Chapter Three
The interior of Mother Hen was homey, with stained glass pendant lamps throwing warm yellow light over the tables, a hodgepodge of dog-eared vintage cookbooks and old kitchen tools perched on floating reclaimed wood shelves, and dark beams crisscrossing the ceiling. As soon as I stepped inside, the scent of sage cooking in butter hit me, making my mouth water.
It was where Ollie had taken me for our first “real” date, one I’d only learned much later he paid for by taskrabbiting as a bike courier between shifts at the liquor store where he’d been working back then. A lot had changed for both of us since—Ollie made a much more comfortable income teaching guitar, bass, and violin to Cambridge’s elite offspring, and I’d snagged the job at Pixel—but Ollie insisted on having every anniversary dinner here, at the same tiny table in the far corner of the room, the rattle of the air conditioner overhead drowning out the voices of the other diners. And he always insisted on paying, no matter how much I reminded him about the Pixel money stacking up in my bank account. Someday maybe I’d buy a place with it, but I wasn’t ready to commit to Boston forever—sure, I liked it now, but who knew if I’d want to be here in five years?
At least Ollie had started letting me put a little more toward our vacations than he did. I knew he could have split the cost with me right down the middle, but it just felt silly, especially when I was the one insisting we spend at least a few nights somewhere fancy.
Ollie was already seated at “our” table, and he flashed his lopsided smile as he saw me walking over, lifting a near-empty pint glass in my direction.
He’s already made it through most of a drink. Did that mean he was working up his nerve to propose? Or just that I was late again?
I ignored my flip-flopping stomach and made an effort to return his smile as I slid into my seat.
“Hey, stranger,” Ollie said, leaning across the table to press a single soft kiss to my lips. “How was your day?”
“Good. Busy.” I shrugged, glancing out at the restaurant, anxiety making my skin feel too tight. Usually Ollie’s mellow, empathetic presence was an immediate balm for that feeling—it was one of the things that I most valued about Ollie, the way he balanced me, helped me to at least recognize my catastrophizing for what it was. But then usually the prospect of what Ollie might do or say at any moment wasn’t the cause of my anxiety.
“I hope you’re hungry, I put in for the squash blossoms already.”
“Okaaay…” Annoyance flared through me, though I couldn’t say why. I loved the squash blossoms. They were such a crowd favorite that the restaurant kept them on the menu almost year-round, while practically every other dish rotated out regularly. And Ollie loved that we’d ordered them every year, another of the traditions that he clearly cherished.
But are we going to do it every year forever? Even things I loved cast exaggerated, monstrous shadows when I lit them with the overwhelming wattage of forever.
“Sorry, did you not want them? I only just ordered, I’m sure we can get something else instead.”
“No, it’s fine. They’re always good.” I took a deep breath, trying to exhale the prissiness that was seeping into the tiny cracks anxiety was leaving in me. “Honestly, I think I’m a little hangry.”
“That we can definitely fix.”
We slipped into conversation about our days, the forgettable but pleasant filler that long-standing couples so easily return to. Ollie shared stories about various students, the ludicrous demands their wealthy parents made, a fight that had broken out in Trader Joe’s when he stopped in to grab a quick lunch. It was funny— he was funny, Ollie had always been good at telling a story—but I could barely follow, my mind a scratched record stuck on He’s planning to propose, he’s planning to propose, he’s planning to propose .
“You’re awfully quiet,” Ollie said, looking up from his étouffée, gentle concern in his rich brown eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“Why would you say that?” I focused on arranging a perfect bite, slicing off a tiny bit of the peach-and-whiskey-glazed chicken and carefully smearing a dollop of whipped cheddar polenta over it, balancing a housemade pickle on top—anything to keep me from having to meet that too-insightful gaze.
“Usually I’m not exactly the chatty one.” I caught the quirk of his eyebrow, his wry grin. Tenderness squeezed my heart while anxiety vised harder around my lungs. “Did something happen? At work, maybe?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ollie’s eyebrows shot up.
“That you have a hard job and sometimes it can be stressful?” He squinted at me, tongue moving in his cheek thoughtfully. “What else would it mean?”
I blinked, feeling trapped.
“I don’t know. It was. Stressful, I mean. The meeting this morning was a big deal, and there’s a new project that”—I stopped myself short. Ollie had met Drew, liked him even, in a nonspecific, not-much-in-common sort of way, but suddenly it felt as if even uttering his name might be dangerous. “…that a coworker showed me that could have…serious implications.”
“For your job?”
“Among other things. Sorry, I can’t really talk about it, it’s kinda…” I shrugged, then mimed zipping my lips.
“I’m not gonna leak it to the press, Lo.”
