48. Forty-eight
In our first weeks home, the kids and I find a new rhythm together. One where we sit around a table every night, with food I cook, and laugh about the day. Finn talks (talks!) about his life, including the fact that Abby has a new boyfriend, no surprise to Marin, without any of the resentment he had for me just months before.
Our trip forms a line of demarcation in our relationship that marks the us before and after.
The me before and after.
“So, I wanted to talk to you guys about something I’ve been thinking about. You know I love making drinks and Grandpa’s bar, but lately, I’ve been wondering if I want to do something different,” I say one night over dinner. I take a long sip of water and note Marin’s saucer-sized eyes.
“When we were in Maine, and I went in and helped Ethan clean up his mess that first night, it was fun—a challenge. Different from what I do every day here. The idea of helping bar owners turn their business into something uniquely well-oiled might be a fun change for me. And with you guys getting older and getting ready to figure things out without me, I wondered if maybe I should give it a try.”
I puff my cheeks up with air and wait.
“Mom, that’s amazing! You would be so great at that. Maybe you could have one of those reality TV shows where you go in and yell at everyone until they get it together.” Marin rubs her palms together maniacally. “Ohh! Or meet Gordon Ramsey!”
“God, your dad loved his show,” I say, the words rolling off my tongue effortlessly and with a laugh. No wince, no dreaded prick behind my eyes, just a fond memory.
Marin snorts. “And always did a bad British accent when he watched.”
“Remember that time he tried to make one of his recipes, and the oven caught on fire?” Finn shakes his head. “Lamb, right?”
I nod, nobody else saying anything as we look off in silence for a beat, reliving that ridiculous night of cooking.
“Anyway, what do you think, Finn? About consulting?”
Finn laughs. “Grandpa’s going to flip.”
I shake my head and watch the familiar wide leaves rustle in the breeze.
“I actually told him already, and there was no flipping. Plus, it’s just a silly idea now. I’ve emailed a couple of my connections and lined up some trial consults. Then I guess we’ll see what comes of it. I’ll still be working at Grandpa’s, at least part-time.”
Marin’s phone is out before I can finish my sentence. She swipes across the screen, typing at warp speed.
“Not silly, Penelope. Let’s get you on social media.”
***
In the middle of August, I drive up to the market in Homestead, a place I’d avoided since Travis died.
I stand at the entrance and freeze. The last steps—the ones that will take me into the bustling scene—feel almost impossible.
Somehow, I take them. I take them and don’t bother to hide the way I, a forty-one-year-old woman, have tears running down her cheeks while smiling proudly because she’s standing in the middle of a crowded market.
The sounds, smells, and tastes are all the same, like nineteen months haven’t passed. Like it’s just been standing here waiting for me to come back all along.
As much as I’m standing here in the middle of the crowd with bags of produce, I miss Ethan. I think of our date at the night market and the way he slipped his fingers through mine. With my eyes closed in the scorching heat in the middle of the crowd outside of Miami, I can almost taste the wine in the plastic cup and hear the bluesy music playing in the cool Maine air.
Without giving myself time to change my mind, I pull my phone out.
Me:Hi.
I bite my lip in the seconds that feel like an eternity it takes for him to respond.
Ethan:Hi.
I smile and snap a picture of one of the tables covered in peaches, then send it to him.
Me: Peaches are in season.
Ethan:What are you going to do with them?
Me:Something with rum.
Ethan:You went to a market.
Me: I went to a market.
My thumbs buzz to type more, but I don’t.
I slide my phone back into my pocket right before I buy a bag of peaches.
That night, after several experiments, the peach mojito becomes the specialty drink for the rest of August. Pride swells as I write it in big loopy letters on the board with colorful chalk.
Proof that I had more living left to do.