Chapter 15 #2
Out of the corner of my eye I see Miles shift his weight, like he’s uncomfortable. Or annoyed. Or anxious to get out of here.
“Perfect!” Lorraine pulls out her phone and rushes off, leaving me standing here with Miles.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He shrugs in a not-usual-Miles way. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
I try to joke with him. “Did you have a bad dental experience? Is that why you’re—?”
“It’s not that,” he says, cutting me off. “I just thought you were trying not to have boring dates.”
“At this point, a boring date would be dreamy,” I say. “A boring date would be bliss. The last few have been a little too eventful.”
“I had a great next date picked out for you—”
“Well, now you don’t have to waste your time with my love life,” I say, like that’s that. “Lorraine is on the case.” I nod toward the front gate. “Coffee walk?”
He looks at his watch, then at me. “Sure.”
I start off in the direction of the empty storefront. I just like to look—almost like I’m checking on it or something. It’s
about twenty minutes from my apartment—totally walkable. Another plus.
Not that I’m collecting pluses about a building.
That would be silly.
Miles and I stop for coffee at a coffee truck, and once we have our drinks, I keep going in the direction of the storefront.
“Why are you walking so fast?” he asks.
“Am I?” I slow my pace, only now realizing I’m excited to get back to the empty space. Excited. An emotion I haven’t felt
in years.
I’m just window-shopping, remember.
He gives me a quizzical look. “What’s going on with you?”
“What?” I take a drink of my latte. “Nothing.”
“You’re acting weird.” He shrugs. “I mean weirder than usual.”
“Ha ha,” I retort, but something is off. His jokes aren’t really . . . jokes. There’s no lightness to them for some reason.
Like he’s trying to sort something out.
Like he’s genuinely curious.
I bump his shoulder with my own, then think about the object of my affection—an empty building and a daydream.
And for whatever reason, I want to tell him about it.
Instead, I say, “Oh! Do you play pickleball? I got invited and we need a fourth.”
“You play pickleball?” he asks.
“Never in my life,” I say, chuckling. “But I met a new friend, and she invited me.”
“You made a friend,” he says. “That’s great.”
“Yeah, I can cross it off my list.” Shoot. I didn’t mean to let him know I have—
“You have a list?”
I shrug, wishing it weren’t so easy to blurt things out around him.
“Of, like, things to do now that you’re here?”
I try to brush it off. “Oh yeah, it’s just silly—find a hobby, get a job, try new foods, those kinds of things.”
I’m praying he doesn’t make the connection that—
“And one of the things on the list is to find a friend?”
“Pathetic, right?” I scrunch my nose and look away. “But it’s hard to make friends when you’re an adult.”
He looks at me sideways, then says seriously, “I think I’m offended.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, I meant, like, a girlfriend. Like, you know, for girl talk and spa days and—”
“Braiding each other’s hair and talking about boys?” he drones. Then a smile blooms on his face, and it’s obvious he isn’t
actually offended at all. “You know I’m just messing with you, right?”
I give him a soft push. “You’re the worst.”
He laughs. “I don’t care what you call me as long as you feed me.”
I look up at him, and he’s smiling.
“Well, what would you call me?” I ask.
“Usually I’d opt for Claire,” he says.
I roll my eyes, feeling oddly exposed. Like I’ve just asked the boy I like to declare his feelings for me or something.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I’d call you a friend.”
I take a drink. “Well, good, then I guess I can cross that one off twice.”
We keep walking, neither of us talking for a bit, the city’s energy the only activity between us. And then we stop at the
light kitty-corner from the storefront. My insides buzz as I stare at the space. Like there’s some magnetic pull drawing me
to it.
“So you’re a List Maker.” Miles says this like it’s capitalized and important, playful again.
I’m distracted when I say, “Yep,” and I can feel him staring at me, still trying to work out what my deal is today. Because he’s right. I’m being weird. Because all I can think about is that empty storefront.
“That’s so you can feel like you’re in control, right?”
