Chapter 16
Social pressure to read intellectual literature increases with age. If you dare to admit to choosing fiction, dear Lord, make sure it’s at least literary fiction. It’s as if you need to justify your reading choices by how complex the story is and how well it honors the craft of writing.
But I just can’t get me enough of Tris and Katniss.
Because I’m a closet young adult book fan, I can’t discuss with anyone the most irritating issue with those stories.
There seems to be a common love triangle theme between the damsel in distress—who is not really a damsel in distress because she’s so strong but she does need some help—and the two boys whose combined body fat is three percent.
I don’t want to disappoint the young women .
. . or thirty-six-year-old women . . . of America, but I’m not sure this scenario is realistic. On a couple of levels.
Still, Divergent and The Hunger Games sit in my DVR, waiting for the days I need to escape to a teenage dystopian world.
Before I married Steve, my dating life represented the who’s who of misfit toys. I was the queen of attracting the good-guy nerds who lack the chemistry they profess to know so much about. No hot vampires and werewolves fighting to the death for me.
Instead, my world is full of Stanleys.
Maybe Molly’s right. Maybe Stanley is a good option for me. Maybe women like me, with stories like mine, need to look for the good options in life.
Claire would hate that I’m thinking this way.
Even though we all grew up together, or maybe because we all grew up together, it’s her life goal to get Molly out of my head.
She was kind enough to drop the topic of my first kiss as a widow, but not without telling me over lunch that she was proud of me for taking a risk, something Molly would hate.
Still, can’t there be value in good options?
Good options that don’t include decreasing, erratic phone calls. Good options who aren’t distant, exhausted, and vague when they do call. Good options that don’t mention maybe reneging on their promise to come for Thanksgiving in a couple weeks. What was it he said on my voicemail yesterday?
“I don’t know how to tell you this. I really wish we could talk.
I am one hundred percent planning to be there on Thanksgiving.
One hundred percent. But something has come up that I don’t have any control over, and if it plays out a certain way, I might need to miss.
I hate this, Meredith. Please know that I hate this.
And please call me . . . I know. I know that I’m not around when you call, but that doesn’t mean .
. . Just call me. Take care of yourself. ”
What happened to the Harlan Holcombe I met in Colorado?
This morning, Stanley’s coming over to drop something off. Instead of looking forward to talking to my good option, I find myself checking for all the possible exit routes from my own home.
After I open my tall oak door, Stanley raises the Styrofoam cup he’s holding in greeting. “Hey.” As he shuffles by me into the house, he leans in for an awkward hug. His other hand grips a travel mug, and a book is tucked under his armpit.
Our touch is fleeting but ignites nausea. Are “good options” supposed to make you ill at the thought of kissing them?
“I brought you some coffee. Just the way you like it.” Shoving the cup in my direction, he loses his arm grip on the book and it falls.
“Oh, sorry.” As he picks it up, a slosh of his drink spills on my hardwood floor.
“Shoot.” He pulls the edge of his shirt up over his wrist and rubs the splattered liquid into the cuff of his plaid button-down.
Rather than help him, all I can do is stare.
My gut clenches as I realize I can’t be that person for him.
“How is your day?” the nicest man I will never date asks.
“Good. Thanks. Do you want to come in?” I gesture toward the living room.
Stanley, having been to this home many times over the years, enters and sits in a leather armchair. As I pass the coffee remnants on my hardwood, I rub my sock-clad toes over the spot.
He brushes his straight brown hair back and smiles. “I thought of you the other day.”
Oh, please, don’t have thought of me the other day.
I sit across from him in the corner of my couch, tucking my foot under the opposite leg.
“I found this.” He stretches his arm across the ottoman to hand me the paperback. “A friend of mine said it was helpful to him.”
I run my fingertips over the cover. The Gifts in Grief, by Person Who Hasn’t Lost Their Husband and Two Children.
What I want to say is “Thank you, but have you read Divergent? Lots of people die in that book, but it’s more entertaining.” Instead, I quiet my inner child. “How thoughtful. Thank you, Stanley.”
“I was kind of thinking we could . . . read it together?” He mumbles the question to his hands.
“Oh.” I shift forward, trying to squash the twinge of guilt that runs through me for not asking Stanley about his life. “We haven’t caught up in a while. Are you dealing with a loss?”
He snaps his head up, his brow furrowed. “No.”
I blink.
“Meredith.” He rubs his hands together. “I-I’d like to spend more time with you. If you would like that.”
Over the years, Stanley has checked on me, left me thoughtful gifts, and taken care to know my goings-on. Sometimes I want to joke that being the best man only applied to the wedding, but I think that brand of candor would crush him.
I pull a striped, square decorative pillow into my lap. “Thank you, Stanley. That’s kind of you.” I hate this. “But if I said yes, I worry I would be leading you on.”
“I don’t mean we would be dating. I just thought—” He exhales a breath of frustration.
“I mean, I know, Meredith. I know we have a connection and maybe it’s—maybe we should look at it.
