Chapter 6 Learning to Breathe Again #2
Ross leans back in his chair and his expression is genuinely surprised. Not the polite kind of surprised that people do when they're being social. Actually surprised.
"That's not a hobby most people have," he says.
"No it isn't. Most people look at me funny when I tell them I spent my Saturday stripping varnish off a seventy-year-old end table."
"Those people are wrong. That's a perfectly respectable way to spend a Saturday."
I laugh again. That's twice this week. Both times at work or because of someone connected to work. Both times unexpected and easy. Not forced. Not performed.
We talk for over an hour. The coffee gets cold and neither of us notices.
Ross tells me about the hiking trails north of town that he walks on weekends.
I tell him about my garden and the tomato plants that are finally starting to produce.
He asks about the history of Wildhorse and I tell him things he doesn't know because I've spent eight years reading the city's oldest records.
He tells me about preservation techniques and I ask questions because I'm genuinely interested and he can tell the difference between genuine interest and politeness.
He asks where I grew up. I tell him right here in Wildhorse.
Born and raised. My father was a high school math teacher and my mother was a school secretary and they lived in the same house on Ridgeland Avenue for their entire marriage.
He tells me he grew up in a smaller town called Millford about an hour north.
His mother passed away when he was in high school and his father raised him and his younger sister alone.
He says it casually. Not with heaviness or drama.
Just a fact from his life that he's comfortable sharing.
"My father passed away eleven years ago," I tell him. "Heart attack. He was fifty-eight."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you. He was a good man. Quiet. Patient. He liked crossword puzzles and baseball and teaching algebra to teenagers who didn't want to learn it."
"He sounds like someone worth knowing."
"He was."
The conversation shifts easily. No awkward pauses.
No long silences that need to be filled with small talk.
We talk the way two people talk when they're genuinely comfortable with each other and I realize that I haven't had a conversation this natural in years.
Not even with Kirk. Especially not with Kirk.
Talking to Kirk was always about navigating his mood.
Figuring out whether he was actually listening or just waiting for me to finish so he could talk about himself.
Choosing my words carefully so he wouldn't get defensive or dismissive.
This is different. This is just talking.
At one point he mentions his favorite antique store on Route 4. I know the one. It's called Morgan's and it's run by an elderly couple named Frank and Dorothy Morgan who have been in business for thirty years. I've bought half of my furniture restoration projects there.
"You know Morgan's?" he says.
"I've been going there for years. Frank sold me the side table I was telling you about."
"He sold me a rocking chair last fall. Oak. Missing one rocker. My dad and I carved a replacement from a matching piece of oak he had in the shop."
"That's incredible."
"My dad did most of the carving. I just sanded."
The conversation keeps going. It moves from antiques to gardening to local history to favorite places in town.
I learn that Ross likes cooking but hates baking because baking requires too much precision.
I tell him I'm the opposite. I love baking because the precision is satisfying.
He says we should agree to disagree and then smiles in a way that makes me realize I've been smiling for most of this conversation.
When we finally look at the time it's almost six thirty. The coffee shop is starting to thin out. I pick up my cold coffee and take one last sip.
"I should get home," I say. "I have a garden that needs watering."
"I should too. My dad's expecting a phone call tonight. We're planning this weekend's project."
"What is it?"
"An old cedar chest. Missing the hinges and the lid is warped. Should be interesting."
"Good luck with it."
"Thanks." He pauses. "Brook. I had a really good time. If you ever want to do this again just let me know. No pressure."
"I had a good time too. And yes. I'd like that."
He picks up both our empty mugs and carries them to the counter.
The barista thanks him by name. "Thanks, Ross.
See you next week?" Ross nods and holds the door open for me on the way out.
It's a small gesture. The kind of thing that shouldn't register.
But it does because I can't remember the last time Kirk held a door for me or cleared a table or thanked someone by name at a place he frequents.
Kirk moves through the world expecting it to accommodate him.
Ross moves through it with awareness of the people around him.
We walk out together. He heads left toward his car and I head right toward mine. The evening air is warm and the sky is that deep blue color it gets right before the sun drops behind the mountains. I sit in my car for a moment before starting the engine.
I feel something. It's not the giddy rush that comes with attraction even though there might be some of that underneath.
It's quieter. More steady. It's the feeling of having spent an hour and a half talking to someone who actually listened.
Who asked follow-up questions. Who didn't check his phone once the entire time.
Who shares my interests not because he's pretending to but because he genuinely cares about the same things I care about.
I drive home and water the garden and eat a sandwich and call Amanda.
"Tell me everything," she says.
"It was just coffee."
"Brook Walker. Tell me everything right now."
So I tell her. The conversation. The furniture restoration.
The hiking trails. The fact that he knows Morgan's Antique Store and that his father is a carpenter and that he offered me cream and sugar on the side because he didn't know how I take my coffee.
These are small things. Ordinary things.
But they matter because they show that someone was paying attention.
That someone cared enough to think ahead about a detail as minor as cream and sugar.
"I need you to hear me," Amanda says when I'm done.
"I am not telling you to rush into anything.
You are coming out of a nine-year relationship with a man who turned out to be a complete disaster.
But I am telling you that what you just described is what a decent person looks like. That's it. That's all I'm saying."
"I know."
"Okay. Now go to bed. You sound tired."
"I am tired."
"The good kind or the bad kind?"
I think about it. "The good kind."
"Good night, Brook."
"Good night."
I hang up and sit on the back patio for a few minutes before going inside.
The chair wobbles. The tomato plants are growing.
The air is still warm. For the first time in almost three weeks I'm not thinking about Kirk.
Not about the money. Not about Kallie. Not about the nine years I spent with someone who didn't deserve them.
I'm thinking about cedar chests and walnut tables and a man who carries cream and sugar just in case.