Desiree Joyce
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” - Ernest Hemingway
Desiree Joyce
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” - Ernest Hemingway
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” - Ernest Hemingway
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” - Ernest Hemingway
Emma slid through the door, calling out to her mother. “Mom? Mom are you in here?” She kicked off her shoes, to find her mother in the kitchen wiping up some sort of mess off the counter. “Mmm, what smells so good?” Her mother turned and gestured to the oven. “Dinner.” The word came out curt. There was only reason for this.
“Alright, what he did he do now?” Her mother was a ticking time bomb, exploding with exasperation at her daughter’s question.
“What he did now, is the same thing he’s done to me for the past forty years.” Emma watched her mother yank her apron off before throwing it on the table in a ball. “I have slaved for that man for the better part of my life.” She stabbed her index finger into the air. “And all I get in return is more work. No appreciation.”
Emma winced at her mother’s tone. It would be counterproductive to play devil’s advocate using her own relationship; her mother would tell her that she’s still drunk on newlywed bliss even though Jacob and Emma had been dating for nearly a decade before marrying the past year.
Her mother raged on. “I am telling you right now Emma, marriage is nothing more than stroking a man’s ego. You have no idea what you just signed up for.” Emma opened her mouth, but then thought better of it.
Her mother went and made herself comfortable in her chair, her newest stack of library books sitting beside her. Her current read looked to be close to one thousand pages, and the bookmark had barely made any sort of dent.
_Well, she thought. Time to go hear the other side. _
Emma found her father out in the garage, in his favorite pair of overalls – the ones with the grease stains – looking for something in his toolbox. His back was turned to her and he jumped as the door slammed behind Emma.
“Hey kiddo,” His tone was weary and he sounded a little tired, if nothing else. He gave her a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Emma hopped onto their lawn mower’s seat, fiddling with the buttons.
“So, I just got an earful from mom.” “And? Am I in trouble?” She put her thumb and index together, leaving but a small gap. “Just a little.” Her father gave a chuckle before pulling out a lawn chair and sat next to her beside the lawn mower.
“I’m sorry she roped you into this. Our spats aren’t your concern.” Her father pulled out his multi-tooled swiss army knife, trimming away at what appeared to be a painful hangnail.
Emma snorted. “So I get married and now suddenly you and mom’s spats are ‘private’? I’m not sure if we’ve met before, but I’m Emma, your daughter. Your _only _daughter.” She stuck out her hand and her father gripped it. “Nice to meet you Emma.”
They both threw their heads back in that father-daughter way and laughed.
“But really, what did you do?” Emma asked, wiping at her face. “Cause she’s pretty steamed.” Her father’s shoulders slumped. “I really don’t know, kiddo. I think we’ve just…lost it.”
Emma didn’t believe that for one second. She had watched her parents handle more throughout their marriage than any of her friends’ parents. She considered this. But maybe that was why her father felt they’d lost their spark. Maybe couples who went through all that they did, didn’t always come out on the other side stronger.
She got an idea. Leaping from the mower, she began moving plastic buckets, clearly looking for something. “C’mon, I know you’re around here somewhere,” she muttered to herself.
Her father got up to examine what it was she was looking for.
“It should be around here somewhere – Aha!” Emma yanked free a teal metal table she’d thrifted years ago when she was a broke college student trying to cozy up her apartment.
“What are you doing?” Her father asked.
She pushed the compacted table against the wall, wiping her hair out of her eyes. “A date. You and mom.” She pushed in the keycode, raising up the garage door, sunlight streaming in. She said, “I don’t know why I didn’t consider it earlier! Dr. Sans is always telling Jake and I to make sure we never stop dating each other, now that we’re married.”
Emma’s parents had never understood why she and Jake attended couples therapy after only being married such a short time, but Emma knew her therapist’s advice was exactly what her parents needed right now.
She made for the door before saying, “I’m going to go and talk to mom, convince her. In the meantime, maybe you could spruce it up in here a bit? Pull out one of our old patio rugs or something?” She let the door slam behind her, eager to find her mother.
Her mother was, - as expected – sitting in her chair, with her nose in her new book. She hadn’t even bothered to look up as Emma stood in the doorway. Emma snatched the book from her mother’s grasp, setting it on the table beside her.
“Emma! I was reading that, what, what on earth are you doing?” Emma yanked her mother out of her chair and up to her bedroom without a word.
Emma shut the door behind them and gave her mother a look. She gave her mother a sly smile and said “tonight, you are going out on a date.” Her mother let out a “hmmph” noise, turned and grabbed the door handle. Emma pressed her body against the door, slamming it shut again.
“Just hear me out,” Emma said. It took her a moment to catch her breath, so some of her words came out in rasps. “you and dad need a date night. Yes, you’re right, dad does take advantage of you, and he does need his ego stroked _a lot, _even for a man, but he _loves _you mom. He’s out in the garage right now, trying to show you.” _Emma hoped he was. She was really putting it on thick. _“And so I think the least you can do is to show him you still love him too.”
Her mother considered her daughter’s words, before making her way into her closet. It was so organized, it would bring tears to Marie Kondo’s eyes. Her mother’s fingers trailed along the endless rows of fabrics, but never settled on any. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“How about a dress?” Emma said. Her mother grimaced at the selection of black and beige dresses. “None of these particularly say ‘date night.’ They’re more like ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ type dresses.”
Emma would not let her mother give up that easily. “Fine, then not those.” She bit her bottom lip, and crossed her fingers behind her back. _Please say yes. _“What about…The Dress?”
Her mother’s brow furrowed. “What dress?”
Emma nudged her with her shoulder. “You know. _The Dress.” _ Her mother crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head. “No. No, no, _no.” _She stuttered, “besides, I haven’t worn that dress in thirty years. It probably doesn’t even fit, and even if it did, the fabric is weird, and…I haven’t shaved my legs in _three _days.” Emma rolled her eyes. Her mother could be so dramatic sometimes.
_Time for plan B. _
Emma sighed, walking out of her closet and onto the edge of her bed. “You’re right, mom. I mean, it’s like you said, it’s been _thirty _years. That dress probably doesn’t fit.” Her mother narrowed her eyes at her. “I know what you’re doing,” she said.
Was Emma proud to be using her mother’s vanity and insecurities against her? Not particularly. But she was desperate. Her parent’s needed this. She’d make this exception for herself. Just this once.
“Is it working?” Emma asked. Her mother dropped her arms, gave her a pointed look and went back into the closet. Emma could hardly contain her laughter.
_Maybe Jacob was right. Emma could be diabolical. _
When her mother re-appeared, Emma brought her hands to her mouth.
“Mom,” she whispered. Her mother stood in a flowing velvet dress. The dress hung on the edges of her shoulders, showcasing the delicate arches of her collarbone, while hugging her hips before flowing out into an almost flower-like shape around her feet.
“Still fits,” Her mother whispered as she took in her appearance in the mirror. The velvet was a rich blue-black color that complimented her mother’s complexion perfectly. She turned to look at her backside, shaking her head. “I still remember the first time I ever wore this dress.”
Emma leaned back against the headboard. She had heard her mother tell this story multiple times, but this was the first time Emma would truly be able to envision what that first date was like with her father.
“Your father was who I always referred to as ‘the boy across the street.’ He was loud, and his hands were always greasy from working on those old cars every day. I preferred to spend my days inside, learning to play the piano in our guest room. Well, one day I happened to read in the paper that my favorite orchestra would be playing in the next town over. I begged my father to go, but because we only had one vehicle, it just wasn’t possible.” Her mother clasped a bracelet over her wrist, pulling it just so. “It wasn’t until your father heard of my predicament and took advantage of the situation. Oh Emma, don’t look at me like that!” Emma noticed her mother’s cheeks turn a light shade of crimson.
“And he offered to take you,” Emma filled in, a sly smile pulling at her lips. Her mother nodded. “On the condition that it would be a date. You father wasn’t an ugly man by any means, and he wasn’t _so _intolerable that a night away with him would kill me. So I accepted.” Emma gestured to the gown. “And this was the dress?”