“I know that, Ollie . It’s just…” I rolled my hand through the air, flicking away his curiosity, hearing the annoyance in my own voice. “Inside baseball stuff. Boring. I honestly don’t want to talk about it.”
The little knot of guilt in my stomach tightened. Usually I didn’t keep things from Ollie, or even want to. I relished the way sharing things with him seemed to bring them more fully to life, allowed me to see them in a way I hadn’t before, sparked ideas that I probably never would have found on my own. Ollie had a way of listening to me so completely, his full attention on whatever we were talking about—whether it was a major problem I was facing or what Halloween costume to dress Bubs up in that year—that it made me feel more interesting, creative, fun .
But what was I going to say— Drew might have found a way to access parallel universes ? It sounded ridiculous, for one thing, but Ollie would want to know more, would be genuinely interested, would start spinning out objectively interesting possibilities that of course he’d expect us to dive into deeper, and then I’d just feel more guilty, because really, the program wasn’t the thing I kept worrying like a sore tooth, it was the questions that had sprouted in my head after Drew showed it to me, the renewed flicker of… something between us today, and all the doubts starting to catch off its ember.
“Okay. Well, if you do want to talk about it, or about anything else, I’m happy to listen, alright?” He reached across the table for my hand, squeezing it once, a familiar gesture that felt intensely bittersweet at that moment.
“Sure. Right.” I nodded rapidly. “I need to use the bathroom. If the server comes by, she can box that.” I jerked my hand away, ignoring the hurt that crumpled Ollie’s forehead.
“Got it.”
In the tiny single-stall bathroom I leaned heavily on the pedestal sink, staring into the antique mirror, not quite certain what I was looking for. In the past, whenever I thought about what my future with Ollie looked like, I always assumed we’d get married at some point . He knew me better than pretty much anyone else, had been there for all the adulting milestones—the upgraded apartment, all the promotions at work, adopting the rambunctious tabby kitten who had grown into the fat, spoiled fur monster we both doted on. He’d held my hair back when I got sick, both after overindulging at one of his various bands’ shows and after overindulging on dollar oysters at the Irish pub near our apartment, an obviously bad choice in retrospect. He’d gotten all dolled up with me for friends’ weddings and spent countless nights with me in sweatpants on the couch, zit stickers studding my makeup-free face as I tore through yet another romance novel. He listened to my claims that I was going to try writing my own any day now, and despite all the evidence to the contrary, he agreed wholeheartedly every time, unwavering in his support of what we both had to know was a pipe dream. I loved him almost the moment I met him, and I knew he’d fallen for me just as fast and possibly even harder, and I’d never had reason to question the idea that he was my “person,” whatever that meant.
But I’d also never believed in the idea of a soulmate, had always thought it was obvious—if only mathematically—that all of us had any number of potential “my persons” walking around. I loved Ollie completely, and also there might be someone else out there I could love just as much, possibly even more. Besides, if we were so right for each other, why had finding the ring given me heart palpitations? Why was I thinking about Drew’s eyes when I should be fantasizing about wedding dresses? Friends of mine who had tied the knot all seemed so sure, so excited about the prospect of spending the rest of their days with their partner, “forever” an ambient glow they basked in, not a flickering fluorescent glare that stung their eyes.
Wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t see what they’d all seen, couldn’t summon the calm assurance they’d all apparently felt, proof that saying yes would be a bad idea?
Had Mom believed in forever when she said yes to Dad all those years ago, or had she felt the same gut fear I was feeling and just ignored it? It’s not like I could just call her up and ask…
I swallowed against a wave of nausea, then splashed some water on my face. I was letting myself spiral for no reason at all—he hadn’t even proposed yet, and yesterday, when there hadn’t been a ring, I’d been perfectly happy with the idea of at some point. This was just my anxiety talking, and as my therapist had so helpfully reminded me at countless points in the last ten years, Just because it’s whispering those things in your ear, that doesn’t mean you have to listen. I carefully patted my cheeks with a towel, smoothed my shirt, and opened the door, determined to spend the rest of the meal being present .
And then I saw the server placing two glasses of champagne on the table, Ollie smiling shyly at her as he asked for something that I couldn’t interpret but that had her nodding and hurrying off with an excited grin, and all the bourbon-glazed chicken threatened to make a reappearance on the floor at my feet, the little whispering voice a roar so loud the noise of the restaurant disappeared beneath it.
Forever. Forever. Forever.
Nope. No way. I couldn’t do this, couldn’t cry happily as he slid a ring onto my finger, couldn’t pretend I was living in the glow instead of the interrogation room. Couldn’t bear the look on Ollie’s face if— when —I said no. When had I decided to say no?
I marched across the restaurant and slid into my seat, flinging a hand at the champagne glass.
“What’s that for?”
“I thought you might like it.”
