Chapter 39
The first Saturday of June I replace the windows with screens and take two comforters to the sleeping porch.
I light a fire, and it is perfect. Everyone is asleep and the preseason silence is broken only by frog song and the occasional barking dog.
I’ve washed, ironed, and rehung all the curtain panels.
It’s a breezy night and I light a candle by the bed and watch Fern dance in the corner.
The Goldbergs are watching Law & Order, and I can hear the faint hum of the theme song. I’m going into the fish house to bake a bunch of pies in the morning, so I reach for my phone to set my alarm. There’s a text from Stewart: Are you home?
I sit straight up in bed. What kind of a random question is that? Me: Yes, why? Is your messenger here again?
Stewart starts typing a reply and then stops. Then starts again, then stops.
Me: Calm down, Shakespeare. I was kidding
Stewart: I’m here, I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t want to ring the bell or scare you by creeping around back
Me: Why are you here?
Stewart: Can I just come back there for a bit? I want to apologize
Nearly a year later. A hand-delivered apology. Me: Fine
I look around for the mess I should stash or the better sweater I should throw on, but I find nothing wrong with this place or me. I’m in my nightgown, obviously short, so it doesn’t bunch up and drive me insane, under a heavy blue cardigan. I stay right where I am on the daybed and wait.
There’s that familiar rustling of shoes on unkempt grass and his hand on the door to the sleeping porch. The wood is all new but they kept the original knob.
“Hi,” he says from the doorway.
I don’t say anything. I just sit there and look at him, hair a bit longer, eyes a bit more rested. He’s in a black sweater and jeans. Of all the ways I’ve seen Stewart, I’ve never seen Stewart in jeans.
“So strange to see you here,” I say, because I can’t believe he’s here in my space.
He smiles a bit and looks around. “It looks great. Can I?” He motions to the spot next to me on the bed.
It’s too close, so I motion to the white wicker chair by the sewing machine.
He pulls it over by the bed and we’re still too close.
My heart has muscle memory and is breaking all over again.
I scoot a few inches back so I can’t smell him or feel any heat off his skin.
“Go ahead,” I say. “But no bullshit, okay?” I washed my hair this morning.
I wasn’t going to because we had a scallop delivery and there wasn’t time, but then I remembered Gus made pancake batter last night and I did have a few extra minutes.
If I were to say a prayer right now, it would be a prayer of thanks for that extra time and this good hair day.
I want Stewart to walk out of here filled with regret over his bad choices and my clean hair.
“So I lost the promotion,” he says.
“I know.”
“And it was my fault.” His hands are flat on his thighs like he’s steadying himself. “I lied to my family, everyone, to prove that they were wrong when they were right. I actually can’t do that job and have a normal life. It consumes me with fear.”
“So you’re going to work yourself to death and die lonely. Perfect plan.”
“No, I’m not. No.” He looks at his folded hands and back at me. “I’ve been working hard my whole adult life. Like it’s been my whole life, trying to do my best for my family and feeling terrified that I’d take my eye off the ball and screw it up.”
“I struck you out in Little League,” I say.
He scrunches up his face. “What?”
“Sorry, all that taking-your-eye-off-the-ball talk. It just reminded me. We were kids and I struck you out. It felt good, and I didn’t mention it when we were together because it’s sort of mean.
But now, I don’t know. Felt good to say it.
” It really did feel good. I smile at my hands and look back up at him. “Was there more to your apology?”
He shakes his head. “What I was going to say is that when I met you, I felt my focus shift, like everything shifted to you. And that job felt so much less important. For a little while, last summer, I was a person again, falling in love for the first time ever.”
That familiar pressure on my heart intensifies.
The ache is there because of this man who broke my heart but who is currently saying he fell in love with me, and I want to fold into his arms and run right out of here, in equal parts.
But I’m not falling for this again. “I said no bullshit, Stewart. Just apologize.”