“It was.” A laugh escaped her mother’s lips. “Oh Emma, you should have seen your father. He wore dark overalls, with a plaid dress shirt. We couldn’t have looked more different that night. But I’ll never forget the way he looked at me that night.”
“Wasn’t he really under dressed for the concert?” Emma asked. “He was.” Emma watched her mother’s eyes soften at the memory replaying in her mind. “But he was a perfect gentleman. He even lifted my dress over a puddle, as to not ruin the fabric, not caring if his shoes got wet. And after the concert, he took me to a hole-in-the-wall stye restaurant, where it was me that was severely overdressed. But between the music and the delicious pasta, that was the night I fell in love with him.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Mom! The lasagna!” Emma raced out of the room after her mother, as her mother pulled the bubbly, slightly crispy dish from the oven.
“I hope your father doesn’t mind a little crunch,” her mother said as she cut out two servings.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Emma hollered back, racing into the garage.
“Wow.” Her father had transformed their garage into an intimate dinner for two. He took the metal table Emma had pulled out earlier and set in the center of the floor, on top of an old patio rug that he’d even given a quick vacuuming to. Her father had even placed a checkered tablecloth on top of the table. A glass vase filled with wild Daisies sat on the center, next to one of those electronic flickering candles. Soft music played on an old record player in the corner. With the sunset coating everything in a soft golden color, it looked like a scene from a movie. Emma glanced at everything, then to her father, whose attention was in awe of something behind her.
Her mother stood behind her, two plates of steaming lasagna in her hands. “Francine,” her father whispered. He grabbed the plates from her hands, setting them on the table before reaching for her hand. He spun her in a soft circle, the edges of her mother’s gown flowing around her bare feet.
Emma watched as her father took her mother in, his bottom lip quivering. “I can’t believe you kept it all this time,” he said.
Her mother gave a small shrug, her eyes glassy, and looked over at Emma, “someone made a very convincing argument. And honestly Charlie?” she said “I could never throw this dress away.”
The bell that hung over the vet clinic door rang out, the noise setting off the previously sleeping Wheaton terrier that sat on top of Cara’s feet into a frantic manic for the third time that morning.
“Lulu. Stop.” Grabbing her collar, she led her back to her bed beneath her desk. But this wasn’t just a dog, she reminded herself. This was Dr. Garret’s pride and joy, his very reason for existing. This was his princess, and for the next week while he was away on vacation, she was _Cara’s princess. _
“Excuse me,” a deep voice called out. Smashing her head on the underside of her desk, Cara glanced up at the man looking down at her. A large cat carrier was set beside his feet.
“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t hear you come in.” Rubbing at the newly throbbing area on her temple, she pointed behind her. “Princess there’s a yapper.”
His brows furrowed into a horizontal line. “Who?” Spinning around, Lulu was nowhere to be seen. _Figures. _
_Great. Now this guy probably thinks I’ve got a concussion. _“Uh…how can I help you?”
“My name’s Brennan,” he said, scribbling his name on the sign in sheet. “We spoke on the phone earlier this morning.” His voice was rich and warm, with the tiniest southern edge to it.
Cara stared blankly at him. _Did we? I’m pretty sure I’d remember that voice. _ __ __ He leaned forward, as if to say something before glancing around the empty reception room. His voice dipped to more of a whisper. “I’m here for…” he made a ball shape with his hands, motioning towards them like they were suddenly playing a game of charades Cara was unaware she was suddenly playing.
_What is he doing? There isn’t even anyone in here besides us. _“What is that?” She asked, taking a longer look at the invisible shape he was making. “A ball?” “No, it’s a…” “A mountain?” He grimaced and shook his head. _This was ridiculous. _ __ “What? What is that?” She asked, exasperated from whatever game this guy was playing. They might have been the only two in here, but it didn’t mean she didn’t have things she needed to get done today.
Throwing his hands into the air, he said “a growth! I called about… the growth,” he added more quietly.
_All that, to simply tell me his pet has a growth. Growth’s are usually small bumps. Typically harmless. Dude’s got the weakest stomach I’ve ever seen. _
Walking around her desk out into the reception room, she knelt in front of the crate. Staring back at her, was a black lump of hair with piercing yellow eyes. It pressed itself into the corner of the crate.
“What’s it’s name?” She asked still not remembering any conversation about a growth. She unlatched the door and gave the frightened cat a gentle rub. “Bella.” “Bel-la,” Cara repeated, breaking the name into two syllables. She stared at him, deadpanned. Brennan blushed. “I let my mom name her, and she was really into the Twiligt Saga at the time.” She gave him a look. “Blaming your mom, huh?” Brennan looked at her, puzzled.
Cara carried on. “No, I think it’s sweet. More men should embrace their love of toxic teenage romance movies.” She unscrewed the top of the carrier for easier access to Bella, meanwhile giving him a quick glance. “Even if it means mom has to be thrown under the bus.”
Brennan opened his mouth to say something, probably to further deny her claims, but closed his mouth.
“So where is Bella’s - Ah!” She yanked her hand back to her chest. “That’s why we’re here.”
Now she understood why the charade game earlier, and the pale color Brennan turned earlier just saying the word. Bella’s growth was _that _big. It reminded her of those squish balls her nephews recently became obsessed with. The ones with the gel inside them, that never failed to gross her out every time they forced her to squeeze it.
Rubbing hand sanitizer between her fingers, Cara instructed Brennan to lift the crate and follow her down the hall.
She led them into the empty room. “You can set her there,” she gestured to the stainless steel table against the wall. “I just need to get some things.”
Rushing into the bathroom at the far end of the hall, Cara locked the door behind her before going to the sink to splash water on her face. _You can do this. The growth wasn’t _that _big. Okay fine. It was big. Fine. It was huge. But you’ve seen bigger ones on television. Yeah, but not in real life, she countered. Her mind was racing, and she couldn’t seem to take control of it. _ __
She took one final glance at her reflection before leaving.
This was a small clinic, and most of the pets that came through here were taken care of curtesy of Dr. Garret. While Cara wasn’t a liscensed veterinarian - yet - she wasn’t someone randomly picked off the street either. She was well educated, and had been close enough to the top of her veternariary classes in the years past that Dr. Garret had the confidence in her to leave the clinic in her hands for a few days. “A good learning opportunity for you,” he’d said.
But now Cara was beginning to second guess his confidence in her. And in herself. She’d dealt with growths before, sure, in her classes, but never with anything of this size before.
She knocked on the door, out of habit before remembering it was only her and Brennan in the clinic. He gave her a quizzical look, his eyes focusing on the wet strands of hair stuck to her face. She ignored his stare.
Bella, out of her crate, rubbed all over Brennan’s hands, flopping around on the table, seemingly forgetting where she was. _Or why. _Her purr bounced off the walls. Out in the open, she wasn’t nearly as big as Cara originally thought, making the noise emitting from her that much more impressive.
“Thought you were going to go and grab _stuff,” _Brennan quipped, clearly getting even with her for her earlier comments. “I am,” she said, flicking through the stack of papers on the back table. “Just…let me work.” “Nervous?” Cara continued shuffling through the papers, and then searching in the cabinets above. “No,” she said, with an edge of defensiveness in her tone. “Why would you even ask that?” Brennan stared down at the watch on his wrist, counting. “Because you’ve been shuffling those papers back and forth for the last…ten minutes.” “I’m looking for…something.” _The truth was, Brennan was right. She wasn’t looking for anything. She was trying to buy herself time to build up her confidence, while pretending that she was simply following Dr. Garret’s pattern. He began each of his procedures by going through medical notes. He believed it eased the sense of fear for the pet owner. “People trust a vet that double and triple checks their notes. Remember that, Cara.” _ __ __ Without another word, Cara went into the back of the clinic where all supplies were kept. She returned with her arms full - a shaver, antiseptic, numbing cream, a scalpel and a mountain of gauze. She dropped it off in a heap. Bella was still rubbing all over Brennan, while he whispered what a special girl she was, and how he’d buy her some new toys for being such a brave girl. She chirped in response, before rubbing her head against his chest. A small smile crept over Cara’s lips. _That cat really does love him, vampire name or not. _ __ __ She motioned to his spot, shaver in her hand. “I, uh, I need to get -“ “Oh. Right.” Brennan stepped aside.
