Chapter 20 Then #2
Maybe it’s the whisper of change in seasons that’s turned me pensive, but ever since we were at the playground this morning, I’ve been thinking about this summer.
While Alex and Mia and I soaked up this sunshiny almost-fall day, filled with her bubbly laughter, the wind in my hair, kicking a soccer ball in their backyard, reading books with Mia while Alex cooked, then tucking her in, I kept thinking, I feel such a comforting happiness when I’m with Alex.
I needed this gentle summer, when so much else was abrasively painful: divorcing, moving out of my home, saying goodbye to Lauren. And I’m grateful for what my gentle summer with Alex gave me.
But I also know this isn’t real life.
With the exception of the infamous, near-death experience of our bike-ride race, Alex and I have insulated ourselves from our exes, from the bigger picture of what brought us together, steered our conversations clear of the topic of our divorces, when the fact is our exes are still here, weaving in and out of our lives.
In conversations about plans and logistics for Mia, handoff and pickup days for Argos.
In unexpected moments, because I swear there’s something about this city that keeps wrenching people from your past onto your path, when, either alone or together, we’ve spotted Ethan or Jen or Ethan and Jen, and it’s been a bucket of ice water dousing me head to toe, every time.
I’ve been rereading some of my middle-grade favorites the past few weeks, most of them Karen Cushman titles—The Ballad of Lucy Whipple; The Midwife’s Apprentice; Catherine, Called Birdy.
Stories of young girls on the cusp of womanhood, not fully on their own, physically, at least, but very much on their own within themselves, thrust into often harsh, daunting circumstances.
I loved those stories when I was younger, because they felt true.
Because I often felt alone even when I wasn’t, and there was something inspiring about their courage; they didn’t try to deny what they were up against, more or less entirely on their own, and they didn’t buckle, either.
They faced it, leaned into it, stretched, and grew.
I know why I’ve been rereading them. Not for nostalgia, but for the reminder. That’s who I wanted to be when I grew up—a brave, resilient woman who forged a life of her own.
But somewhere along the way, I lost sight of that want. Or maybe I stopped fighting for it. I let Ethan’s want be the louder one, the want that steered my path. Then I met Lauren, when I was so lost and she was so sure, and I often piggybacked on her wants.
Now, I have Alex. And Mia. And it’s so tempting, the thought of throwing myself into their life, telling myself it’s some platonic-version redemption of the story I’d wanted with Ethan.
A man in my life who’s kind and playful and cooks before I do the dishes, a sweet little girl to tuck in at night, a deck of cards and a bottle of wine between the two of us, after she’s fallen asleep.
Rereading those books, I’ve been reminded that while that path is tempting, it isn’t what I want—to keep turning to someone else’s wants to guide me, rather than search myself for those answers, even if I’m not sure yet what that want is.
I still have a lot to figure out, but I know this: I want to stretch and grow. I want a life that isn’t a rebound from the shattered one I had with Ethan or a replacement for the one that plugged into Lauren’s.
I want a life that feels new, and strong, and true to me, built from the foundation of what I want. A life that’s mine.
Possibilities flash in front me, all the things I could learn, try, do on my own; the ways I could make myself bigger, like Lauren said.
As I look at Alex, one clear idea pops into my mind.
“Would you teach me how to cook?” I blurt.
Alex lifts a card from the middle of his hand, moving it to the end, unphased by my outburst. “Sure,” he says.
Sure. Just like that. Like I asked if it’s September. If it’s Friday. No hesitation.
I never tried to ask Ethan if he’d teach me.
I knew, if I did, he’d laugh, or worse, if he did say yes and try, it would have turned out like it did when I was younger, with my mom—strained patience, taking over the moment I messed up or lost focus, far away in my vivid imagination, interrupting with questions that only elicited a weary sigh.
Thea knew she could be hasty when doing tasks.
And while she’d learned not to interrupt with questions, she was still insatiably curious.
She struggled to follow directions that weren’t written down, and even then she had to reread them.
She always managed to keep up with life’s logistics—homework and soccer practice and piano lessons as a kid, the bills and the laundry and the doctor appointments as an adult—but it was never easy, and sometimes she let things go too long because she couldn’t figure out which task to start, when her brain felt so loud and dizzyingly noisy.
