Chapter 16
By the time Rachel settled into the familiar chair across from Liz Cohen on Wednesday afternoon, she realized with mild embarrassment that she’d spent the entire drive over trying to remember what exactly she was supposed to talk about.
Which, admittedly, represented a rather lovely problem.
Not because life had become perfect. It hadn’t. The studio remained gloriously chaotic. Life, in short, had not transformed itself into some magical existence free of inconvenience and uncertainty.
But she wasn’t in crisis.
And after nearly two years of sitting in this office, that still felt strange.
Liz smiled as Rachel settled into the chair and tucked her feet beneath her.
“You’re smiling.”
Rachel laughed softly.
“Apparently that’s becoming a theme.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“Neither am I.”
The answer surprised her.
Not because it wasn’t true.
Because she realized she meant it.
For a moment neither woman spoke. Rachel wrapped her hands around the mug of tea Liz always had waiting for her, and she found herself smiling again.
“I almost canceled today.”
Liz raised an eyebrow.
“Because things are going well?”
Rachel laughed.
“Is that terrible?”
“No.”
Liz smiled.
“Actually, I think it’s lovely.”
Rachel shook her head.
“I don’t really know what to do with lovely.”
The answer escaped before she could stop it.
And somehow that felt like the entire problem.
“I know how to do stress,” she continued. “I’m very good at stress. I know how to worry and anticipate and take care of everyone and convince myself that’s the same thing as peace.”
Liz nodded.
“And now?”
Rachel looked down into her tea.
“Now I sleep.”
The answer made them both laugh.
“No, seriously. I sleep. I laugh more. Food tastes better.” She smiled. “I look forward to ordinary things.”
Her voice softened.
“I look forward to yoga classes.”
Emotion caught unexpectedly in her throat.
“Not vacations. Not milestones. Yoga classes and grocery shopping and dinner with Ben.”
She laughed softly.
“Who gets emotional about yoga classes?”
“A woman who spent a long time surviving,” Liz said gently.
Rachel smiled.
“I suppose.”
Silence settled between them. Comfortable silence. Familiar silence.
After two years, Rachel had stopped feeling responsible for entertaining her therapist.
Which, she reflected, probably counted as progress.
“I don’t know who I am when I’m not worried.”
Liz tilted her head slightly.
“No?”
Rachel shook hers.
“I know that sounds ridiculous.”
“It sounds honest.”
She smiled.
“I keep waiting for the catch.”
“The catch?”
“The part where I discover I’ve misunderstood everything. Or where something terrible happens because I got too comfortable.”
The smile remained, though it softened.
“Ben makes me happy.”
The words arrived so naturally that Rachel almost missed them.
And immediately, she smiled.
Not because the statement embarrassed her.
Because it didn’t.
That still felt miraculous.
“Ben just…” Her smile deepened. “He makes things easier.”
Liz nodded.
“Easier doesn’t mean less meaningful.”
“I know.”
Rachel smiled into her tea.
“He makes me laugh. I sleep better.” Her fingers traced the edge of the mug. “And I don’t spend the whole evening negotiating with myself anymore.”
Liz tilted her head slightly.
“Negotiating?”
Rachel laughed softly.
“About everything.”
The smile lingered.
“Whether I’m being selfish. Whether I should order dessert. Whether everyone else is enjoying themselves enough. Whether I’ve somehow taken too much.”
Emotion caught unexpectedly in her throat.
“And with him…”
She paused.
“I forget.”
The answer surprised her with its simplicity.
“I forget to keep score.”
The room grew quiet.
Rachel smiled helplessly.
“And I know that sounds strange.”
“No,” Liz said gently. “It sounds peaceful.”
“It does.”
Liz smiled.
“And how does it feel to say that?”
“Easy.”
Rachel blinked.
“Actually…”
She laughed.
“It feels easy.”
And that, more than anything else, nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Because there had been a time when saying Robet’s name had come with careful explanations. With caveats. With stories about why she was lucky and grateful and how busy he was and how hard he worked and how none of the loneliness she felt really mattered.
She’d spent years translating her unhappiness into language that sounded reasonable.
She’d never realized how exhausting it had been.
Rachel thought about it.
Because she’d confused being needed with being loved.
Because she’d spent years earning affection through usefulness.
But she only shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
Which wasn’t entirely true.
She knew.
She simply no longer needed to dissect every wound until she understood its molecular structure.
And perhaps that represented progress too.
The smile faded slightly.
