She had rented a small van to take his belongings across the bridge to the university, and the following morning they left the hotel by ten, and followed all the instructions they'd been given to sign in. And as soon as they got there, Wim took control. He gave his mother the slip of paper with his dorm address, told her he'd meet her there in two hours, and set off on foot. It took her a full half-hour just to find the address. The UC Berkeley campus was huge. She walked around for a little while, and then sat on a rock in the sunshine outside the dorm, waiting for him. It was pleasant just sitting there. The weather was warm, the sun was hot, and it was at least fifteen degrees warmer than it had been in San Francisco an hour before. And as she sat there, enjoying the sun on her face, she saw a familiar figure in the distance, a slow rolling gait she had seen a million times before, and would have recognized with her eyes closed, just from the pounding of her heart. It was Peter, walking straight toward her with a determined look, and he stopped a few feet away from her.
“Hello, Paris,” he said coolly, as though they'd scarcely met before. None of their time or history together showed in his eyes or on his face. He had braced himself for that. And so had she. “Where's Wim?”
“Signing up for classes, and getting his dorm room key. He should be here in another hour.” He nodded, looking uncertain about what to do, wait with her, or leave and come back. But he had nothing else to do either, and the campus was so overwhelming in its enormity, it was a little daunting to wander off. Like her, he preferred to stay and wait, although he felt awkward being with her. He hadn't been looking forward to the trip either, and had steeled himself for it, for Wim's sake.
They sat in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts. He tried to keep his mind on Rachel. She kept remembering the things she had discussed with Anne Smythe about seeing him again. And in the end, it was Peter who spoke first.
“You look well,” he said formally, without commenting on the fact that she looked beautiful, but very thin.
“Thank you. So do you.” She didn't ask how Rachel was, or how he liked living in New York, presumably with her. Paris had suspected for months that the hotel room he was keeping was only a front, for the chil-dren's sake, and the proprieties prior to the divorce. She didn't ask him if he was happy to be nearly divorced. The divorce was going to be final between Thanksgiving and Christmas, which would add a new dimension to the holidays for her this year. “It was nice of you to come out,” she said politely, feeling an ache in her heart just being this close to him, and having to engage in small talk with him, which seemed so absurd. “It means a lot to Wim.”
“I thought it might, that's why I came. I hope you don't mind that I'm here.” She looked up at him, and he was more handsome than ever. She had to brace herself just to look at him. It was still nearly impossible to believe how totally and suddenly and irreversibly he had rejected her. It was the single greatest blow of her life. She couldn't even imagine recovering from it, or daring to care about someone again. All she could imagine was loving him, and hurting like this, for the rest of her life.
“I think we both have to get used to doing things like this,” she said practically, trying to sound healthier than she felt. “There are going to be a lot of events that are important to the kids, and we've got to be able to manage it for them.” Although this was in very close quarters, and over several days, which made it harder for her, particularly on unfamiliar turf. She couldn't go home to safe, familiar surroundings afterward to lick her wounds. All she could do was go back to a hotel, which wasn't the same. He nodded, in silent agreement with her, and all she could feel was the future stretching forever in front of them. A future in which he had Rachel, and she was alone.
He sat on a bench in silence for a while, as she sat quietly on the rock, both of them wishing that Wim would hurry up. And finally, Peter looked at her again. He seemed to be growing increasingly uncomfortable, and whenever she glanced at him, she could almost see him squirm.
“Are you all right?” he asked her finally, and she opened her eyes. She'd been holding her face up to the sun, trying not to feel the proximity of him, which was nearly impossible. She was aching to get up and throw herself into his arms, or at his feet. How was it possible to spend more than half a lifetime with someone and simply have them get up one morning and walk away? It was still nearly impossible for her to accept or even fathom.
“I'm fine,” she said quietly, not entirely sure of what he meant. Did he mean now, while waiting for Wim and sitting on a rock in the sun, or in a broader sense? She didn't want to ask.