I frown. “No, I just like to check things off.”
He goes quiet, like he’s considering something. “Yeah, but it might also be about wanting some control, right? Like a ‘these are things I’ve written down and accomplished’ kind of thing?”
I stare out at the city, so alive and full of possibility, and still, nothing feels certain. I know now that everything can
change when you’re not looking. “Hmm,” I hum thoughtfully. “Maybe.” Maybe my lists are my meager attempt at reclaiming a little bit of control.
“In my experience,” he says, “none of us really has control of anything.”
I frown. “I disagree. I have control over my emotions—and my choices. Whether I go out job hunting or spend the day on the
couch eating ice cream and watching Netflix.”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “But good choices can’t always guarantee good outcomes. You can do everything right and make all
the right decisions. You can hold up your end of the bargain, and still—the world can blindside you with some gnarly stuff.”
I go quiet as I take another drink, mostly to fill space. Because I get the sense that Miles isn’t talking about me.
He’s talking about himself.
And I wonder what “gnarly stuff” he’s been through and if it’s the reason he’s so opposed to ever having a real relationship
again.
Which begs the question—who hurt him?
“The world does have a knack for chewing you up and spitting you out,” I say. “But I’m not willing to hide anymore. I’ve done
the wallowing thing, and the angry thing, and the can’t-get-out-of-bed thing. I don’t want to do any of that anymore. I want
to feel like I’m alive again.”
“And the list helps you do that?” His tone is incredulous.
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” I say. “The list is a powerful tool. It helps you get really clear about what you want.”
“I know what I want.”
I look at him. “Do you really, though?”
His raised brow asks a silent question.
“I just think maybe you should, you know, be open—to whatever life wants to bring you.”
“I am,” he says, lifting one shoulder. “Mostly.”
The light changes, and we cross the street. The subject is dropped when Miles asks, “Where are we going?”
I point down the crosswalk. “We’re just walking.”
“No, we’re not. You seem like you have a destination in mind,” he says, more perceptive than I had hoped. “It’s like you’re
on a mission.”
We reach the other side of the street and I stop, turning to face another red light, the only thing standing between us and
the storefront.
I can feel him watching me, and I realize that if I had my journal here, I’d have something else to add to my list.
Because telling Miles about the plans and ideas I’ve been dreaming up is possibly the scariest thing I’ve done yet.
Which is why, when the light changes and I step out into the street, I say, out loud, “I want to show you something.”
I make lists.
Maybe that’s why I bake. I like recipes.
Recipes are just lists.
Do them in order, follow the instructions, and boom, you have a scone.
Maybe, subconsciously, I think that if I do the things on my list, follow the instructions, then boom, I’ll be whole again.
I don’t think it’s about control.
Miles is in my head.
He’s in my head about a lot of things actually.
Like the whole idea of starting a business.
I think he might be more excited by the idea than I am. After I showed him the space and told him about my ideas, we walked
back to The Bexley, and he didn’t stop talking about it the entire way.
He’s in my corner.
It’s another feeling I haven’t had in a really, really long time.
His idea to make an outdoor porch and put an actual lemonade stand there so people could walk up and order right from the
window was crazy good.
He even sent me information about obtaining permits and a business license and everything I could ever need to know about
food sanitation.
He owns a building, so it’s apparent he’s gone through some of it already.
I don’t know if I can.
I don’t know if I have the money.
I don’t know if it will succeed.
I stop writing. I look at the last three sentences. I consider them for a beat, then make a couple of adjustments:
I don’t know WHAT if I can?
I don’t know WHAT if I have the money?
I don’t know WHAT if it will succeed?
Maybe it’s delusion that spurs this change. Or Miles’s excitement rubbing off. He’s a good guy. A good friend. A really good guy friend.
A really good-looking good guy friend.
I scan down to the bottom of my list, and feeling like a teenage girl with a diary, I add one more thing . . . and then immediately
cross it out because the second I reread it, a wave of fear washes over me.
I want to fall in love again.