The One Who Got Away: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

really
make a difference. But first, he reminded her, she had to ace Anatomy and
Microbiology, or no connections of his were going to make any difference.
    Paul wanted only what was best
for her, Olivine reasoned. He was a good man. He simply wanted her to transition
into a career that they could enjoy together. And she was lucky. There were
plenty of women around the hospital, around town, even, who wanted Paul with a fervor.
But Olivine and Paul were meant to be. Paul’s father had even told her that she
was the only woman he had ever opened up to; that, to his knowledge, there had
been no serious girlfriends before her.
    She and Paul had been dating only
a few months when Paul introduced her to his father, who ran a thriving
cardiology practice in the city. Paul’s father had the same broad face and jaw,
both of which hardly moved as he regarded Olivine. He raised his eyebrows and
then looked at the floor just as Paul had when they first met. But there were
differences, too. His father’s hair was silver instead of red; his brow more
creased; his skin more fair; his eyelashes so light they were barely visible.
    After dinner, Paul had excused
himself to check in with his office. As soon as he left the dining room, Paul’s
father cupped her hand with his. He looked her straight in the eye, and in a low,
even tone, he told her that Paul needed her. That he had never seen him open up
to someone so much. That he had always worried, after Paul’s mother abandoned them,
that Paul would never be capable of connecting with a woman. That it was vital
for her to understand how much Paul needed her.
    “His mother left a simple goodbye
note for Paul one morning, you know,” Paul’s father had said.
    Olivine shook her head. She
didn’t know.
    “She did. She left a note for him
to find near his favorite cereal box, when he was thirteen years old. The note
said she loved him and always would but she couldn’t live in this house
anymore.”
    Paul’s father let go of Olivine’s
hand and picked up his beer bottle, tossed back a swig, and then cradled it in
folded hands, staring blankly at the label and peeling at it with his thumbnail.
“Paul was angry. Still is. Never got over it. Probably never will.”
    “Paul never told me any of this.”
    “That doesn’t surprise me. Does
it surprise you?”
    Olivine shook her head. “So what
happened to her?” she asked.
    “She lives on an island
somewhere.” Paul’s father scoffed and tipped his head back to drain the bottle.
His eyes were so unexpressive, his tone of voice so even that she had to
suppress a sudden urge to shake him by the shoulders. The same urge she had to
resist when she was talking with Paul, at times. 
    “She has been trying to send him letters
ever since she left,” he continued. “Not that he and I speak about it. That’s
his business. I only know he doesn’t respond because his mother tells me. She
calls me, writes me, still, to this day, to bawl me out for it. She blames me for his detachment from her. She says I’ve poisoned his mind. But I don’t get
involved. I wasn’t the one who left.”
    The dinner had wrapped up shortly
after that, and, on the long drive home, Olivine considered asking Paul about
his mother. But then she thought better of it. This, she was coming to
understand, was what their relationship was built on: giving one another space.
And if Paul needed space, she could give it to him.
    As the years went by, she
wondered if he would ever mention his mother. He had come close, telling her
once, “My parents are divorced, and I don’t have much of a relationship with
her.” And then he returned to the quiet place inside where he spent most of his
time.
    The important thing was that she
was needed. Paul needed her. Paul’s own father told her that his son needed
her. He needed her light, her spark. And even though sometimes it felt as
though Paul drained it from her, she could always regain it. She could always
find more. Maybe