The One Who Got Away: A Novel by Bethany Bloom

the
entrance to the barn and she watched him, in his clean white t-shirt, as he
planed boards and blew away sawdust.
    And now she was climbing the
stairs at her sister’s house. Would she tell her sister about the research she
had done? Would she tell her parents, at dinner, that she was engaged? She
wasn’t sure. She didn’t feel sure of anything just now.
    The noise from her nieces and
nephews, giggling and shouting, trailed off as she climbed to the upper section
of the house. The washer and dryer were installed in a closet off the upstairs
hallway. The bi-fold doors yawned open, and Yarrow was bent over the washing
machine. Olivine stood just behind her as Yarrow squinted into the musty
darkness.
    Olivine whispered, but her tone
was throaty and urgent: “You haven’t said anything to Mom, have you?”
    “What?” Yarrow banged her head on
the metal drum as she straightened her body and removed her head. “Oh, you
startled me.” Yarrow laughed. “Of course I haven’t said anything.” Her voice
lowered to a whisper. “I kind of thought you would. Tonight. I guess I thought
this would be your engagement party. Or something. Isn’t Paul coming?”
    “No, he’s in surgery. Emergency,”
Olivine lied.
    “Oh. Well, I guess it will have
to wait then.”
    “Yeah. Another time. Soon.”
    Olivine joined Yarrow in her bid
to match the socks in the basket, which was overflowing on top of the dryer. They
worked in silence for a few moments, matching a variety of colors, sizes, and
shapes and folding the tops, then tossing them back into the basket to be
sorted into drawers at another time. It was a silence Olivine relished. The
beauty of not having to speak. Of being so close with a person that you felt instantly
comfortable. It reminded her, once again, of Henry. Of being in his Volkswagen,
of saying nothing as they logged mile after mile and then, every now and then,
looking at one another and grinning, like they both knew a secret too
important, too juicy, to put into words.
    It was Olivine who spoke first.
“When you were fixing to get married, did you feel like throwing up all the
time?”
    Yarrow laughed. “Oh, yeah. Definitely.
it's like that for everyone, Olivine. It's never what you think it's going to
be. Everyone feels like throwing up or backing out when they get engaged.”
    “How could that be true?”
    “Well, it’s true for some of the
women I know, at least. But for all of us, I think, there’s this little voice
that says you aren’t ready for this. That you’re still a child. That you can’t possibly
be trusted with that kind of a decision. That you can’t be expected to know
what’s going to make you happy over the next year. The next month. The next six
decades. I think you always feel too young and ill-prepared to make a step like
this.”  
    “Yeah. But when you’re thirty-two?”
    “No matter how old you are. It
just means you’re taking it seriously enough.” She twisted another pair of
socks together and held them, balled up in her hand. She looked down for a
moment and then looked directly at Olivine, her voice hushed. “You know, I
don't know if this is going to be any consolation to you, but now that I've
been married…what?... going on ten years, sometimes I’m not sure whether it
matters whom you end up with. Even if you marry the greatest guy in the
world, you’re going to have to make some concessions. You’re going to have to
work pretty hard.”
    “Not to romanticize it, though,
huh?”
    Yarrow chuckled and fished
through the laundry basket for another match. “No, really. When I was younger,
I believed in one true love. Now, I wonder if it would have been any different
had I married Bruce or John or Greg, or…wow. I can’t even remember anyone else
I dated. I sometimes think that only the scenery would change. The town. My
address. The socks. But the washing machine. Now that would probably be the
same. Old and used and kind of smelly if you put your head in