The Light We Lost: The International Bestseller everyone is talking about!. Jill Santopolo

make plans without me? How could you make plans like that without me?”

      You were crying too, snot dripping from your nose to your lip. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I was trying to do the right thing. I didn’t want to hurt you, I’m sorry.”

      “But you did,” I choked out. “More than you would have. More than you needed to. It’s like I don’t matter to you at all.”

      “That’s not true.” You wiped your nose and then reached for me again.

      “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t touch me.”

      “Please,” you said. “Lucy, please.” Now you were crying harder than I was. “I need you to understand. I wish I didn’t want this—I wish I didn’t feel like this is the thing I have to do, the only way I’ll feel whole. I never wanted to hurt you. This isn’t about you.”

      “No,” I said. “It’s not about me. But it’s not only about you either. It’s about us. It’s about you destroying us.”

      You looked as if I’d slapped you. And I wanted to.

      “I’m not—” you said. “It’s not about us, Lucy. It’s really not. It is about me. I need to do this for me. There’s something inside me that’s broken, and this is the only thing that will fix it. I thought you’d understand. You always under—”

      But I didn’t understand this time.

      “Why can’t you stay?” I interrupted. “What about photographing New York City? There are so many stories here to tell. You were so happy when the New York Times printed your picture.”

      You shook your head. “I can do more somewhere else. I can do better work. I can make more of a difference. I wish it weren’t true, but it is. You know what that means to me.”

      “I do, but there has to be another way.”

      “There isn’t,” you said.

      “What about taking trips, but coming back home when they’re done?” I was begging. I knew it, and I didn’t care.

      “That’s not how it works,” you said. “Pete said if I want to do this, I have to be all in.”

      “Oh, Pete says.” I was furious now. “So you talked to Pete all about this, but not to me.”

      “Lucy—” you started.

      “You know what?” I said. “Fuck you.” Anger spread to the far reaches of my fingers and toes. I walked to our bed and threw your pillow and the extra blanket onto the couch. “You’re sleeping there tonight.”

      “Lucy, we’re not done talking.” The blanket dangled from your fingertips.

      “We are,” I said, unzipping my dress and turning out the light.

      OF COURSE, neither one of us slept. I relived the conversation we’d just had over and over in my mind. As much as I hated you just then, I still wanted to walk across the studio and slide in next to you on the couch, to feel the solidity of your body next to mine. You were my comfort and my pain all at once.

      At some point later you got up and stood beside the bed. “I have an idea,” you said.

      I didn’t respond.

      “I know you’re awake,” you said. “I can see your eyes.”

      We hadn’t closed the blinds. You were backlit, illuminated by the city lights. It gave you a halo. Fallen angel, I thought.

      “What?” I finally asked.

      “Maybe . . . maybe you can come with me.” You reached out your hand tentatively in the semidarkness. “Maybe we could figure that out.”

      I met your fingers with mine. For a brief moment it made sense. But then my mind focused on what you were asking. It focused on Baghdad. On visas. On apartments. On jobs. “But . . . how?” I asked.

      You sat down on the bed, still holding my hand, and shrugged. “We could find a way.”

      “But where would I live? What would I do? What about my career, Gabe?” I felt the anger flooding my body again. You were asking me to give up my dreams for you, when you would never do the same for me, wouldn’t even consider compromise, hadn’t even talked to me about it.

      You shook your head. “I don’t know,” you said. “But I’m sure people do this. Maybe you could have a different career. You could get a job writing articles and make a difference that way. We could create the words and the pictures together. I should’ve thought of this earlier. It’d be perfect.”

      “I thought my dreams weren’t disposable, Gabe,” I said. I loved you. I did. I do. So much. But what you were asking wasn’t fair. And it hurt then—it still hurts now—that you’d made this decision to leave without my input and weren’t willing to think about any alternatives.

      “That’s not what I meant,” you said.

      I sighed. It was all too much. “Let’s talk about it in the morning,” I told you.

      “But—” you started. Then you closed your mouth. “Okay,” you said. But you didn’t move. You stayed put, sitting on the bed. You kept your hand on mine.

      “Gabe?” I asked.

      You turned to face me. A police car sped by, its flashing lights reflected in your eyes. “I can’t sleep without you, Lucy.”

      I felt my tears pool again. “That’s not fair,” I said. “You don’t get to say that. You have no right.”

      “But it’s true,” you said. “That’s why you should come to Iraq.”

      “Because you’re having trouble sleeping without me next to you in bed?” I pulled my hand out of yours.

      “I didn’t mean it literally,” you said. “I meant I love you. I meant I’m sorry. I meant I want you to come with me.” You didn’t get it.

      I sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. We both squinted in its harsh light. I saw the pain etched onto your face. You looked raw and vulnerable. Miserable. Lost. Like you did that night at Faces & Names, the night we reconnected. And there it was, my pomegranate seed, that part of you that still makes it so hard for me to turn away. When you show me that vulnerable piece of yourself, it makes me feel responsible. Because we only reveal our true selves to the people we care about most. I think that’s why our relationship jump-started so quickly. We had no barriers on September 11th—we revealed our secret selves to each other right away. And you can’t ever take that back. But that night it wasn’t enough. I needed more from you. I needed understanding and honesty and compromise. I needed commitment. It wasn’t even worth fighting anymore.

      I reached for your hand. “I love you, too,” I said, “but I can’t come with you. You know that. Your dreams are there, but mine are here.”

      “You were right before,” you said, your voice sounding strangled. “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

      I watched you pad across the apartment, fold your long body onto the couch. I turned out the light and thought of all the reasons it made no sense for me to go with you to Iraq—and the one reason it did: because I couldn’t imagine my life without you.

      WHEN I WOKE UP BLEARY-EYED, with a pounding headache, you were sitting on the couch watching me.

      “I know you can’t come,” you said quietly, the moment my eyes were open. “But I promise, we’ll stay in touch. I’ll see you when I come to visit the city. I’ll always love you.” Your voice caught in your throat. “But I need to do this. And the fact that I was ready to throw away your dream—I’m my father all over again, Lucy. I think . . . I think you’ll be better off without me.”

      My head throbbed. My eyes burned. And I truly fell apart then; I couldn’t stop the sobs,