Before Cara even turned the shaver on, Bella resorted to the edge of the table, back into the former ball she was earlier, shaking noticeably.
“It’s okay,” Cara whispered, rubbing Bella’s head, but making sure _not _to touch her growth. Even under Cara’s touch, Bella remained a ball of nerves. “C’mere sweet girl,” Brennan got up from his chair, and scooped Bella up into his arms. _His very muscular arms Cara noted. _Brennan smothered Bella in kisses, kissing her head and growth unfazed. A low purr sounded a moment later.
“Okay, go ahead,” he quietly urged.
Cara shaved away the hair surrounding her growth. There was no redness surrounding the skin, meaning no infection was present. Cara gave the growth a gentle squeeze, the center soft and malleable. It was full of….Cara grimaced at what she knew to be underneath.
“Okay, now for the…” Cara picked up the scalpel, her grip limp and shaky. She bit her bottom lip, analyzing where to make the incision. “Here. I’m going to do it here.” “You should make it lower.” Brennan grabbed her hand, guiding it downward. His hand was rough, calloused and very warm. Slightly sweaty, actually. “Here. You’ll want gravity on your side when that thing…” his words trailed off. She knew what he meant.
Steadying her hand, she stared at the growth. Her scalpel glistened against the florescent lights. “Please don’t interfere with my work,” she said. “I…I know what I’m doing.” “I’m just trying to help you, god.” He pinched his forehead, as if _he _were frustrated with _her. _
Slamming the scalpel down on the table, Cara went and sat on the wheeled stool at the edge of the room. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t need any help. _You’re _not a veterinarian.” “And you are?” He continued to rub Bella’s side, his tone accusatory. “It’s been almost an hour since I stepped foot in here and you haven’t even made the incision yet. Dr. Garret would’ve had this done in half the time.” Cara put her hands up in surrender. “Fine! Okay! I get it!” She rubbed her hands down her face. “No, I’m not a veterinarian like Dr. Garret.”
Brennan’s eyes went wide, his grip on Bella tightening. He opened his mouth, but Cara spoke over him.
“But_ _I _am _a vet student. I have vet education under my belt and I’m furthering my education so that I _can _someday become a vet, like Dr. Garret.” She took a deep breath, noticing that Brennan had taken a seat opposite her, staring down at his shoes while his leg bounced up and down. _Is he angry? _When he met her stare, his lips were in a thin line and he nodded once.
“Dr. Garret trusts me to watch over the clinic,” she paused, the words in her throat sticking. She swallowed them down and said “and right now I need you to trust me too. Okay?”
_And I need to trust myself, she thought. _ __ __ Silence stretched between them, and without another word Cara and Brennan stood and walked to the opposite sides of the table.
“Whatever you need,” he said. He wasn’t looking at her, but Cara knew those words weren’t for Bella.
Cara promptly numbed the area, while Brennan kept Bella preoccupied. This time, Cara picked up the scalpel, making the incision where Brennan had previously pointed to.
“Can you grab the -“ Brennan wiped the discolored pus draining from the growth with a bundle of gauze. She gave him a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks,” she said. Cara gave the mass multiple squeezes, stopping each time Bella flinched.
“Am I hurt -“ “No, keep going.” He placed his hand on top of her gloved hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re doing a great job.”
Brennan’s grip sent a warmth through her, but she couldn’t give into the feeling, her focus solely on Bella. By the time Cara finished wrapping Bella’s head, she felt like she’d completed her own version of a brain operation. A headache had begun to take place behind her eyes with all the squinting she had done.
With Bella set back inside her carrier, she caught a swiping motion out of the corner of her eye. Brennan was wiping down the table with an antiseptic.
“That wasn’t necessary,” she said, gesturing to the once again pristine table. Brennan stopped, taking in her weary face. “But thank you,” she said. “You look exhausted.” Gathering the papers she had strewn around earlier, she laughed to herself. “What’s so funny?” “That thing was nasty.” Another quip of laughter “I mean, it just kept coming.” He laughed. “I was beginning to feel a little nauseous by the end too. Guess I have a weak stomach.” __ __ “Really? I never would’ve guessed,” Cara made the invisible ball shape from earlier, smirking. He let out a deep throaty laugh.
Back at the reception desk, Cara filled out the bill for the procedure.
“You did a great job today, Cara.” Brennan said, pulling out his wallet and sliding his credit card toward her.
Cara was unsure how to respond. Not because she didn’t believe him. She did. She knew that Bella was on the road to recovery, with the reward of new toys awaiting her.
It was just _weird. _Him complimenting her, like they knew each other more intimately than strangers who had only met a couple hours ago. She could also argue it was weird when he put a new glove on her hand, when she accidentally ripped her other one, halfway through the procedure.
It was weird, and yet not weird at all. It was…
Lost in her thoughts, she uttered out a quick “oh yeah, you too,” meanwhile his eyes still lingered on hers.
“We make a good team, I think,” he said.
Cara considered his words. They had. Brennan didn’t waver once, weak stomach or not, and he seemed to know what she needed before she did. He was a good assistant. __ __ __ Giving Bella a final once-over from inside her crate, he stood, and a soft moan escaped his lips as he stretched, his cotton t-shirt rising to showcase a sliver of his hairy stomach. Cara immediately felt her cheeks flush. _She should not be ogling over a stranger. _
“…but only if you’re interested.” Cara, lost in her thoughts, was completely unaware that Brennan had been talking to her this entire time. “Huh?” Brennan let out a soft chuckle. “Coffee, Cara. You and me.” He took a step toward her, even though they were separated by the reception desk. She felt blood rushing to her ears. _What is he doing? He wants to get coffee…with me? _He reached into his back pocket, tapping multiple times at his phone before handing it to her.
The information for a new contact was waiting to be filled. She stared at the screen, then up at his face. His mouth pulled up a twitch, his eyes earnest. He was…_cute. _
She grabbed his phone. “It’s a date.”
A wave of nausea bubbles up in Cora’s stomach, a new sensation she still hasn’t grown used to. Her doctors assure her that this is normal, so Cora promises herself she won’t overthink the changes overtaking her body. Yet she can’t help but grip at her flat belly with each twitch.
Her task today is simple – buy a children’s book. A book her own mother read to her throughout her childhood. A story about a mouse finding the true meaning of happiness. A story Cora implemented into her psyche from a young age. A story, that she believes, taught her life’s greatest lesson. She wants to give her own baby a future just as bright.
The bookstore is bustling for a weekday. Mothers push strollers around, coffee drinks seated in the designated cup holders, while their children attempt to grab at anything within their reach, screaming when the mother takes it away. It’s a reality Cora cannot wait for.
A middle-aged woman near the register catches Cora’s attention. The woman is busy talking to an employee, who points her into the same vague direction that Cora is headed toward. It makes no sense, but Cora finds herself increasing her speed every so slightly. She reaches the back wall, relieved to see she’s the only one here.
She scans all of the spines of the books, relieved when she finds the mouse book on the top shelf. It’s out of her reach, so she looks around to find a step stool. A crashing sound behind her startles her and she turns to see the woman from earlier with her arm outstretched, the mouse book on the ground, its covers splayed out like a bird.
The woman sheepishly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry,” she says. “It slipped at the last second.”
Cora bends to grab the book, a familiar warmth spreading through her as she stares at the familiar little mouse. “I was actually just looking for a stepstool, so you’ve saved me a trip.” Cora is too focused on the colorful pages of the book to realize the woman has not moved.
The woman is staring from her spot at the pages, a painful look etched on her face. Cora takes a step closer to her, wondering if she’ll take a step towards her. If this were a romance novel, this would be the scene that the two characters’ lives are forever changed by the other.
But this is not a romance novel. These are two women sharing the same admiration for a child’s book.
“I love his overalls,” the woman says, gesturing to the page. Cora nods in response, flipping to the next page. “This was my favorite page growing up.” The page shows the mouse is nestled warm in his bed, under the glow of a full moon.