“Even though champagne always gives me a headache?”
“It’s just one glass, Lo. And it’s a special night.”
“I suppose.” I rolled my eyes, pointedly reaching for the dregs of my cocktail instead.
“What do you mean you suppose ?” Ollie said, posture going wary.
“I don’t know. I guess I just thought after five years…maybe we’d try something different, you know? At least a different appetizer .” The hurt flickering in Ollie’s eyes gut-punched me, but I just jutted my jaw protectively. The alternative would be a whole hell of a lot worse for both of us.
“I thought you liked it here.”
“I do like it here. But that doesn’t mean I want to stop having new experiences. I’m not even thirty yet.”
“You don’t think we have new experiences? Weren’t you just talking about Morocco this morning?”
“You know what I mean,” I snapped. Though I wasn’t sure how he could, seeing as I didn’t. I’d been looking forward to our special anniversary dinner for weeks…
Ollie leaned back in his chair, hooking the champagne flute with a finger and taking a long sip. His features had taken on a set, closed quality that perversely highlighted the sharp edges of his strong jaw and the heavy, half-mast gaze that had always made audiences swoon. If I didn’t feel like a frayed wire I would have laughed. Of course this is when he goes and looks his absolute sexiest.
“Did I do something to upset you?”
“No. At least…nothing in particular.”
“Is this about the towel this morning? I picked it up, you know.”
“Seriously, Ollie? Are you even listening to me?”
“Of course I’m listening. I just don’t understand what changed in the last”—he made a show of looking at his watch—“three minutes.” I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously. One hand drifted to his pocket. “Is this about something else?”
Yes.
“No. Jesus, do you even realize how insulting that is?” I could feel myself picking up steam now, anxiety blending with the slurry of random resentment every long-term couple could draw on in a pinch— Why does he always think he knows better? How could anyone say yes to forever with someone who…
Could see them? Cared about them?
Jesus, what was going on with me right now?
But Ollie’s jaw was already tightening, the annoyance in my tone reflected in his eyes.
“I’m not a mind reader. I can’t exactly guess what’s up if you’re gonna constantly shut me out.”
“Excuse me?”
“Were you at some other dinner? Because at this one, I’ve been trying to get you to open up for the last hour and a half and you just keep brushing me off. I know my job isn’t as high-powered as yours, but I’m not some simpleton.”
“What are you talking about?” I frowned, genuinely confused. What did work have to do with any of this?
“Whenever I ask you about your work you act like it’s either top secret or above my pay grade. So I’ve mostly stopped asking. Because either you don’t trust me, or you think I’m too stupid to bother discussing it with, and neither feels particularly great.”
“You know I don’t think that, Ollie.”
“Sure. It’s all just too inside baseball for me to possibly understand, right?”
I winced, because he was right, I had been trying to shut him out, though not for the reasons he thought. Which led to an unbidden memory of the way Drew’s eyes had lingered on my mouth…the way I hadn’t ended the moment sooner. The guilty, stomach-twisty feeling I’d been fighting all night intensified, sharpening so suddenly I almost bent double.
“So not wanting to bore you with office politics makes me the bitch?”
“I never said that. I would never say that.” He scrunched his face in disgust.
“Right, you just tell me I’m a shit partner who condescends to you regularly.”
“Laurel, no . I just wanted us to have a nice dinner. I wanted you to—”
Don’t say it don’t say it please don’t ruin us with forever.
“You wanted me to be sweet and not ruin things like I always do? Sorry, failed again.” I pushed back from the table, shaky with a blend of frustration and fear. What if this was it? What if I’d pushed things too far and instead of a proposal, Ollie offered me a beautifully gift-wrapped breakup? The idea made my stomach plunge. The next step for us was off a cliff, my not wanting to take it didn’t mean we weren’t good together . The idea of being without Ollie felt like hacking off a limb without anesthetic.
“I should go,” I said, throwing my napkin on the table.
“That’s probably a good idea,” Ollie said quietly, eyes fixed on the tablecloth.
I wanted to say something else—something meaningful, something that would fix this—but all I could manage was a stupid, useless gulp against the tightening in my throat. Blinking hard, I strode across the restaurant and out the door, somehow managing not to spray arterial blood all over the other diners from the gaping wound I’d just torn in my own chest.
It was what had to be done. If he’d pulled out the ring, gone down on one knee, then I’d either have said yes, which would have felt like walking both of us straight into the maw of some ancient leviathan, or I’d have managed to do the right thing and say no, and I’d never be able to make Ollie understand that it wasn’t because I didn’t love him but because I was afraid that that wasn’t enough, that love was entirely too flimsy a foundation to bear the overwhelming, precariously cantilevered weight of a life.
Somehow, though, I still felt like I’d made the wrong choice.