He looks up at me. “I’m sorry.” His eyes are so intense on mine, like they have the power to drag me back under his duvet where he whispered to me about forever. “That night at the party, I felt like the world was crashing down on me, like I’d brought all the chaos.”
“Yeah, same,” I say.
“And I knew I was going to lose out on the job, which was a total loss of control. It turns out I have some identity issues.”
“Glad to hear you’re still in therapy,” I say, and he smiles a little.
“I am. I’ve been trying to get my shit together.”
I shake my head. “Come on.”
“It’s true. I told you I’d change the world to be with you,” he says, still looking straight at me. “But I don’t know how to do that. All I can do is change myself. So I’m working on it. I have Dr. Meyers and I’m watching TV. And you were right, Damion looks just like Smithers.”
I try to hide my smile. “I hear you watch rom-coms now.”
“I do. And I like them, but sometimes they make me feel sad and then I have to watch murder shows.”
I nod at him because I know exactly what he means. Happy people are fun to watch until it’s too much.
“I hired a management consultant to redefine my role. My dad’s idea, when I asked for help.
I hired Busy too. She’s doing great.” He looks down at his hands for a bit and then back at me.
“What I’ve come to realize is that I thought that job and being the person in charge, the person who steers the ship, was all I had to offer.
It goes back to when Busy was sick and I felt so powerless.
I decided I needed that power to keep things under control.
And that night at the Starlight Gala, when I knew the job wouldn’t be mine, that I wouldn’t be the one to step into my granddad’s shoes or my dad’s, I had this terrifying feeling like I didn’t know who I was.
And that’s what I’m working on, trying to know who I am without all that.
Because you were right, I didn’t really want that job.
I was just afraid of who I’d be if I didn’t have it. ”
“Good for you,” I say. “This is all good.”
“And he’s still a total asshole, but Grant’s actually great as CEO. It kills me to say it, but it’s also sort of a relief. I’m trying to figure out what kind of a role I can have at the firm that feels right.”
I’m happy for him. The next woman should send me flowers.
“How’s Christopher?” he asks after a while.
“Good,” I say, “Really good.”
“Good, good. And Gus seems good.”
I straighten up. “What? What do you mean?”
“We text. He said you said it was okay.” His eyes widen. “Oh no, is it not okay?”
I shake my head. “Sure, it’s okay. You mean about the sailing race. I totally forgot about that. He said he was going to ask you for help, but he never mentioned it again.”
“He did and now we text a few times a week. Is that okay? I thought you knew.”
“Can I see?” There’s a primal fear creeping up, the one where you think you know what your kid’s up to and then find out you totally don’t. We’re only in the first year of high school, and I should probably get used to this.
Stewart takes out his phone, opens the conversation, and scrolls to the top. He hands it to me.
Gus: Hi Stewart. Hope things are good in Boston. I want to apply to do the mini crew race next summer and I need a yacht club member to recommend me. Can you help?
Stewart: Hi! Of course! Can you email me the forms? I’ll do it right away
Gus: Sure, thank you
Two weeks later, Gus: Thanks for your help, I’ve got all the forms in
Stewart: Fingers crossed! You’ll love that race
A week later, Gus texts to say he was accepted, and they go back and forth about the course and how it’s going to be harder this year since they moved it to July.
Stewart sends Gus an article about how fiberglass boats are built, and they text about that for a while.
A month later Gus texts: Are they kidding with that new shortstop?
Pages of Red Sox chat follow. These conversations go on and on and I scroll through, now not reading but just taking in the volume and frequency of their interactions.
So many laughing and thumbs-up emojis. So many exclamation points.
It makes me so sad and also so happy. Gus got to keep the gentle man.
I hand his phone back. “You’ve been really kind to him, thank you.”
“When I hear from him, it’s usually the best part of my day.”
I nod. “Me too,” I say.
I don’t know why we’re still sitting here like this.