“That’s Charlie’s favorite page too.” The woman pauses, the words suddenly lodged in her throat. In the silence, Cora realizes why the woman hasn’t moved.
“Charlie?” She asks. She looks for a boy, with sandy blond hair that matches this woman’s. There is no boy. It’s just the two of them.
“My son. He loved this story.” It doesn’t slip past Cora that this woman’s sentence is spoken in past tense. Familiar with loss herself, Cora asks the most basic question there is: “how did he die?”
A pause. “Cancer.” Another pause. “He would’ve been six this year.” Her words begin to tumble out now. “I used to bring him here once a week. It was our special time together.” Her arms are outstretched and instinctively Cora passes her the book. Her fingers are worn and delicate. Much like the rest of her. “This was the last book we ever read together. I’ve been wanting to find this book so that I can read it to him again.”
Realizing that Cora was holding the book first, the woman hands it back to her, scanning for an identical copy for herself.
Cora gestures behind them. “The guy at the desk said this was the last copy.” Silence follows. Feeling the need to defend her desire to be the one to purchase this book, Cora blurts out the first thought that comes to mind.
“I’m pregnant.” Her arms instinctively wrap around her stomach, and the woman looks at her.
Pain recedes from the woman’s face for a moment, replaced by genuine happiness. “Congratulations. Is this your first?”
Cora nods.
The woman makes a joke about reading to a baby while pregnant will increase their likelihood of becoming a bookworm. The joke isn’t malicious in itself, but quite sweet. Yet Cora feels nauseated.
Silence passes between them and they each stare absentmindedly into the crowds of people browsing the shelves. Cora’s desire to purchase the book is slipping rapidly. She doesn’t fight it.
While Cora has a whole new world blossoming inside her, standing before her is a woman who has experienced all she will ever have with her child. Cora has spent weeks fantasizing about all of the new experiences awaiting her. Night after night, playing through various scenarios of what her life will be like in a year. And yet, she’s never fantasized about the pain of losing her precious baby.
She doesn’t want to imagine it. Not now, not ever.
Pushing the book back into the woman’s arms, Cora grabs a random book off the shelf. It has a frog on the cover and Cora pretends to smile even more broadly at this book’s cover.
“I’m going to buy this one.” She laughs, flipping through its pages. “I like it more than the mouse.”
It’s a lie. Both women know it is. But it’s safer than the alternative. This woman that Cora has never met before has already had the unfathomable happen to her. “You should buy it,” she says. “For Charlie.”
When both women reach the register, the same employee scans the books. He does so without any enthusiasm, quickly returning his attention to his phone as they make their way to the exit. He pays no attention to either woman.
Cora is about to push through the front door when the woman stops her.
“What’s your name?”
“Cora.”
The woman puts a hand on her chest. “I’m Beth.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” they say almost in sync with each other.
Both women smile at each other, before returning to silence. Cora isn’t sure if she just should leave, or if Beth has anything more to say.
Minutes pass.
Beth steps beside Cora, grabbing her hand. She gives it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Cora. From both me and Charlie.” She releases her hand, pushes through the front doors and dissolves into the abyss of strangers in the distance.
Nathan called them odd. He called them stupid, and by extension, me, for finding them fascinating. While I knew he was only teasing me, it was another metaphorical paper cut into our already deteriorating relationship.
He sat in his room’s corner, one headphone pushed past his ear, his attention fixated on the bright blasts coming from his monitor’s screen.
“Have fun today with Kara?” he asked, manically clicking his computer mouse.
I nodded. “Yeah, she loved it. I bought her a stuffed kangaroo at the gift shop.” For a split second, Nathan’s lip twitched upwards in a half smile. Being raised with only brothers, the bond he shared with my younger sister still surprised me.
I went on. “They got two new additions at the penguin house too.” And just like that, Nathan’s face turned neutral and he leaned closer to his monitor, a nonverbal cue that this conversation was finished.
Getting off the edge of the bed, I stripped off my sweater and faded jeans, trading them for my favorite worn pajama set – a set I received in high school and still had not outgrown.
I wrapped my arms around the back of his neck, planting kisses along his neck. A tiny growl escaped from his lips and he planted a kiss on the back of my hand.
“They named one of them Tootsie Roll.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“One of the penguins. They named it Tootsie Roll,” I watched as his character cast some sort of spell on the screen. “Isn’t that cute?”
“Yep.”
He did not think it was cute. Not in the slightest.
I sighed.
His shoulders tensed and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What?”
“Why can’t you be supportive of me? You think it’s cute that Kara loved the zoo, but yet my dreams don’t seem to matter to you. I tell you I want to work with the penguin exhibit and you just shut it down.”
Nathan’s dreams and my dreams were something of an issue in our relationship. While I was what most would call a ‘nature lover,’ Nathan was more of a ‘money lover.’ While his appreciation for the environment and for conservation wasn’t at zero, it could certainly be higher.
He swiveled in his chair, pushing me back in the process. “Why are you so fixated on this…phase?”
I hated when he used that word. “It’s not a phase. It’s my calling.”
He stared at me, dumbfounded. “There’s no money in it. You’d be underpaid, reaching into buckets filled with fish guts, and scrubbing penguin shit off the concrete all day. That really appeals to you?”
Grabbing my phone from my purse, I went and curled up on my side of the bed away from him. I pulled up the zoo’s website, watching the penguin live feed video ignoring his obvious sighs.
It’s been years since Nathan and I went our separate ways. The last I knew, he and his brother became next in line to take over their father’s financial firm. Meanwhile, I spent the last five years working odd jobs, living to paycheck to paycheck, in order to achieve my only dream.
And I had finally arrived at the finish line.
The San Diego Zoo’s parking lot was barren this early in the morning, except for a row of cars near the employee entrance. Getting out, I threw my hair up into a ponytail in the window’s reflection before heading inside.
Sunlight streamed in, showcasing the hallway’s freshly mopped shine. Quintin, was busy squeegeeing a window as he watched me pass by. “You’re gonna do great today, Greta!” I gave him a thumbs up before picking up my pace.
Today was the day I had envisioned from the very beginning. A dream I had before I’d met Nathan, and a dream I continued pursuing even after we sold our apartment and went our separate ways. I was the lead educator in today’s penguin show.
My rubber overalls clung against my jeans as I slid them over, along with my boots. After ensuring all of the penguins in the group (or waddle, as I would be saying later) had been fed, I took a glance as the bleachers began to fill. Weekends weren’t as busy as weekdays, but this weekend was proving to be an exception.
Rows of children sat alongside their parents on the bleachers, pointing and giggling as the penguins made their way towards the waters edge, hopping in. The exhibit quickly fell into silence as remote-controlled curtains slid down the windows, encompassing the exhibit into darkness. Against the far wall, a projection video began, introducing today’s performance.
Children laughed as the video played, while I stood near the center of the exhibit, scrolling through social media on my phone. The video wasn’t very long, but I could only stand to watch it so many times in a week.
After the video ended and the curtains came back up, I turned on my microphone. “Good Morning everyone, and welcome to the San Diego zoo!” A roar of applause erupted. “Whose ready to learn about these adorable creatures today?” Another set of applause.
I went through my list of facts, including my waddle joke (which made one boy in the front row laugh until tears streamed down his face). As my presentation reached its mid-point, I felt a sudden surge of nausea. What is this, I wondered. Anxiety? That wouldn’t make any sense, this was my third performance as the lead educator this week.
Too busy inside my own head, I failed to notice a young girl with curly pigtails raising her hand in the front row. Making my way over to her, I placed my microphone out to her. “Can we touch the penguins?”
A mixture of laughter and aww’s came from the crowd. Giving the girl’s arm a gentle squeeze, I shook my head. “I’m sorry hun, but we can’t allow visitors inside the exhibit. It wouldn’t be sanitary for you or for them.”
“Could I touch them if I worked here?” she asked.
I nodded. “You sure could!”
Content with my answer, she nodded in determination. “I want to grow up and do this. But my daddy said this isn’t a real job.”
I had no idea how to respond to this. Clearly this child wasn’t afraid to throw her father under the bus. And in a way, I admired her for it. If anything, she reminded me of myself.
