Chapter 17 Katie
Katie
One more lap.
I push through the cool, blue water, burst above the surface, then breaststroke my way to the end of the pool. When I hit the edge of the deep end, I slap my palm on the concrete and indulge in several long breaths.
My father putters at the other end of the pool, organizing floaties in a big basket. I hoist myself out of the water and reach for the towel I left on the diving board. As I dry off, I inhale the quiet.
It’s six in the morning on a Sunday, and even though the swim and tennis club my dad owns is open right now, the classes don’t start till after nine.
Swimming has always centered me. I suspect my love of yoga started in the pool. They’re different, sure, but also not. Both rely on that mind-body connection, on breath, on finding your own pace.
I wrap the towel around my waist and circle the pool toward the shallow end. The scent of chlorine is thick and familiar—it reminds me of home.
As a kid in Texas, I spent afternoons goofing off in the water when Dad taught classes. Later, the pool was an escape for me when Mom left Dad shortly after we moved to California.
Oh, yeah, my mom out-Draper-ed Don Draper. She banged the assistant of the magazine she ran, then she married him. I should have seen the Silvio situation coming.
Dad smiles at me as I reach him, and maybe that’s the real therapy—talking to him about Mom and Silvio, sure, but also about life and business, his wife, Janice, and their adventures in fishing and golfing.
He’ll tell me about the swim classes he’s teaching here.
I’ll update him on the corporate clients I’ve taken on.
He’ll give me business advice, and I’ll weigh in on what to give Janice for her birthday or anniversary—that lemon pound-cake candle from the wine country vintage shop that actually smells like lemon pound cake, a mug that says Please cancel my subscription to your issues, and a weekend getaway trip to her favorite golf resort.
It’s been therapeutic, and four months post–Just-Escaped-Marriage Day, I feel centered again.
Calm again.
My mind no longer a discombobulated mess.
One of the things that helped the most? Saying my piece.
My mom called me several times after taking my honeymoon.
She texted me constantly after I unblocked her, and emailed me too.
Saying how much she loved Silvio. How she hoped someday I’d be happy for her.
Asking if I wouldn’t just accept that this was true love.
At first, I seethed over her notes.
After all, I’d had to return all the gifts to the guests.
That was super fun.
Not.
But it was weirdly cathartic. The practical act of returning presents was like a daily letting go. Breathe in, breathe out, return this blender to the Fishers, give this set of napkin rings back to the Bloombergs.
And in so doing, say goodbye to the double bastards of Mom and Silvio.
Once I returned the last gift, I found final closure.
I sent her a letter, saying simply: Enjoy him.
Then I blocked her number again and her email.
Life is better like this.
I’m happier.
And I’m happy hanging out with my dad after I swim.
“So, what’s next on the yoga empress’s agenda?” Dad asks as we sink down on the bench at the edge of the pool—our chatting bench. “Are you adding a Yoga keeps me out of prison class?”
“Or… Yoga, because punching people isn’t cool,” I joke.
He holds up a hand as a stop sign. “Wait, wait. I’ve got it. How about a class called Flexibility for old people who can’t get out of bed without moaning in misery?” he suggests, grabbing his lower back.
Seems like a demonstration if I’ve ever seen one. “Gee, Dad. Why do I feel like that’s spoken from experience?”
“Just wait till you’re sixty.”
“That’s twenty-five years away. I can’t even think about that!”
He snaps his fingers. “‘It’ll be here in a flash.” He sets his palms on his pants, takes a beat. “But seriously, everything is going well? The business is still helping you process all the things?”
That is easy to answer. Business has been a wonderful escape, and a healthy one too, I suspect.
I’ve poured my heart even further into our company in the last four months and it’s paid off.
“It’s going great. Olive and I hired a new VP of business dev, and Zachary’s been inking deals left and right for corporate classes.
All sorts of companies are hiring our teachers. ”
“But lots of them want you?” he asks.
I shrug and smile. “It’s good to be the empress.”
He sets a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’m proud of you, Katie. You’ve been focused and determined, but you never seem angry about what happened with your mom.”
I suppose I have yoga and friends and business to thank for that. And my dad. “Life goes on,” I say.
“But seriously, I’m impressed. You seem…healthy,” he adds.
