortified. During our freshman year, Will Underwood was a senior who was completely cheesy and dated freshman girls. When you are a freshman girl, you don’t understand what’s so unlikable about guys who are interested in freshman girls. Instead, I very much hoped he’d notice me. I wanted to be one of those girls. He’s now a shock jock on an FM station here. He dates strippers.
“Well, I’ve never had good taste,” I say, laughing at myself, and then I point at my belly. “As evidenced here by my baby with no daddy.”
Gabby laughs. “Ethan was a good one,” she says. “You were smart enough to choose Ethan.”
“Twice,” I remind her as we keep walking. Charlemagne pulls on the leash, leading us toward a tree. We stop.
“Well, I’m no better at choosing, clearly,” Gabby says, and it occurs to me that when you’re going through a divorce or when you’re having a baby, there is no not talking about it. It shades everything you do. You have to talk about it, even when you aren’t talking about it. And maybe that’s OK. Maybe what’s important is that you have someone to listen.
Charlemagne pees beside the tree and then starts scratching away at the grass, trying to cover it up. This is a pet peeve of Gabby’s, because Gabby appreciates a nicely landscaped curb.
“Charlemagne, no,” Gabby says. Charlemagne stops and looks up at her, hoping to please. “Good girl,” Gabby says, and then she looks at me. “She’s so smart. Did you think dogs were this smart?”
I laugh at her. “She’s not that smart,” I tell her. “Earlier today, she ran into the wall. You just love her, so you think she’s smart. Rose-colored glasses and what have you.”
Gabby cocks her head to the side and looks at Charlemagne. “No,” she says. “She’s really smart. I just know it. I can tell. I mean, yes, I do love her. I love her to pieces. I honestly don’t know what I was doing without a dog this whole time. Mark ruined all the good stuff.”
Obviously, Mark didn’t actually ruin every good thing in the world, but I don’t contradict her. Anger is a part of healing. “Yeah,” I say. “Well, actually, you did have good taste in men once. Remember how in love you were with Jesse Flint all through high school? And then senior year? You guys went out on the one date?”
“Oh, my God!” Gabby says. “Jesse Flint! I could never forget Jesse Flint! He was an actual dream man. I still think he’s the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I laugh at her. “Oh, come on! He was tiny. I don’t even know if he was taller than you.”
She nods. “Oh, yes, he was. He was one inch taller than me and perfect. And then stupid Jessica Campos got back together with him the day after our date, and they ended up getting married after college. The major tragedy of my young life.”
“You should call him,” I say.
“Call Jesse Flint? And say what? ‘Hey, Jesse, my marriage is over, and I remember one nice date with you when we were seventeen. How’s Jessica?’ ”
“They got divorced, like, two years ago.”
“What?” Gabby says. She stops in place. “No more Jesse and Jessica? Why did I not know about this?”
“I assumed you did. It was on Facebook.”
“He’s divorced?”
“Yeah, so maybe you two can talk about what divorce is like or something.”
She starts walking again. Charlemagne and I walk with her. “You know something embarrassing?”
“What?”
“I thought about Jesse on my wedding day. How lame is that? As I was walking down the aisle, I specifically thought, Jesse Flint is already married. So he isn’t the one you were meant to be with. It made me feel better about my decision. I think I figured, you know, Mark really was the best one out there for me that was available.”
I can’t help it. I start laughing. “It’s like you really wanted to get Count Chocula, but someone took the last box, and all they had was Cheerios, so you told yourself, ‘OK, Cheerios is what I was meant to have.’ ”