Glancing around the bleachers, I looked for the man of this brave, outspoken child. When she pointed to the row behind her to a man in a suit fixated on his phone, my heart sank. I recognized his sandy blonde hair and his pointed chin, even from this distance.
Nathan. This daughter’s father was Nathan.
When the silence of the audience finally grabbed his attention and he looked up, his eyes locked onto mine. My mind went blank, and for the first time in years, I was transported back to feeling that my life had no real meaning. That none of this, had any meaning. Nathan’s words replayed in my mind. No money, fish guts, scraping shit off the concrete.
Strangers stared down at me, then to each other in confusion.
The pig-tailed girl continued to stare at me. She had Nathan’s golden flecked eyes. Staring at her was like staring into a reflection of myself. Her hopes and dreams were going to be hanging on every word I said from here on out. I was going to do for this girl what no one in my life had done for me.
Clearing my throat, I went to the middle of the exhibit, surrounded by my waddle of penguins. They too, looked up at me eagerly.
I tapped my microphone, making sure it was still on. “I’m going to take a slight detour, if that’s okay.”
Silence.
“I want to speak strictly to our younger members of the audience today. I want to tell you that when I was your age, I only had one dream, and that was to work here.” I gestured vaguely to the exhibit, and then to the bleachers. “I remember the first time I sat right where you are, and I was mesmerized by these little guys. But no one believed in me. I once even had a guy tell me there was no money in doing this kind of job.” Nathan’s cheek’s flushed as he pretended to ignore my intense stare. “But I’m here to tell each and every one of you, that if you have a dream, don’t give up on it. Work for it. Just like I did. No one believed in me, but guess what? I’m the one standing here, accomplishing my dream and loving what I do.”
By the time I finished, not only were the children standing and applauding, but the parents as well.
Staring out into the crowd, a sense of pride washed over me. The pig-tail girl cheered and clapped, and when I looked over at Nathan, he gave me a thin-lipped smile before mouthing two words:
“I’m sorry.”
“This could be your last chance. You should take it,” Mara said, throwing back her second shot of the night. She’d demanded an immediate girl’s night out and since I hadn’t left my apartment other than to go to work for weeks, I figured a change of scenery wouldn’t hurt. Plus I knew she was prone to cabin fever if she didn’t get to catch up.
I stared down at my drink – still untouched – shrugging my shoulders. “I really don’t think it matters anymore.” Luckily for me, O’Hara Lara bar is always bustling on Friday nights, and cheers coming from the tables in the back corner help to mask the lack of enthusiasm in my tone.
Normally, I appreciate Mara’s optimism and confidence. She raced over when she saw my post-breakup haircut after I’d broken up with Lucas weeks earlier. She hadn’t berated me when she saw the lopsided cut – my half drunken attempt at an asymmetrical bob – but simply helped to even out the sides. Or when I’d tried to book myself a flight to somewhere warm and tropical to mend yet another broken heart. Instead, I’d ended up stranded at the airport in the middle of winter, forcing her to come get me in the middle of a snowstorm. That was our dynamic – me, always making bad choices and messes, and her, always cleaning them up for me.
I so desperately wanted normal. I wanted a relationship that wasn’t going to crash and burn, leaving yet another scorched heart in my path of past loves. Mara knew that too, which was why she was so desperately trying to convince me to take this chance.
She motioned to the bartender for a refill, while reaching for the bowl of pretzels. “You and Tyler have never been on the same page – mostly because you were too busy in the arms of your next…conquest.” I give her a look and she shrugs.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I can’t. Because she’s right.
The ice in my drink is starting to melt, the rim making a puddle on the bar’s wooden top. Running my finger through the water, my mind wanders back to the last text Tyler and I exchanged. He’d moved halfway across the country after determining that traveling was the cure to his restlessness. Our last messages had been months ago, with awkward small talk filling in the gaps of words we couldn’t say.
Meanwhile, Mara was apparently in the middle of a confidence speech, made specifically in my honor, even though I wasn’t listening to the first half. “…and so help me God if I have to sit and watch you two walk away from each other. Christ, CiCi, I love you but these last few years have been…” she searches for the right word, desperate not to hurt my feelings while also remaining honest. “rough.”
“You forget that our history isn’t clear cut,” I remind her, my attention suddenly turned to the familiar cheering from the back corner. A large gang of bikers are intently watching the latest football game, slapping each other on the backs and delivering fist bumps around the table.
Mara follows my gaze to the back table. “See that?” she says. “See them? How happy they are? That’s what I want for you.” She slaps her leg, the exposed hole in the denim in her jeans amplifying the sound. “I would give this up for you, to see you that happy.” The edge of her lip turns up, giving me a half-drunk smile. “That’s how I much I love you. You can have my leg.”
Her words are slurry and I simply squeeze her hand. “I love you too.”
After calling an Uber and ensuring Mara makes it home safely, I retreat back home, into my own sanctuary. Unlocking the front door, I kick off my shoes, throw my coat over the back of my couch and make my way towards my bedroom, eager to get the bar smell off of my skin.
Mara’s words linger in my head. Is she right? Could Tyler and I have the future I always had secretly hoped we’d have? Throwing on some clean pajamas, I squirt some toothpaste on my toothbrush, letting my mind wander further. Would he be receptive to…me? Or did I unknowingly obilerate any chance of a future, and that’s the real reason why he left in the first place?
I spit into the sink, put some chapstick on and slide in under the covers. Just as I’m about to reach for my journal, I feel my phone buzz from inside my comforter.
It’s a text.
From Tyler.
Tyler: Hey
CiCi: Hey
Tyler: Honestly wasn’t sure if you were still awake or not
CiCi: Yeah. Late night out with Mara.
I add the beer emojis, even though neither of us had beer tonight.
Tyler: Lol! Sounds like fun. Actually, I have a question for you.
A question. My heart pinches in my chest, because there’s only one question I can think of him asking.
CiCi: What?
Tyler: I flew in a couple of days ago, and was wondering if you wanted to hang out?
There it is. My thumbs are frozen above the keys, while I reread his text a dozen more times. I can’t exactly decipher any flirtation in between the lines, but he could have a girlfriend and just doesn’t feel the need to mention anything to me about it. Which is fair, it’s not like it’s my business who’s in his life anymore.
A ache of longing blooms in my chest. But what if there isn’t anyone else in his life? The thought is enough to –
Tyler: You still awake?
I type out a response, and press send.
CiCi: Sorry, had to pee. But for sure, we can get together. What were you thinking?
I’m hopeful that I’m coming across as friendly and eager in a hey, haven’t seen you in forever, let’s catch up and not in a I promise I’m not desperate, but it’s been almost a decade and I still don’t think I’m over you yet – type way.
He doesn’t respond for a few minutes, making me think that I took too long in responding and that he went to bed. I take a quick glance at my alarm clock. 1:13am. But it is a Friday too.
A photo message pops up on my screen. It’s of a restaurant I’ve never heard of. The photos showcase a bar and grill style, with rustic wooden beams and neon signs all over the walls.
Tyler: I checked and they have a pretty extensive gluten free menu too
Of course he checked. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, but he still remembers small details like this.
CiCi: Sounds great! What time?
Tyler: Noon good?
CiCi: Yeah
Tyler: Great see you then
And with that I set my phone on my nightstand, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to sleep now.
Even after my late night out, my body still refused to sleep in, waking me up hours ahead of time to sit and ruminate about today. Journaling seemed to ease the mental knot inside my head, into a long, fluid string of thoughts. I promised myself that I wouldn’t hold any expectations for today (which was increasingly difficult, the closer the afternoon came).
With my phone smashed up between my ear and shoulder, I waited for Mara to pick up.
She answered with a gruntled noise that meant her hangover was in full swing this morning. “CiCi, it’s like the middle of the night.”
“It’s not actually. It’s late morning.”
Another grunt. “Your point being?”
I hold different tops in the mirror, trying to make a choice. “Tyler texted me last night.” This immediately wears away some of Mara’s hangover.
“What did he say? What did you say?”
I decide on a floral open backed shirt. “He wants to have lunch today. Like, in the next hour.”