” He leans forward, his intense gaze shooting my way.
“I was there, Meredith. That day. I was there.” He points to his chest. “And that has to count for something. I loved you through that . . . and . . . and I think I love you more than friends now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.
That day.
A couple of months after the accident, I had a meltdown. My world was filled with a silence so loud, it brought me to my knees. Depression was like a sticky fog that rolled into my life and refused to let go.
Underneath the unfathomable and gut-wrenching sadness, a potent anger infiltrated my every fiber with admirable stealth.
Yes, I was angry at the loss, but I was irate with the people around me.
Well-intentioned friends visited my home, and I was a sitting duck for everyone’s opinion.
Many of them wanted to somehow quantify the tragedy so it would make sense in their human brains.
I was accosted by kind words full of messed-up platitudes that felt wounding to me.
Out of self-protection, I started hating people and withdrawing from my life.
I wasn’t trying to harm myself. I simply didn’t want to exist. So I stopped eating, ignored self-care, and wouldn’t answer my phone or door.
My loved ones recognized the suicide attempt I didn’t understand.
One day, my family showed up to perform an intervention. Accompanied by a nurse and a representative from a recovery facility in Arizona, they made it clear I was leaving for inpatient care after our discussion.
Unfortunately, Stanley arrived at my house unannounced right as my panic over leaving turned to righteous fury.
When I saw him, I thought he was part of the family meeting. I seethed with pain, assaulting everyone around me with malicious words. To his dismay, this included an unprepared and innocent Stanley.
Someone removed me from the house. I remember a lot of arms and straps. An injection of some sort. Screaming. Then relief.
And I remember the broken expression, full of anguish, on Stanley’s face.
So what I am hearing from him in this moment about how he loves me in spite of that day causes my heart to fracture. What kind of a beautiful person can still want to be with me after such destruction?
“Stanley, you’ve been a valuable friend.” I tug at the fringe on the pillow. “I’m overwhelmed by your commitment to me. Especially after what I said to you that day.” A tear slips down my cheek, and I wipe it away. “I will always be so thankful for your grace.”
Seeing the pools that form in his eyes causes an ache in my chest.
“But I am so sorry. I’m not interested in you in a romantic way.” I bite my lip to hold back more tears. “You are a treasure and such a genuinely good person. Thank you for loving me. I’m just so sorry I don’t return your feelings.”
He scoots to the edge of the chair, his fists clenched. “How do you know, Meredith? Shouldn’t we at least try?”
On an inhale, I grasp at my resolve. “Because I met someone who is also a treasure and a genuinely good person.” I offer an apologetic half smile. “Only my feelings for him are different.”
What am I doing? Am I channeling my inner teenage girl who likes the handsome man who might never speak to her again? Those stupid YA trilogies are messing with my ability to be logical. As I silently curse Peeta and Four, I lock my gaze with Stanley’s.
I have just kicked a puppy.
Standing, he turns to the fireplace. “What do you mean? Who?” He shakes his head and faces me. “Your trip to Colorado. Let me get this straight. I wait for years. For you. You finally decide you’re ready, and I miss it by a few weeks?” Crimson anger flushes his cheeks.
“Stanley, I—”
He holds up his hand. “Can he take care of you? How will he know how to help you? Or what you need?” His arms open wide as his voice rises. “I’ve known you for years, Meredith. That has to count for something.”
An unexpected wave of reality sweeps over me. Stanley has known me for years, but he doesn’t know me at all.
“Your feelings are honorable, but I think they’re misplaced.” I whisper my words to soften the blow. “I don’t need to be rescued anymore.”
His head jerks back. “Tell me who.” The quiet, controlled order drips with torment.
“I’m not sure it matters who. More than likely, it won’t go anywhere.” I clutch the pillow tighter to my stomach. “But I think it matters that I can tell a difference. And I am so sorry.”
Stanley’s cheek twitches, and he nods. He stares at me for another miserable few seconds. “Well, then.” Looking around the room, he pulls his keys from his pocket. “I should let you go.”
We walk to the entryway, and I unlock the door and hold it open.
As he steps onto the porch, he turns and glances over his shoulder. “Take care, Meredith.”
Claws of guilt grab my chest. “I’m sorry we lost them.” My voice cracks. “I’m sorry you lost Steve.”
The sound escaping his mouth is a cross between a scoff and guttural pain. He cranes his neck and focuses on the sky. “Now it feels like I’ve lost yet another friend.”
And on that painful note, my grip on the door is the only thing that keeps me upright as I watch him drive away.
A few hours later, I’m still reeling.
Everything’s wrong. My top three coping mechanisms didn’t work.
First, I took a walk and gained nothing but an opportunity to think about what just happened.
Second, until I choose to acknowledge Harlan to those around me, talking with Molly or Claire isn’t an option.
And third, this one possibly being the worst, my long-term companion, chocolate, failed me.
I grab the remote and search on my DVR for my last-ditch effort to find comfort.
Help me, Katniss. I just shot an innocent victim with my bow and arrow.