Chapter 18
I read once that dog people wish that their dogs were human, and cat people wish that they were cats.
Like Shaquille O’Neal and Kevin Hart, they’ll never see eye to eye.
After we eat, we thank the chef, then step outside into the cool spring air.
Miles glances over at me, and I must be radiating I’m cold vibes, because he takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. The gesture is so simple, I use all my mental power
not to make it more than it is.
His hand lingers on my arm, and the lines of friendship go blurry for a second.
I have to look away.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Of course.” He drops his hand, and we start walking toward his SUV.
“Don’t you feel just a little bit rejected?” I ask. “I mean, they ditched us mid-date.”
“You obviously do.” He laughs softly and sticks his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t have a great track record here,” I say. “If you count pickleball, I’m oh-for-eight. I’m starting to wonder if the
problem is me.”
“It’s not,” he says.
I go quiet at his certainty.
“Besides, do you really see yourself with Greg and his shelter cats?”
I bark out a laugh.
“You can definitely do better,” he says. “You are way out of that guy’s league.”
The comment seems so easy that Miles obviously has no idea how it lands. I’m sure he’s just being nice—a good friend—but for whatever reason, it makes my insides scramble.
“Let’s get ice cream,” he says, nodding to a little ice-cream shop up ahead.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, still reminding myself that we are just friends.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out and see a text message from John. I never got back to him about his pitch, and I’m guessing
he wants to know if I’ve thought of anything brilliant that will help him land this big fish of a client. Like I’ve done so
many times before. I click the phone off and tuck it away without reading the message.
I look at Miles, and his expression seems to ask a question without asking.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I brush it off. “My ex.”
“You guys still talk?”
“Not infrequently enough. He only calls me when he needs something,” I grouse.
“What’s he need this time?”
I explain about John’s job and the “favor” he asked me to do for him, and after a beat of silence, he asks, “Are you going
to send him ideas?”
“I’m not sure.” I sigh. “On the one hand, I could probably come up with something that would work in like five minutes. But
on the other hand . . .”
“Why help the guy who broke your heart?”
I catch a glimpse of my own sad smile in the window of the little ice-cream shop we’re in front of. “Yeah. Something like
that.”
It’s a weird feeling. I want to be wanted, but not for what I can do, just for who I am. And not by John.
Miles opens the door and I walk in, pensive as I order pistachio gelato, which Miles refuses to let me pay for. “Save your money for The Porch.” He nudges me with his elbow, and I smile, trying not to think about John or his favor or the fact that, yes, once upon a time, he broke my heart.
But then I realize it feels a little more distant than it used to. Less painful to remember.
And maybe that’s what they mean by “time heals all wounds.” The pain is still there, but it’s duller than it used to be. Is
it silly to hope that one day it might actually disappear?
The bubbly girl behind the counter hands Miles his raspberry cheesecake ice cream with a smile, and we walk back outside.
“There’s a park not far from here. Ice-cream walk?” he says.
“Sure,” I say, not ready for the night to be over.
Something else I choose not to analyze.
“Are you just trying to make me feel better about getting ditched?” I ask.
“Heck no, I just wanted ice cream,” he says. But then, even though he’s not looking at me, I catch his smile.
I give him a playful shove, and he laughs. “It’s too bad you refuse to date anyone for real.”
“Why?” He takes a bite and leads me into a park with a big ornate gazebo at the center of it.
“Because you’re actually one of the good ones,” I say. “Seems a shame to stick women with guys like Roger and Scott and Greg
and keep yourself off the market.”
He sits on the top step of the gazebo and brushes the space beside him, as if to clear a spot for me. I sit.
“Maybe I’m actually a terrible person,” he says playfully. “I could be the absolute worst.”
“Are you?”
“Nah.” He holds his bowl of ice cream out in my direction. “Trade?”
I look down at my gelato, then at his ice cream. “Fine, but only a few bites.”
We swap cups and eat in silence for a few seconds.
My phone buzzes again, and I wince an apology. “I just need to make sure it’s not Minnie.” I pull it out of my purse and see
another text from John on the screen.
Miles sees it too. “Not Minnie?”
I stare at it for a beat. “Maybe I should make sure it’s not about Minnie.”
Miles takes a bite of my gelato as I click the phone open and read John’s texts.
John: Hey, C, checking in on the Oleander account. Thoughts?
John: We’re meeting the client early next week so if you’ve got something, I’d love to hear it.