“Holy shit.” The line fell silent for a minute before Mara spoke again. “This is it, you know.”
“We don’t know that,” I say, setting my phone on speaker so I can get dressed. We can only hope, I think before chastising myself for breaking my no expectations rule.
While I filled Mara in on the details, she reiterated everything I’d journaled earlier this morning. Don’t overthink anything. Don’t have any expectations. Don’t flirt – unless he flirts first. And most importantly, to call her as soon as I got home, so we could dissect every aspect of the date.
—-
For starting off as gray and overcast (which I took as a bad omen), the clouds had since parted, allowing the sun to defrost the light layer of snow on the ground. As I pulled into the parking lot, I scanned through the cars, even though I had no idea what Tyler would be driving. I pulled down the visor, looking at myself in the rectangular mirror. I certainly wouldn’t come in first place in a Miss America contest, but I was cute. A small town – type way cute. My hair fell in soft waves down my chest and my makeup was subtle enough that I looked put together, but not like I was trying too hard either.
As I got out, a tall figure stood waiting under the overhang, his back facing the parking lot. His shoulders were broad, his t-shirt practically clinging to his arms. Even from his backside, this was someone who easily had arms that one could ogle at for inappropriately long amounts of time.
But it didn’t matter. Just because this figure had arms for days, my interest was solely on –
Inside my purse, my phone gave a quick buzz. I pulled it out and immediately stopped in my tracks.
Tyler: I’m here at the front door.
No. This was Tyler? Suddenly the saliva in my mouth disappeared, making it almost impossible to swallow. Clearly one of his hobbies amongst traveling was hitting the gym.
Shaking my thoughts away, I went over and grabbed his arm, half in greeting, half to secretly feel if those muscles were in fact real. (They were).
He spun around, and surprised me again. He’d grown out a beard, along with sporting new glasses. He was practically unrecognizable, except for his signature grin.
“Hey stranger,” he said giving me a quick hug. He smelled faintly of his car freshener, with a twitch of deodorant.
“Pretty sure I’m the one who should be calling you stranger,” I said, vaguely motioning to him. “Wow.”
His cheeks turned a faint pink, shrugging off my compliment, like he was used to the flattery. And maybe he was. He probably had quite the gaggle of women at his beck and call back home. The thought stabbed at my gut, but I pushed it aside. No expectations, I reminded myself.
Country music played overhead as we stepped inside. The restaurant was packed, with families off to the side, clearly waiting for the rest of their parties to arrive. Staff members ran back and forth, careful not to bump into each other. A red-haired teenager pointed at us - “be right there you guys!” - before heading into the kitchen.
We scanned the bench, looking for somewhere to sit, when an elderly couple was called up to the hostess stand. We slipped into their spots, laughing at the baby run we’d done to secure the space.
“I forgot how cutthroat people can be when it comes to open seating,” he said laughing. His shoulder was pressed against me. The feel of his skin was both new and familiar. However, what I hadn’t noticed earlier was the edge of a tattoo poking out from under his shirt.
I laughed, while secretly trying to get a better look at what was hiding under the fabric. Just as I was about to ask, the teenager from earlier waved us to follow her, menus tucked under her arm.
For as busy as it was, we got our drinks and orders placed relatively fast. I watched as Tyler looked around at the televisions, to other customers, to me, back to the televisions, to his phone, and back to me.
Was he really feeling shy all of a sudden? We’d known each other for years – even if we hadn’t seen each other in the last couple.
“So,” we said in unison.
“Please, ladies first,” he said, motioning for me to continue.
I shook my head. “Oh. I was…just…I was just going to ask…” What was happening? Why couldn’t I get my question out?
“Traveling’s been good,” he filled in. “That’s what you were going to ask, right?” I nodded. I appreciated his initiative, and his ignorance at my middle school girl-crushes-on-boy fumbling.
“It gave me what I needed.” He glances out the near window, clearly reminiscing on his memories.
I smiled alongside him, watching as his mouth ticked up, his brow furrowing with each memory that played through his mind. I wished I shared in his memories.
For awhile he shared with me stories of his adventures, and I shared stories of the life I’d slowly been building here back home. He was impressed when I told him of my promotion to head chef, grabbing my hand and telling me he always knew I’d make it.
The gesture was quick, but the electricity it sent down my legs made me grateful that we were already sitting down.
After all the small talk topics had been discussed, only one topic stood left, my desire for it to be talked about quickly dwindling. We’d quickly formed back into our old patterns and I didn’t want it to change. This is us, I thought. It’s our dynamic. We joke, we laugh. A nagging voice in the back of my head had other ideas.
Tyler must’ve been thinking on it too, taking an unnecessarily large drink of his water. Like he had a mental countdown in his head and was stalling out the last seconds.
“So,” he said, giving his lips a quick wipe with his sleeve.
“So,” I mirrored. Neither of us spoke, and I could feel the light-hearted energy disappearing with each second, replaced with something stoic.
“I think we should talk,” he said.
I nodded.
He stared at the polish on my nails. Was he waiting for me to kick off this awkward walk down memory lane?
“I’m really sorry,” I said. He was rubbing his knuckles, nodding. I wasn’t sure if he was nodding in a forgiveness-type way, or nodding in that he was sorry too. When his eyes met mine, I saw it was clearly the latter.
Unbeknownst to me, my emotions had been corked in a bottle, and now that the cork had been popped off, apologies and memories flooded out. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted you, but…” the words stopped short in my throat. “Our history…it’s complicated.”
“I know.”
“I still loved you,” I said. “Even after every breakup. Even during my relationships. You were still in my heart, and I think the other guys sensed it.”
For the first time, his gaze went from friendly, to…disinterest? Anger?
His eyes met mine. “Just because you loved me, doesn’t mean I felt loved by you.” His words cut my heart in half. But there was truth in them. How could I have truly loved him, when I abused his heart by lining mine up with other people’s?
Regret washes over his face, realizing the depth his words just took on my heart.
He reached for my hand again, and this time it felt like a stranger’s touch. “CiCi, I want you to know…. I do forgive you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” I put my other hand on top of his. “I forgave you years ago, right when I forgave myself for the way I treated you.”
For the way he treated me?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Our waitress brings our meals to the table, clearly sensing the deep conversation we’re having and quickly disappears.
Tyler’s meal is still sizzling, and while mine is too, I’m too hungry to wait.
“You weren’t the only one who did the hurting. I hurt you too. I pushed you away every time you came close. I knew the love you deserved, and I knew that I couldn’t give it to you. Not then.” Tears begin to well in my eyes, and I’m quick to wipe them away.
“I’m sorry Cierra.” He places a tight grip on my forearm, as if a tighter grip insinuates a more heartfelt apology.
He keeps his hand firmly on my arm. “I forgive you.” I say.
He gives me a full, authentic smile, one I haven’t seen in years but have missed terribly.
We fall into a slightly more comfortable silence while we eat, but I still don’t feel quite confident to know if he still wants me. We apologized for the messiness of our past, but neither of us has made any mention about the future – and whether that future includes each other.
“Why did you come back?” I ask, picking at the last bites off my plate.
Tyler ponders my question with that inquisitive look that only he can do, before looking at me. The moment we share is brief. He looks out the window again. I don’t see what he’s staring at exactly, other than the full parking lot, but I do my best to follow his gaze.
“Because I’m ready to come home.” he eyes me for my response, and my face fails him by giving a neutral expression.
“I’m ready to come home,” he repeats. “To this place. To you. I’m ready now.” Tears well again in my eyes, but this time I let them slide down my cheeks.
He wipes the tears away, still searching my face for a response. “This could be our last chance. I think we need to take it.”
I break into a smile and fit of tears, nodding with him. “Let’s take it.”
Three years ago, Simon Tribar was the cockiest, smuggest, man Madison had ever met. It was chance that they became co-workers, and while at first she had detested him, years of knowing him had given him a new title in her life: her best friend.
“Remind me, what’s this dish called?” she called out, watching Simon set the oven timer.
“I can’t tell you.”
“You could, but won’t, right?” He shrugged, giving her a look that told her to give up. He had the best poker face of anyone she knew.
