Chapter Eight Know When to Let Go #2
“Well, I’m open, but maybe a nice hotel in Santa Cruz.
Or Big Sur?” In our twenties, we once glamped in Big Sur at a lovely spot in the redwood forest. I remember feeling so small but also so grounded and completely at peace during that trip.
The scenery along the coast was alarmingly beautiful, with dramatic cliffs rising out of the sea and striking turquoise water that was so blue it didn’t look real.
We also hiked for miles in the state park along the rugged coastline, which was obviously not going to happen while she was seven and a half months pregnant.
“Maybe,” she says, processing. “But then again, if I’m really going to catch up on sleep, I can’t trust just any old mattress to do the job. I love my bed—plus I have my body pillow here ... lugging that thing on a trip would be borderline ridiculous.”
“We don’t have to go. It was just an idea.”
“No. No, I want to. Believe me. I’m just trying to be practical.”
“Okay, so what if we did a staycation? A girls’ weekend at your place? Will could take the kids to his parents’ house for the weekend. You wouldn’t have to be separated from whatever a body pillow is.”
I can practically hear a ding-ding-ding go off in Scarlet’s head. Will’s parents are really helpful with the kids, so it wouldn’t be a great hardship for him and the grandparents would be happy. Scarlet gets her mattress, and I get best friend time while I grieve Murphy. It’s a win, win, win.
“I actually love that idea,” she chirps. “We can order DoorDash for all our meals and watch chick flicks.”
“That sounds perfect. And you can sleep in and nap all you want.”
“If I weren’t already married,” she says with a wistful sigh, “I’d get down on one knee and beg for your hand.”
I chuckle. “And I’d accept.”
“I don’t know how you do it. I call to check on you , and you end up taking care of me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“I’ll talk to Will to firm up the plans, and then I’ll text you.”
Two days later I’m standing on Scarlet’s porch with a pillow tucked under one arm, a duffel bag slung across my torso, and a box of scones in one hand (for Scarlet) and a bottle of wine in the other (for me).
Will has taken the kids to his parents’ house for the next two nights, which means Scar and I have forty-eight blissful hours of girl time. I can’t remember the last time this happened. Maybe for her bachelorette party, which means it’s been ten years.
We squeal, hugging when I find her in the living room.
“You have no idea how badly I needed this.”
I pat her firm, round belly. “I need it too.” The truth is, it never feels like enough time with Scarlet.
We’re both pulled in so many different directions these days that our time spent together feels precious.
I’ve often worried that with our vastly different lifestyles—hers as a wife and mom, mine as a career-focused single chick—that we’d drift apart.
That there wouldn’t be enough linking us together. Thankfully that hasn’t happened.
“What’d you bring me?” She motions for the pastry box of scones with grabby hands that say “Come to mama.”
“Help yourself.” I chuckle.
“Yes, please,” she says, peeking inside the box. “These look amazing. So, what do you want to do first?”
I’m apparently out of practice at having a best friend who’s pregnant, because the first two things I suggest—getting in the hot tub and ordering sushi—get nixed. We opt instead for lounging on the couch amid a cozy nest of throw pillows and fuzzy blankets.
While Scarlet nibbles on a pumpkin scone, she turns to me. “So ... what’s the latest and greatest with you and what’s his name? Hartford.” She bats her eyelashes for effect. She’s ridiculous.
I hesitate to mention his invitation to Napa.
I haven’t decided yet, and hearing Scar’s opinion might cloud my thinking.
“Well, things are fine, good, I guess.” The truth is, I’m really not sure what to think about him yet.
He’s absolutely cute and funny and kind.
Not to mention brilliant and wealthy. He’s probably every girl’s dream.
I’m just not sure if he’s this girl’s dream.
“I can tell you’ve got something on your mind, so you might as well hit me with it.” It’s barely 11:00 a.m., and I’m already eyeing the wine I brought.
She picks at her pumpkin scone. “I’ve given it some thought, and from a purely mathematical standpoint, the numbers may not add up.”
Scarlet is an engineer. I should have known she’d make my personal dilemma into an equation. Like this is something that can be easily solved. Something that can be measured out and sorted and arranged so it all fits neatly together. I’ve learned real life doesn’t work that way.
“Care to elaborate on that?”
“You guys are at two different stages of life. His is one where going out and ordering shots is acceptable. You are in a vastly different place. You crave stability.”
I scrunch my nose in what I’m certain is a very unladylike manor. I’m not that boring, am I? “I don’t know if that’s true.”
“I know you better than you know yourself.”
“Wrong.”
Scarlet isn’t fazed. “You cry at sad movies but never in real life.”
That can’t be true. Can it?
“You love making lists but only if there’s cute pens involved.”
Okay, so she does know me. I do love a good pen.
“I’m worried he can’t provide you with the stability you need while he’s still figuring himself out.”
“Okay, rude. I don’t need someone to provide for me.”
“How was that rude? I’m just being honest.”
She’s honest to a fault. It’s usually one of the things I love about her. Keyword usually .
Then again, maybe Scarlet is right. Maybe this is industrial-grade self-sabotage. Maybe I’m too scared of growing up, so I’m choosing a man who’s all wrong for me.
Setting down her scone, Scarlet arranges a pillow behind her. “All I’m saying is that the math might not be mathing on the two of you together, but ...” She lingers over the word.
“But what?”
“But I still think this could be good for you. So, I say, just lean in to whatever this is and enjoy the ride.”
It’s basically the same sentiment I currently share. I have no idea what’s going to happen between Hart and me, and I’m not even sure that anything will happen. So there’s no sense in talking it to death. In fact, part of me is regretting even telling her about him.
“New rule,” I announce. “For the rest of the girls’ weekend, we are not discussing my love life.”
She smiles serenely, but I can tell her wheels are turning. “Fine. In that case, I have a rule of my own.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“For the rest of the girls’ weekend, we are not wearing bras.”
An involuntary laugh bursts out of me. “Fine by me.”
There’s a rule I’m happy to get behind.