John: Even just a tagline would help . . . ?
John: You there? I really need you to come through on this.
John: I’ll be up, just let me know what you come up with.
I groan and click the phone off, but Miles snags it from me. He sticks it in front of my face to unlock it, opens the camera,
then drapes his arm around me. “Smile.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a selfie,” he says. “Send it to your ex so he gets the hint that you’re busy . . . living your life.” He holds the
phone up and snaps a photo of the two of us, then studies it.
“Eh. You look weird in that one.”
“Hey!”
“We need to take another one,” he says. “Get a little closer—like, pretend we’re together.” He scoots in and holds the phone
back up. He looks at the two of us through the camera. “Maybe lean your head on my shoulder? Like, pretend you like me.”
“I’m not that good of an actor,” I say with a laugh, moving even closer and inhaling his familiar scent. His draped arm tightens
as his hand lands on my shoulder, and at the touch, a ball of heat radiates in my chest.
I momentarily forget reason and tip my head down so my face is practically nuzzled right in the crook of his neck. “Aaand . . .
there. Perfect. Don’t move. Okay, but look at the camera and smile like you just found a cat in a dumpster.”
At that, I laugh, and he takes five quick pictures. The air thickens, though it’s quite possible I’m the only one who feels
it.
“Send him one of those.”
I take the phone and look at the photos, lingering on one in particular.
He’s got a goofy grin, I’m laughing for real, and we look . . . like a real couple.
We look happy. I look happy.
And while it would be nice to prove to John that I’m not pining and heartbroken, I decide against sending it and click the phone off.
“Ah, you chicken. I knew you wouldn’t.” Miles smirks at me.
“Really? How?”
He shrugs. “You seem like you have your own lane on the high road.”
“I’ve dipped down to the low road a few times.” An image of the fountain behind the country club ballroom floats through my
mind, and I shiver at the memory of the cold water soaking through my clothes.
I draw in a breath and hold up the cup of ice cream. “Trade back.”
We switch again, and I take a bite of my gelato.
“How is it that you still believe in love?” Miles asks between bites. “This guy sounds like a total piece of work.”
“Well, for one, I can’t believe that one experience is all experiences.”
He smiles. “Oh-for-eight.”
I pull a face. He has a point.
But still. I don’t want to believe that it’s a “one-and-done, that’s it, good night, folks” kind of life when it comes to
love.
“In my experience,” he says, in a rare glimpse behind the curtain, “relationships end. Badly. Was yours all that different
from mine?”
I stare out at the open green space of the quiet park under the dim light of the moon, wondering if I should share this story.
Will talking about it make it feel less painful, or will it only make it worse?
I wouldn’t know—even in therapy, I never repeated the whole story of the night I found out about Misty, much to Dr. Baskin’s
dismay. I remember her saying, “If you don’t want to talk about it, then write it all down. Journaling is the cheapest form of therapy.”
I hadn’t written it down either. Because the public humiliation felt cruel the first time around, and I had no interest in
reliving it.
I didn’t like thinking about it because I didn’t like the way it made me feel.
It all felt too painful, too . . . close.
Plus, I didn’t want the other woman’s name in ink in my journal. It felt like tarnishing something sacred.
I didn’t want to relive it, to remember how it felt to realize I was so disposable to the man I’d married and to the friends
who meant something to me.
All that day did was prove my greatest fear—apart from the porch of my grandparents’ old farmhouse, I had never found a place where I belonged.
I look at Miles and find him studying me with a quiet intensity that contradicts his demeanor.
“Uh-oh. Are we going to trade war stories?” I ask.
He points an ice-cream-filled spoon at himself. “Compartmentalization king over here.”
“Yeah, I know. Then I can’t unload my tale of woe on you.”
He takes a bite. “Sure you can. I’m a great listener.”
I look at him. “Well, that’s hardly fair.”
“I know,” he says, smirking. “Isn’t it great?”
I shake my head and roll my eyes.
And then, after a beat and out of character, Miles takes on a more serious tone.
“What happened, Claire?” I look up and he meets my eyes. “You can tell me.”
I stick the spoon in what’s left of the gelato and set the cup on the floor of the gazebo beside me. “Just to prepare you—this
story doesn’t have a happy ending.” I draw in a breath, and I’m back there in a flash. It’s amazing how easy it is to feel
every detail of the days that changed your life.
No matter how much you’d rather forget them.