For the past few weeks, Simon had invited her over multiple times, proclaiming that he needed someone with unbiased opinions to give what he considered honest feedback. He had a rough start, with half of his dishes either burnt, undercooked, or so hot that she had been forced to chug an entire gallon of milk throughout the evening. It had become one of their favorite running jokes.
“You remembered the milk, right?” she asked, getting up and opening the fridge, secretly looking for potential clues to what was now cooking in the oven.
He slammed the door shut, her fingers narrowly missed. An exasperated sigh left his lips. He pointed to the counter, where the milk sat. “Stay over there, Sherlock. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”
With her glass of milk, she retreated to the couch, looking over the back as he pulled out a steaming dish covered with aluminum foil out of the oven. It smelled…good. Heavenly.
A couple of minutes later, Simon handed her a plate. She couldn’t exactly tell what it was, but she saw a chicken breast buried underneath the sauce. Simon waited patiently, clearly hanging on to her every movement.
It was incredible. The chicken was tender and moist, with hints of parmesan and tomato in the sauce.
“Mmm,” She moaned. “Oh my god. Okay, fess up. What have you done with the real Simon?”
A sly smile fell over his lips as he began digging into his own plate. Setting her plate down on the coffee table, she turned to face him. Simon had always been someone with a hard exterior. But something was changing in him when he cooked. The more dishes he made, the more he was throwing himself into it, and the better the dishes were turning out.
“You haven’t reached for that yet,” he said, motioning to the glass that sat beside her plate. “So that’s a good sign, right?”
“I don’t need it. I’m not kidding Simon, this dish is truly out of this world.” There would be no way she’d be leaving here without a container to take home.
“It’s called ‘Marry Me Chicken,” he explained. She nodded. That made sense, because she wanted to marry this chicken too. “I came across it last week in my feeds, and thought it would make for the perfect end-of-week treat.”
They ate in silence, devouring their plates in record time, then tidied up the kitchen together. As Simon finished loading in the last pot into the dishwasher, she ran and flipped on the television, their favorite show waiting for them.
Grabbing the blanket off the chair, he tossed it at her, before sitting down beside her. He smelled like dish soap, mixed with the aroma of dinner. He smelled…cozy. Cozy? Where did that come from? She’d never thought about Simon in that way before. If anything, he felt…like Simon. Her best friend.
“Are you listening to me?” Simon had his arm outstretched for her, signaling to cuddle in beside him. A lump was forming in her throat. She had to change the conversation, quick.
“Look at this,” she said, syncing her phone to his television, a music video coming over the screen. “It’s my new obsession.” Music to her, was like cooking to Simon. It was their ways of removing their hardened exteriors, their vulnerabilities on display for each to see.
“Ooo yeah,” Simon said, getting up, dancing to the beat of the music. “This is the shit. C’mon, Maddie, get up here.” Simon grabbed her hand, placing his other on her waist.
Simon…can dance? Like…actually dance. He twirled her around, before bringing her back to his chest.
The music had completely overtaken him. His eyes were shut, and he was moving them to the rhythm of the song. He looked so at peace. She honestly wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen him like this.
It was evident that she was the only one paying attention to what the song itself was about. It was titled ‘I feel like Dancing’ and even though it was about dancing, she felt like the song might as well be titled ‘I feel like I’m falling for you.’
The song came to an eventual stop, and they were still holding each other. Being close like this wasn’t foreign to them. They’d practically done everything two people could do – besides kissing. Or sleeping together. But they’d snuggled on the couch, held hands (just so neither of them fell on any icy sidewalks). He’d even washed her hair when she had refused his hand once, and fallen on her arm, giving her a hairline fracture.
He felt her stiffen in his arms, and immediately let go of her. “You good?” He asked.
She nodded and unconnected her phone from his television, switching it back to their favorite show. He flopped down on the couch, opened up the blanket, and motioned for her to come closer. “Warm enough?” He asked, and she nodded. She truly didn’t need the blanket, she was burning up inside.
Maddie sneaked occasional glances at Simon, partially relieved that he seemed oblivious to the internal struggle she was enduring. He laughed in time with the audience, and Maddie smiled in turn. They’d made it through two episodes like this.
Simon grabbed the remote, setting the show to pause. “Alright, lay it on me. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking why did you stopped the show during the best part.”
“Nope. No deflecting.” He turned to face her. “I know you Maddie, and you haven’t laughed once and this episode is hilarious.” Maddie fiddled with the creases in the blanket, wondering if she could suddenly create a poker face as good as his.
“It’s literally all good,” She said, annunciating each word like a rebellious teenager. Now she was getting mad. Getting up, she went over and picked out a beer from the fridge, calling out to him “Am I grabbing one or two?”
He grabbed the beer out of her hand, setting it on the counter. “Zero. There are rules in this house. Rule number one: no beer until you decide to be honest with me.”
“Since when?” She snapped.
“Since ten seconds ago.” he snapped back.
She made a beeline past him, snatching the beer off the counter, returning to the couch. She used the blanket to uncap the bottle, then began chugging like her life depended on it. With enough alcohol coating her insides, she jabbed a finger in his direction.
“You know what the problem is, Simon? You really want to know? We danced tonight! Like, actually danced.” Simon looked at her, completely dumbfounded. She could practically see the wheels trying to piece it together.
“Okay,” he said, his arms crossed over his chest. “And?”
“And I liked it!” She shot back. She got up, jabbing her finger at his chest. “And you did too! And dinner! What on earth was that about? You making me food like that, like…”
Her breathing was ragged. She was all worked up.
Simon eyed her. “Like what?”
Like you could love me, she thought. His normally just hazel eyes were almost black, standing this close to him. Black, but yet…warm.
Simon pushed the hair out of her face, meeting her gaze. Without thinking, he bent down, kissing her. His lips were soft, and tender. He pulled back, staring wide eyed at her.
After a moment, he smiled. “Like I could love you,” he whispered.
She nodded. “Like you could love me,” She whispered.
Simon shook his head, letting go of her, pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his own hair. It was so quiet, she could hear his neighbor’s dog yapping in the front yard.
This was far too humiliating for Maddie. They’d had the greatest friendship she could’ve ever asked for, and within five minutes, she’d managed to make it weird and awkward. She went and grabbed her coat and boots, trying to make herself invisible.
“Mad’s, what are you doing?” Simon followed her to the entryway, staring the coat in her hands. “Put that back.”
Maddie shook her head. Tears were coming, and she didn’t want Simon to see that he had unintentionally broken her heart. He didn’t deserve that.
“I’ve ruined it,” she said, motioning her arm across the room. “This. Us.”
Simon walked tentatively towards her, almost like if he stepped too quickly, he’d frighten her and she’d bolt.
He grabbed her wrists. “I do love you, Mad’s.”
“That’s not what I mean. We say we love each other, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” They always said they’d loved each other after each phone call, but that was a different kind of love. That was like a sibling-type love. What she felt for him was definitely not brotherly love.
Simon arched his eyebrows. “When I tell you that I love you, I mean it.” He bent down to meet her stare. “I love that you’re my best friend, the person that understands all of my moods, the person who always gives me her honest feedback, even when my meals could potentially melt off all of your taste buds.”
She smiled at that.
He continued on. “But more than that, I love that when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I have to have this hard exterior. You just make me feel like…me.”
His words hung between them like a heavy blanket. Except instead of feeling awkward this time, she felt…comfortable. She intertwined her fingers with his, staring up at him.
“Is that…it?”
“It?”
“I mean…where do we go from here?” She asked, truly unsure how to proceed.
He led her back to the couch, motioning for her to sit. “If it’s all the same to you Mad’s, I’d like to keep watching my favorite show, except this time with the woman I love.”