“Grace comes home this weekend.”
Liz nodded.
“You mentioned that.”
“I’ve built it into a major international event.”
“Naturally.”
Rachel laughed.
“I know.”
But her fingers tightened around the mug.
“I’m excited.”
“And?”
Rachel sighed.
“And nervous.”
“Nervous about what?”
Everything.
The answer appeared immediately.
But when she spoke, she discovered there was one fear sitting beneath all the others.
“What if she doesn’t like who I’ve become?”
The words hung quietly in the room.
“What if she comes home and sees the studio and the life and Ben and thinks…” She swallowed. “‘Who is this woman?’”
Liz remained silent. Not the thoughtful therapist silence. The kind one woman offers another when something vulnerable has just been entrusted to her.
Rachel’s fingers tightened around the mug.
“I think part of me is afraid she’ll come home and feel like she missed something.”
Liz was quiet.
Rachel smiled faintly.
“Which is ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s in college. She’s supposed to have her own life.”
“And you’re supposed to have yours.”
Rachel laughed softly.
“I know.”
But tears had already appeared.
“I just don’t want her to think I built this life because I didn’t need her anymore.”
The words surprised her with their honesty.
Because that was it.
Not disapproval.
Not judgment.
Loss.
She swallowed.
“I don’t want her to come home and think…” Her voice softened. “‘Mom’s fine without me.’”
Emotion tightened her throat.
“And I know how irrational that sounds because she’s supposed to leave and have adventures and become her own person and all of those wonderful things.”
She smiled helplessly.
“But I miss her.”
Liz’s expression softened.
“Rachel.”
The tears finally escaped.
“I miss her.”
“Of course you do.”
Rachel laughed through them.
“And I love Ben.”
The words emerged naturally.
Not dramatically.
Simply true.
“I love the studio. I love the women. I love my life.”
Her smile trembled.
“And somehow that almost makes me feel guilty.”
Liz nodded gently.
“Because you spent so long believing love was finite.”
Rachel blinked.
“Maybe.”
“You don’t have to choose.”
The room grew quiet.
“You don’t have to love one life less in order to love another life more.”
She paused for a moment.
Rachel smiled through the tears.
“I think I’m still afraid.”
“Of course you are.”
Liz’s voice was warm.
“You’re happy.”
Rachel laughed.
“That sounds terrible.”
“No.”
Liz smiled.
“It sounds human.”
And somehow, sitting in the familiar office with tea growing cold between her hands and the late afternoon sunlight stretching across the rug, Rachel realized she no longer felt like a woman trying desperately to heal.
She wasn’t solving herself.
She wasn’t reinventing herself.
She wasn’t earning happiness.
She was simply living.
And perhaps, after all this time, that was enough.
Or perhaps, she thought with a smile as Liz reached for her notebook and the session began to wind down, it was more than enough.
———
It started with tomatoes.
Which, Ben reflected, was perhaps not the sort of sentence most men imagined when they thought about falling in love.
But he was standing in the produce section on Thursday morning staring critically at two varieties of cherry tomatoes and wondering whether Rachel would prefer the sweeter ones for the salad she was making Saturday night, and somewhere between rejecting an alarming specimen and deciding that heirloom tomatoes had become unnecessarily expensive, he caught himself smiling.
Not because of the tomatoes.
Because he’d just thought we’re making Saturday night dinner.
Not Rachel is making dinner.
Not I’m bringing dinner.
Not even we’re having dinner.
We’re making dinner.
No.
He smiled to himself.
Apparently some habits died hard.
Because somewhere over the last month, his thoughts had quietly shifted. Not in dramatic ways. Nothing that would have startled anyone else. But little things. Ordinary things.
He saw an article about perennial herbs and wondered whether Rachel would want rosemary near the studio entrance next spring.
He passed a bookstore and made a mental note to pick up the novel she’d mentioned three weeks earlier.
He found himself looking at outdoor furniture and thinking about whether she’d prefer cushions or not.
Partnership.
The word arrived unexpectedly.
Not marriage.
Not forever.
Not even necessarily love, though he had long ago accepted that particular truth.
Partnership.
The sort that was built from ordinary things.
Coffee.
Grocery lists.
Shared calendars.
Knowing how the other person took their tea.
And perhaps because he had spent much of his adult life pursuing things people admired, it touched him deeply that what he wanted most now would have sounded unbearably boring to his younger self.
He wanted mornings.
Not exotic vacations.
Not grand adventures.
Mornings.