“It’s time, right?” I’ve tried to give myself that. In retrospect, everything happened so quickly with Silvio. Perhaps that was the biggest flaw in our relationship. “And honestly, we never seemed completely compatible, but I ignored that, because I was swept up in it.”
“It was a whirlwind romance,” he seconds.
“When I look back at the last year, I think maybe if I just took more time before we planned our wedding, I would have realized it sooner. That’s what I learned. We didn’t quite fit, but I was captivated, and I convinced myself it was meant to be.”
“I think there’s a part of you that wanted to believe in fate,” he muses, stroking his chin.
Huh. That’s an interesting observation. I didn’t realize I was such a fate-centric person. “Why do you say that?” I ask, eager for some insight.
“It’s something I noticed in you when you were a teenager.
When your mom and I split—well, like most kids, you wanted us to stay together, but that clearly wasn’t happening, and you wanted to make sense of it.
As you tried, you’d say things like how we never seemed right for each other, or how fate had other plans. ”
That’s surprising, since I’m not a believer in fate now. But maybe I needed it as a teen to see me through a tough time. “Maybe I just wanted to believe in it.”
Dad nods. “I’d like to believe in it, too, but ultimately I think you make your own fate.”
I tilt my head, studying his expression, mulling over his words. “You do?”
He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I do. I believe in hard work, putting in the time, and listening to your instincts. I haven’t always done that, but I sure try to now.”
Those are words to live by.
I vow to keep doing that too—pay attention to what my gut says, rather than my heart.
I’ve taken the last few months to find my balance again, and I’ve spent lots of time with Olive, Emerson, Jillian, and Skyler. We’ve started an ad-hoc axe-throwing club, along with a self-proclaimed Snooty Wine Night.
Girlfriend time is fantastic therapy.
So is football. I’ve watched every Renegades game this season, just as I usually do.
Harlan is on fire, and his team is having a great run.
They’ve won five games and lost one. By all accounts, he’s killing it on the field, though he did leave the last game earlier in the fourth quarter than usual.
That was a little odd, but the team was beating Baltimore by two touchdowns and won, so I suspect they wanted to give their stars a rest.
And maybe it’s time for me to see more of that star.
Maybe I’m ready.
“Dad?” I say, giving him my attention. “I’m trying to listen to my instincts, too, and you know what they say?”
“What do they say?”
I go for broke. “That it’s time to date again.”
He slams his hands over his ears. “Tra la la la.”
I laugh—because it’s fun to wind him up—until he sets his palms in his lap, muttering, “I can handle this, I can handle this.”
“You’re such a dad,” I tease.
He bumps shoulders with me. “Can’t help it. But seriously. I’m happy for you. If you want to date again, go for it.”
This choice seems right. Four months ago, I was a mess. But I’ve straightened that up, and I’m in a good place—a place where I have zero plans to get serious again, and no intentions to give my heart away. Nada. But a good time? Bring it on.
“I will. I already have someone in mind.”
***
A few nights later, I host my besties for wine.
I lift my glass and issue a declaration. “I’m diving back into the dating pool,” I announce.
My four friends clink glasses with me. Relief and excitement swirls in my chest. I’m ready to try again, but also a tad nervous. “Dating is a shark tank, right?”
“Full of Moby Dicks,” Emerson says drily.
“And hammerheads,” Olive adds with a wink.
Skyler sets down her wineglass on my coffee table and mimes banging a drum on the punchline. Then she jerks her gaze to me and goes all business, tucking her stray red strands of hair behind her ears. “Are we going for Tinder? A matchmaker? Bumble? Something else?”
“Because not everyone can meet a fabulous tour guide on a Hawaiian vacation,” I point out, since I can’t resist reminding her of her ridiculously good fortune.
“Lucky bitch,” Emerson hisses as she downs some red wine, then taps the glass. “Snooty Wine Club time out! This tastes like shoe leather.”
“Well, that’s better than last week’s wine. It tasted like a veggie burger,” Jillian quips, lifting her seltzer water as she nudges our resident vegetarian.
Emerson’s jaw drops in mock outrage. “Take that back. Veggie burgers are the best.”
“Says you.”
“Exactly. I would know,” Emerson adds.
I take a drink of my wine, a different red than Emerson’s, then murmur appreciatively. “Mine tastes like cherries. I’m winning.”