Four walls made from plywood and drywall
An empty canvas stood before us
We took our time, deliberate with each choice
The choice to choose friendship first, then love
The choice to wait and purchase our dream home together
The choice to continue dating each other, even when we already knew we would be forever
The choice to re-paint the bedroom walls golden yellow, like the sunrises that peek through the curtains
The choice to eat breakfast in bed together, savoring every moment
The choice to decorate the walls with paintings that symbolize our love
The choice to share all that we are with each other
The choice to stare at a dreary kitchen, depression oozing from its cracks
The choice to hold back our opinions, for fear of hurting each other
The choice to keep the living room furniture, even though it’s ruined and torn
The choice to pick each other, even after seeing each other at our worst
The choice to look at everything we had built amongst these walls
The choice to want more than these confining four walls
The choice to want more than what we could offer each other
The choice to walk away
The choice to stand and look at these walls alone
The choice to look at the life we were building
The choice in knowing this is where our story ends
You may be gone,
And I may be gone
but yet we’re everywhere in these four walls
We are wired for connection. Perhaps your desire for connection feels dormant compared to the stranger sitting beside you, with their arms animated in wild directions, a love struck grin on their face.
We’re led to believe that we aren’t whole on our own. We’re less than. Broken. Defective.
We enter into relationships with expectations. This person is meant to fulfill us – meet my needs before I even say them. We treat love like a flame. In our efforts to build it higher and higher – we end up doing the opposite. We suffocate it.
“Why do you do it like that?” “You’re never there for me!” “It’s like no matter what I do, I can’t make you happy!”
Expectations kill love. It wilts before it ever had a chance to bloom.
Like is different. To like, is to accept. To like someone, is to hold no expectations for them. We don’t love them in a romantic sense.
We just simply like them. And they like us in return. As we are. They like our quirks, our sense of humor, our hobbies. They like our upbringing and the morals we choose to embody.
They like us for everything we are. And for everything we’re not.
We’re taught to believe that love is somehow stronger than like. To like someone is mediocre. But to love someone is immovable.
Except…
That’s not true.
Like is fluid. It can move alongside with you as you grow and change.
Love boxes us in.
If we truly want to connect and be loved,
We must begin with like.
Because like is it’s own form of love.
It had been exactly one year since Ian stepped here inside his home. A thick layer of dust suctioned itself to every surface. A tickle formed in his throat, and he grabbed his inhaler from his backpack before he gave himself a self-induced asthma attack. His vintage furniture was all left exactly as he’d left it. Like time had simply come to a complete halt, regardless of the passing months.
He vowed that when he returned, he would be a changed man.
He would be the first person to prove that it was possible to out-run grief. That if you kept your mind focused with new experiences, eventually the memories from the past would all but fade away.
He started in one corner of the apartment, cleaning his way from one end to the other while he maintained a stoic expression. He was halfway through unpacking the new dishes he’d bought from Italy when he heard a knock on the front door.
It was Bea’s brother. Ian hardly recognized him. He’d lost half of his weight, his eyes were sunk in, and his lips dry and cracked. He looked like the living embodiment of grief.
The last time he’d spoken to Brendon was when Bea was still in the hospital. Brendon had sent a message to Ian shortly after Bea passed. Ian had already left halfway across the globe and ignored his message, hoping his silence would send a clear message. Brendon’s messages became more frequent, some of them endless paragraphs. Brendon continuously demanded an explanation from Ian, explaining how he could leave his sister in a coma and when she was pronounced brain dead days later, Ian never made any effort to keep in contact. As if Bea’s existence no longer mattered now that she was gone. No matter how many questions Brendon asked, Ian never responded giving any answers. Eventually, Brendon gave up, and there was no further contact between them. That was a year ago.
Brendon glanced past Ian at the mound of dusty tarps in the middle of the floor. “Just got back?” Ian nodded. “I’m surprised you even came back.”
Brendon, pushed past Ian and set the box he’d been holding down on the counter. The box was covered with its own dust coating. “It’s Bea’s,” he said as he laid its contents across the counter.
“I don’t want any of her things,” Ian snapped. Brendon set one of her snow globes down on the counter beside him, clearly as annoyed with Ian as Ian was with him.
“If it were up to me, you would be the last person I’d give any of her things too. But she left a note, insisting.” he stops, and goes to the window. All of Bea’s favorite t-shirts are laid out across his counter and Ian’s lips begin to quiver. On the top of the pile sits a shirt with a lobster with a chef’s hat on, one of Bea’s favorites. Ian can still hear her laugh when she first discovered that shirt at gift shop. “Have you ever seen anything so cute?” she’d said.
Ian grabs the shirt off the counter, bringing it to his cheek. Bea’s scent is still embedded in the fabric, however faint. For a moment, he forgets about the fight they had, the hash words they threw at each other, neither knowing it would be the last words shared between them.
Brendon pulls out a chair from the table, remaining silent. He watches Ian grab all of Bea’s shirts, one by one, bringing them all to his chest. He wants to be angry at him. He wants to punish the only man his sister loved, for leaving her. Instead, he cries.
Ian sits across from Brendon, still holding onto all of her shirts. His cheeks are wet.
“I was angry,” Ian whispers after a long silence. “I know.” He sets the shirts on the table. “She was not going to wake up.” Brendon knew that too, but he still can’t acknowledge that, so he only nods his head in agreement. “If I could run, if I could travel, if I could immerse myself in a new world…” this is the first time Ian accepts that he was wrong. He could not out-run his grief. “I thought I could out-run the pain of loosing her too.”
Brendon focuses on the large clock leaning against the far wall. The clock face is too dusty to read, but he watches the pendulum swing back and forth without a sound. He remembers helping Ian up the stairs that day, he and Ian each holding an end, while Bea carefully guided them.
Ian’s gaze follows Brendon’s. “She loved that clock.” “You both loved that clock. Are you going to get rid of it?”
Picking at his hands, Ian shrugs. Bea’s presence is in every crack here, in every crevice of this apartment. It was why he had to leave. Equally they shared the apartment, but Ian knew it was Bea that brought life into this place. Her personality is everywhere. It’s in her collection of coffee mugs held in the cupboard, in the throw pillows she has in storage totes.
Brendon’s voice cuts through Ian’s thoughts. “I hope you’ll keep it.”
After Brendon leaves, Ian sits on the couch, his feet aching. The silence amplifies his grief, and he turns on the record player in order to drown it out. Instrumental music plays through the speaker - the last record Bea ever played - and with every note, Ian hears her. He hears her laugh in the high notes, and her cries in the low ones.
“I miss you, Bea,” he calls out when the song finishes. His voice bounces off the walls, and he is met with silence. “I’m sorry, Bea. I’m sorry I tried to outrun your memory.”
As Ian finishes his apology, the grandfather clock strikes, rendering Ian speechless. “Bea?” He checks the time on his phone. It’s a little past midnight, but nowhere near the next hour. “I love you, Bea.”
The clock strikes one final time in response.
She didn’t need to watch endless Youtube videos on how to properly contour her face in cake-like makeup.
She needed to learn how to develop proper study habits.
She didn’t need to drink alcohol to cope with her unhappy relationships.
She needed to learn how to walk away from those who were no longer good for her.
She didn’t need to punish and un-love those from her past.
She needed to learn that love isn’t only meant for one person. She could still love those who are no longer in her life.
She didn’t need to place more work on herself, picking up extra shifts, just to show she could.
She needed to learn how to create a healthy work and life balance, so she wouldn’t burn herself out.
She didn’t need to shy away from possibilities.
She needed to learn how to grow her confidence, rather than sit behind the fear of rejection.
She didn’t need to hold grudges.
She needed to learn to learn to live in the present moment, instead of punishing herself for her past.
She didn’t need to be scared of sharing her opinions.
She needed to learn the power in her voice, and that her opinions mattered too.
She didn’t need to put the world on her shoulders.
She didn’t need to pretend that she had everything under control all the time.
She needed to learn to make time for herself, even if that meant she pushed off her goals for another day.
She didn’t need to pretend that her hobbies defined who she was.
She needed to learn that she could enjoy a number of activities, without any of them defining her.
She didn’t need to pretend that she couldn’t sing.
She needed to learn that she’d rather than sing off-key than stay quiet.
She didn’t need to pretend she was better than the next person.
She needed to learn that her imperfections meant she could mess up, and that it would still be okay. People would still love her.
She needed to learn that she had made countless mistakes,
She needed to learn that she was going to continue making them,
But there was only one lesson she needed to learn:
In the end, she would be okay.
That was the only lesson she ever needed to learn.