Gravity: A Novel (22 page)

Ryan took longer breaks from my side when he realized that his presence was anything but comforting.
I couldn’t seem to move past this resentful anger that took root inside me and seemed to grow with each passing day. The worst part was that I wasn’t even sure what or who I was angry at. My thoughts centered on Drew and the day when I was strong enough to find him. I had used Ryan’s iPhone to search the Internet for “Andrew Monroe” and for contact information for the Monroe Enterprises’ offices.

After several phone calls to offices around the globe, I had finally been told that “Mr. Monroe was on a leave of absence
, and it was unsure when he would return.” These words echoed in my mind, oddly familiar. I had tried to contact Andrew’s father, but he was impossible to reach as if I were trying to call the President of the United States, rather than the president of a multibillion-dollar enterprise. I refused to contact William, although his name had popped up in several of my searches. He wasn’t linked to Monroe Enterprises in any way that I could tell, but I refused to find out more information about him.

I had found a number for Sal’s
Garage and had left a message for Logan, but I hadn’t heard from him either. And so I was left with the wait, my patience wearing thin, as I focused on my recovery so that I could leave this place and find Drew myself. I didn’t care what it took; I was going to find him.

I heard a knock on the door to my room that sat slightly ajar
—the nurses’ best attempt for my privacy. They had moved me out of the ICU last week—now that my condition was no longer “critical”—to a step-down unit where I was still being closely monitored, but it was more peaceful, less intense. This allowed me the ability to eat real food, rather than being fed through an IV and a feeding tube. And it allowed my family to fill my room with a beautiful array of flowers, which my mother brought in every three days to “keep things fresh,” as she liked to say. And that is what she held in her hand now, a beautiful arrangement of wildflowers, as she stepped into my room quietly.

“Good
morning, sweetheart,” she chimed as she busied herself arranging the flowers in an empty vase and filling it with water from the small sink in the corner of my room. She set them on the table at the side of my bed and leaned over to kiss my forehead. I inhaled her perfume—Beautiful by Estée Lauder. My mother’s signature scent. “Jacob called. He said he’d call your room later today. The time difference in Sydney has made it difficult for him to reach you.”

I nodded.
I missed my brother. As much as I wished that he was here to help me sort everything out, I knew that he would think I was completely crazy. He was also Ryan’s biggest fan. Jacob called and emailed Ryan more often than his own sister. They were extremely close, and I was sure that Jacob would only encourage me to work things out with Ryan, his loyalty showing no boundaries. Jacob was in the middle of a huge project on a movie set, his strict three-month contract keeping him from flying home to be by my side. My mother had kept him updated on my progress during the entire month that I was in a coma, assuring him that there was nothing he could do, and to stay and finish his job.

“I brought you some new magazines that I thought you might like,” she said in a cheerful voice
, as she pulled them from her bag and set them on the tray that hovered over my bed.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said in a flat tone, immediately feeling guilty for showing so little regard for her and her efforts.
The truth was, I had enjoyed my mother’s company, which is more than I could say for Ryan’s. I could be myself around her and talk openly about my recovery. I didn’t, however, talk to her about Drew or what I think had happened while I was in a coma. It sounded crazy even in my own head; saying it aloud would only cause my mother to question my sanity.

“Oh, Gemma
.” She sighed as she sat down on my bed, facing me. She pulled to the side the long scarf that hung from my nearly bald head—the aftermath of several brain surgeries that required my hair to be shaved off—and ran her finger delicately across my cheek. “What is it? When am I going to get my Gemma back?”

Her compassion and her words “my Gemma” broke something apart inside me.
I hung my face in my hands when I felt the tears running down my cheeks, evolving to fully fledged sobs in a matter of seconds. I felt her hand on the back of my shoulder, comforting me, encouraging me to let it all out. I had been focused, stoic, numb for days, and her words had flipped a switch, turned on all my emotions at once. The pain encompassed me then, wrapped itself around me, unrelenting as I cried.

After several minutes of silence, while emotion
s tore through me and spilled from my eyes, my mother handed me a tissue. I wiped my eyes and nose, and balled the tissue in my hands tightly, my eyes focused on my hands. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to do,” I choked out between hiccups of lingering sobs.

“About what, Gemma?” she asked softly.

“About Ryan, the baby, Andrew,” I answered in incoherent mumbles, staring at the damp tissue in my hands that I twirled around my fingers nervously.

“Andrew?” she asked, as if she had heard me incorrectly.

I looked up into her eyes, taking in the lines that webbed around them, the dark circles painted like shadows of the life that she had once held there. I took in the worried expression, the sorrow that she hid so well behind her cheerful disposition and realized the price that she had paid as well, for my accident, my near-death, my life. I instinctively held my hands over my belly, knowing that one day I would know what that felt like.

And maybe I already did. The vulnerability that came from being a parent, the cost of knowing that you would give your own life to keep your child safe, bear their grief and pain as if it was your own.
And so I launched gently into what had happened, or what I thought had happened, between Drew and me. I spared only the more intimate details and the truth of what was revealed between us from our past, describing what I felt in each moment.

“And now here I am, left wondering what was real and what was just a dream
, and what it all means for me, for Ryan, and for our baby,” I said through my desperate sobs, as my mother just sat and listened as the crazy story poured from my heart. “Do you think that I’m crazy?” I asked.

She reached out and took my hand in hers.
“Gemma, listen to me. I don’t think you’re crazy at all. I think that your mind and your heart were fighting like hell to keep you here, and this . . . dream . . . or whatever it was, did just that. It kept you here with us, fighting. If you need to find Drew, honey, then I understand. But don’t be disappointed when you find him. He’s not the Drew from your dream and maybe nothing like the Drew that you remember. He could be happily married with kids, or he could be just like his father. It’s been years. You don’t know what you’re going to find.