And even when she’d done it all well, it was exhausting, a tenuous juggling act riddled with anxiety, teeth-clenched, dreading the moment she’d finally drop a ball.
She grew up observing those idiosyncrasies frustrate her already impatient mother, then, later on, irking her husband who’d turn sharp and short.
Trying to love the people she was supposed to love best, trying to please them, she learned to make herself small as a girl and as a woman to stay that way.
Being her full self only led to hurting and being hurt.
Now she’d begun to think, that hurting and being hurt had happened because she’d tried to do a good thing in a bad way, in a way that cost Thea her true self.
Now she had a promise to keep—to Lauren and, more importantly, to herself.
She was going to be big, to learn to love herself, to learn from and love only people who wanted all of her.
People like Alex.
“You daydream a lot,” Alex says. “Don’t you?”
I blink, snapped from my thoughts. A blush creeps up my cheeks. “It’s a bad habit,” I tell him.
Alex shakes his head, a soft grin tugging up the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think so. Not when it makes you smile like that.”
Setting my hand on my warm cheek, I feel the truth in what Alex said. I am smiling.
Even so, I feel vulnerable, exposed, asking Alex for what I have. To learn from him. To make mistakes in front of him. To trust him to be patient with me while I do.
“You really want to teach me to cook?”
His grin deepens. “I’d love to teach you to cook.”
My heart trips, then warms. “Just the fundamentals,” I tell him.
“Nothing extensive or demanding. We can keep it to basics, so I won’t take up too much of your time.
Doesn’t even need to be lessons, really.
We could just do it when we’re hanging out and you’re cooking meals.
I can be your sous, learn from working beside you. ”
Alex holds my eyes. “We could do it when we’re hanging out and putting together meals, sure. But I’d also be happy to make dedicated time for it.”
Butterflies race through my stomach. “I realize this is like asking Lisa Leslie to teach me how to shoot layups.”
“That flattery”—he says, eyes back on his cards—“will get you somewhere.”
I laugh. “What can I do to… I don’t know, compensate you for cooking lessons? Babysit Mia? Be your scullery maid?”
“You already are my scullery maid,” he says mildly, his mouth tipping at the corner. He’s teasing. It makes me smile.
“I do the dishes after you cook for me, that is not being your scullery maid. I’m serious Alex, what can I do, to return the favor?”
His gaze slides up again and locks with mine. He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Would you read to me, sometimes, when I’m cooking, maybe, or when we’re just… hanging out?”
My heart sprouts wings, beating wildly in my chest. “Sure. What kind of books?”
“Ideally,” he says, “the books you love and think I’d love. Or not. It can be whatever you want. Nothing extensive or demanding, though, so I don’t take up too much of your time.”
I sigh. “Message received. I cheapened it by making it transactional. And I made it sound like I’d be twisting your arm.”
“Bingo.” He sets down his cards.
“Actually, we’re playing euchre.”
He gives me a quelling look.
As I bring my cards up to hide my face, his deep belly laugh echoes in the kitchen.
Alex curls his fingers around my cards, lowering them, then setting them gently face down on the table. He’s close, leaning in on his elbows. His warm spicy scent washes over me.
I take him in for a moment, my eyes traveling his body because I can’t help it.
He’s in another old T-shirt, heather gray with a vintage Penguins Hockey logo across the chest, hints of skin peeking through where it’s so threadbare it’s almost sheer.
He’s slightly sunburned on the bridge of his twice-broken nose, on the tops of his cheekbones above the shadow of his stubble. His eyes are deep, midnight blue.
“I think,” he begins, “that you know me well enough by now to believe me when I say, I won’t tell you I want to do something if I don’t want to do it. And I want you to be just as honest with me, Ted.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I am.” And I mean it, which feels… strange. And good.
I always thought holding in the truth, when I knew it might bristle or challenge, was an act of protective care for the person you loved, for your relationship.
I’m starting to understand it actually did the opposite.
Because a lie of omission is still a lie, words empty of true meaning.
And empty words are flimsy things on which to build a relationship.
What I thought threatened love is actually what shores it up most.
“You promise?” he says.
“I’ve been honest with you, and I’ll keep doing that. Promise.”
Eyes on his cards, he smiles. “Good. Now, let’s play some cards.”