He’s apologized. There are no action items to move us forward, and it’s starting to hurt, having him this close.
Dr. Meyers is great at his job, and I’m glad Stewart is doing all this work.
But the ache in my heart is telling me that we can never be friends. My feelings run too deep.
“How’s your dad?” he asks.
“Great. Now are we done?”
“No. I don’t want to be done, Dolly. That’s the point.” He takes my hand, and I let him because I am a weak, weak woman. I just want to feel the way we entwine one more time, hands and limbs and sheets. Then I pull my hand away because all that intimacy burns. I was right that it feels too close.
He looks down at his hands and lets out a sigh. “I wanted to call you so many times. But I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t see past where I was to where I wanted to be.”
I’m not going to ask. I refuse to ask. No way. This is a total set up. Okay, fine. “And where do you want to be?”
“With you.”
My heart. It opens all the way back up because it’s weak and has amnesia. But I don’t say anything. So much power in silence.
He goes on. “I want to go back to last summer and tell you that I love you. And that running that company comes second to loving you. I want to tell you that I’d walk away, put the whole thing in Grant’s hands, to have a life with you.
I want to leave that stupid party in the same car and make sure you got home okay.
I think about it all the time—you walking away in that dress. I know I really hurt you.”
“You did,” I say.
“I know. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
I’m quiet. How can he not know what to do about it? I knew that he loved me. That’s what’s been so confusing. Like if you told me there was no gravity but I could still feel myself heavy on the earth.
I look up at him. “Just say what you want. Be specific. The more specific the better.”
He locks his eyes on mine, and I see the softness inside him for the first time in forever. I see Stewart on his boat, in my bed. “I want to spend as much time with you as possible, every day.”
“I want to trust you again,” I say.
“I want that too,” he says.
“It’s going to take time,” I say. “And I don’t know how much.”
“I know. And I’ll wait.” He places his hands on the arms of the wicker chair. “I’ll wait right here if you’ll let me.” He smiles at me, takes my hand again. “I love you. And not just in your kitchen.”
I smile at this, that he remembers. I scoot closer, toward the edge of the daybed.
He rests his forehead against mine and we sit like that, feeling what it is to be so close.
I breathe him in, salt and soap. I reach out and run my thumbs over the stubble on his jaw.
Stewart kisses me and I feel a slow release of tension from my shoulders.
There’s a soft wave of relief, like cool aloe on sunburned skin.
This kiss feels like a promise. It feels like he’s inviting me back into the place we used to share, but this time he’s handing me the keys.
“I love you, Dolly,” he says when I pull away. “Do you think you could love me again? If you did. I felt like you did.”
“Of course I did. You were there. You knew.”
“And now?”
I look over at the fire and at my curtains rustling with the breeze.
This is my perfect space, and now Stewart’s here, loving me.
“I can’t have you rolling in like this, handsome and openhearted, just for a little while.
I don’t love you in a way that can be paused or dialed back.
Trust me, I’ve tried. So if you’re here, yes, I still love you.
But if you’re just stopping by, yes, I still love you, but no, I won’t do this again. ”
A smile spreads across his face. It starts in his eyes and ends with that one dimple. I place my finger on it. I never thought I’d see it again.
“I’m not just stopping by. I want to be wherever you are. I want to pick you up from work tomorrow,” he says. “I want to look forward to it all day and then see you at four. Can I do that?”
“I want to watch The Simpsons with you,” I say.
“I want to take you to France.”
I laugh and kiss him again. “Okay. I want to learn to sail.”
“I want to teach you.” He rests his forehead on mine. “And I want to sail the big boat. With you and my whole family. Just once, to get it over with. Not very far, like to Nantucket. I feel like if you were there, I could do it.”
“I’m super helpful in a boating crisis,” I say.
We sit and look at each other, smiling. Stewart tucks my hair behind my ear. “If you let me love you, I’ll never leave you again. If I have to leave, I’ll take you with me.”