“I know that Ryan hurt you
, and you feel like you may never be able to forgive him, but he loves you, Gemma. He loves you so much. He never left your side, not for a minute, for thirty-one days. That speaks volumes. He made a mistake, but he loves you,and he choose
s
yo
u
just as much today as he did when he married you. You’re going to have a baby. You’re being given a second chance. With Ryan, this baby, with life. Consider this before you shut him out for good. That’s all I ask.”

I listened to her words, knowing that she was right in only the way a mother can be.
This infinite wisdom that seems to grow the older she gets.

I wiped at m
y eyes again. “What if I can’t? Forgive him?”

“You will, eventually.
It takes time, but when you love someone the way that you love Ryan, everything eventually falls into place again.”

“Did you ever forgive Dad?” I asked.
We had never talked about him, about what happened between them. And I saw the surprise in her eyes from my question.

“That was different,
” she said, pausing as if to collect her thoughts. “It wasn’t a one-time mistake with your father. It was years of lies and several different long-term affairs. I loved him so much, and I loved our family even more. I think that I could still have found it in my heart to forgive him, to take him back after everything, but the difference is, Gemma, your father didn’t choose me in the end. He didn’t choose
u
s
.”

I absorbed her words as the fossil of pain my father had left resurfaced. “Why didn’t he choose
u
s
, even if he didn’t choose you?” I asked, my voice mimicking the words of my thirteen-year-old self. The question that had haunted me all these years was finally answered. He had been the one to leave. I had always hoped that it was my mother’s decision. That my mother had asked him to leave. That he had hurt her and she was unable to forgive him, pushing him out of our lives with vengeance.

“He loved you and Jacob more than anything, but your father was never good at facing things
, and I think that the guilt of breaking our family ended up destroying him. Literally destroying him.”

I took a deep breath, trying to squelch the occasional sob that still rocked through me.

“Don’t let your emotions from this . . . dream . . . get in the way of your marriage, Gemma. Focus on what you know to be real.”

She squeezed my hand and kissed me on the forehead, a mild gesture letting me know that this conversation was over.

“I’m going to grab a cup of coffee downstairs. Can I get you anything?”

I shook my head, my mind reeling from her words.
Rea
l
. The problem was I didn’t know what was real. Dream or not, my feelings for Drew felt real. More real than the rest of my world at the moment, and I couldn’t deny that.

“I’ll be right back,” my mother said in her
singsong voice, as I watched her walk from the room.

***

The next day as Ryan sat in the chair beside my bed, tapping furiously on his laptop, my mother’s words and the unspoken promise that I made to her rang in my ears. I set down my magazine in my lap and looked at Ryan. I took in his flawless features, trying to remember the man that I had fallen in love with. The cocky, dreamy baseball player. The smart, funny, and extremely compassionate law student. The patient, sensual, and incredibly talented lover. The honest, devoted friend. And eventually, the attentive, romantic, and loving husband. The other half to my whole.

His usually cropped and perfect brown hair was a little longer than usual and unruly
, as he had continuously run his fingers through it while he was working. His face was perfection, even with the slight stubble that dotted his upper lip and chin. His broad shoulders and chest were still as sculpted as the day we met, although his middle had grown a touch softer with age. A subtle flaw in his otherwise perfect physique, but one that I loved. His fingers stopped typing as he looked up, his warm brown eyes capturing my gaze.

And we were frozen in the moment, our
gazes locked, holding so much promise between us, each of us afraid to look away. He gently closed his laptop and set it aside without averting his eyes. A single tear bled from the corner of my eye and slowly dribbled down my cheek, followed by another. He slid onto the bed, facing me, our gazes still searching, pleading. I felt the bed shift and dip as he leaned in and wiped my tear with the tip of his thumb.

I closed my eyes briefly at his touch
, and, in the same moment, I felt him crash against me. His arms finding their way behind me, as he raised me up and held me against him. My arms reached out and held him around the neck as I buried my face on his shoulder. Tears fell endlessly now as I felt the pain and regret and sorrow in his embrace. And the relief for this moment that passed between us, whatever it may be.

“I love you, Gemma,” he whispered into my ear
, and his breath on my flesh sent shivers rippling through me. We hadn’t held each other in what felt like forever. I couldn’t remember the last time we had connected like this. It was long before the accident, long before I found him in bed with another woman. Maybe since the devastation of our last failed attempt to conceive.

“I love you too,” I whispered against his shoulder.
And I did still love him. I was just so hurt. Hurt from his choice that day, hurt from all my failures. I wished it was simple. Forgiving him, forgiving myself. I wished I could snap my fingers and the image of him betraying me would be gone, the pain would be gone. And we could start over, together, with our baby.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

Anger ripped through me at his words, robbing me of the moment. I drew back and looked into his eyes, feeling his betrayal all over again. Wondering how he could love me and yet consciously make that choice, the choice to sacrifice our relationship, our promise to one another. How could he be so reckless with my heart? The thought made my stomach convulse, and I held my hand over my mouth instinctively, shaking my head back and forth, unable to absorb any more pain from what he had done.

“I can’t lose you, Gemma,” he whispered with a fresh wave of fear in his eyes.

I beat my fists against his chest as hard as I could, which wasn’t very hard from our close proximity. “Why would you do that to me? To us?” I yelled. “Why?” Desperation fell from my lips in a mix of anger and sadness. “You broke
u
s
. You broke us,” I repeated, my words getting lost in a new string of sobs as I buried my face in his chest. He held me tightly in silence, and I could feel his own tears on my skin as we finally faced the pain of what he had done and the pain of what we had become.