Emerson laughs. “And you deserve to win. So, tell us more. What’s the plan?” she asks, rerouting the conversation back to dating.
Apropos, since cherries remind me of the man I’m finally ready for. I set down the glass and clear my throat. “I’m going to reach out to the guy who got away.”
Jillian gasps. We’re talking full-on, jaw-drop style. This has clearly been a dream of hers for some time. “Oh my God, I’ve only been hoping you would for seven years. Thank you for putting me out of my waiting misery.”
“It really was all about you,” I tease. “And trust me, I wish we’d had our Tuesday-night date several years ago. Would have made my life easier.”
But as soon as I say that, I have to wonder—would it? Would I have started Sassy Yoga if I’d stayed here and dated Harlan?
Something else wouldn’t have happened either. Something much more important. Someone. If we’d become a thing, he wouldn’t have had his little girl. Maybe we weren’t meant to be then for many reasons, after all.
Except, I don’t believe in fate.
I believe in timing, and this timing seems right. To date. Just to date.
My friends seem to think so, too, judging from their reactions.
Olive hoots. “Get it, girl!”
Emerson shimmies her shoulders. “He’s such a hottie.” She turns to Jillian. “And he’s single?”
“As far as I know,” Jillian says with a light shrug, “but it’s not like Jones and I spend all our time talking about Harlan’s dating situation.” She rubs her growing belly. “We’re a little busy.”
I roll my eyes. “Making people, sheesh. You act like it’s so hard.”
“Easy as pie,” she deadpans, then asks, “Is this going to be more like an official date?”
“Rather than the sort of impromptu ones we’ve had so far?” I ask with a laugh.
Emerson chimes in, smacking her palm on the table. “That’s how I’d put it. You’ve been impromptu dating him now and then, and he’s been impromptu giving you orgasms.”
“He is a bit of an orgasm dealer,” I admit as a shiver rolls down my spine in memory.
After everyone leaves, Emerson stays behind to help me straighten up. As I wash wineglasses and she dries them, she arches a brow. “So, I have to ask…”
I laugh lightly. This is so her. She’s uber enthusiastic but also intensely grounded. I suspect her grounded side is rearing up right now. “Of course you have to ask something. Spill.”
She sets down the towel, stares at me with intense green eyes. “Are you ready? Truly ready? And I don’t just mean for orgasms.”
“I’m definitely ready for those,” I say as I turn off the water.
She sighs. “Hello, yoga empress who doesn’t take herself seriously.
Make an exception for this. You know what I mean.
I get that you’re feeling good and healed, and that’s truly awesome.
And I know, too, that you feel like it all worked out for the best. That the universe saved you from a bad marriage.
And yes, it did. But I also know you berated yourself for being so caught up in a whirlwind romance that you didn’t pay attention to the signs that he wasn’t right for you. ”
“Want to read my soul a little more?” I tease. Because she’s nailed every detail like the bestie she is.
She just gives a soft smile, then squeezes my forearm. “I regret it too—that I missed the signs. I mean, I even said on your wedding day that he treated you well,” she says, her voice catching.
A lump forms in my throat. “It’s not your fault.”
“And it’s not yours either,” she says, choked with emotion.
But she draws a breath like it steadies her.
“I just want to make sure you’re…you know…
ready? Because every time you talk about Harlan, he seems like not only a god in bed, but also a good guy out of bed.
And that’s pretty easy to get caught up in too. ”
“But I won’t,” I insist. “That’s what I’ve learned—to take everything day by day. Not zoom too many steps ahead.”
“Good. That’s all I wanted to know. That you’re looking out for you,” she says, pointing at my heart. “Because I definitely am. And I promise to do a better job of it this time around.”
“And I love you for that.”
She flashes a big, naughty smile. “Then I can’t wait to hear how your first official date with the O dealer goes.”
Really, it’s more like a third date. Every time I’ve been with Harlan, we’ve gotten to know each other. We’ve had fun. We’ve spent real time together in and out of bed.
Maybe we will again.
That’s all I want. That’s all I have room for.
Time to enjoy the present. To take a chance at that third date.
Once Emerson has gone, I pick up my phone, feeling good about my plans to reach out. This isn’t fate. This is timing. And maybe, finally, the time is right for us.
So, I send him a text.