Chapter 8 Choosing Happiness #2
Kirk used to suggest splitting everything. Even after nine years together. Even on my birthday once. He'd pull out his phone and calculate his share down to the cent. I told myself it was just his personality. That some people are careful with money. Now I know where that carefulness actually went.
We sit on a bench near the music stage and eat while the bluegrass band plays. The music is good. Lively and warm. A few people are dancing in the grass near the stage. Children are chasing each other between the tents. The sky is clear and blue and the air smells like barbecue and fresh-cut grass.
I realize I'm relaxed. Completely relaxed.
Not performing relaxation. Not pretending to have a good time while part of my brain runs through a list of worries.
I'm just here. In this moment. Eating a pulled pork sandwich next to a man who collects hand-carved boxes and restores old books and remembers to bring cream and sugar just in case.
We talk about everything and nothing. He tells me about the time his father built an entire bookshelf system for the local library as a volunteer project.
I tell him about the time I found a century-old love letter tucked inside a property deed at City Hall.
He asks me what the letter said. I tell him it was from a man to a woman thanking her for agreeing to marry him.
It was written on the same day the property was purchased.
He bought the land and proposed on the same afternoon.
"That might be the most romantic thing I've ever heard," Ross says.
"I framed a copy of it. It's in my office at City Hall."
"I need to see it."
"Come by anytime."
After lunch we visit a few more booths. Ross buys a set of old woodworking chisels from a vendor who specializes in vintage hand tools.
I buy a small ceramic planter from a local potter and a bundle of dried lavender from a soap maker.
We carry our finds in paper bags and walk slowly through the remaining exhibits.
The afternoon stretches out comfortably.
We don't rush. We don't check the time. We just move through the festival at whatever pace feels right.
Occasionally our shoulders brush when we lean in to look at something together.
Occasionally his hand finds the small of my back when he guides me through a crowded area.
Small touches. Brief. Natural. The kind that happen between two people who are becoming comfortable with each other's physical presence.
Around four o'clock the festival starts winding down. Vendors begin packing up their tables. The bluegrass band plays one last song. The crowd thins out as families head home. Ross and I walk back toward the parking area.
"I need to pack up the preservation tent," he says. "But can I walk you to your car first?"
"Sure."
We walk across the grass to the parking lot. My car is near the entrance. I unlock it and put my bags on the passenger seat and turn back to face him.
"Thank you for today," I say. "I had a really wonderful time."
"So did I. More than I expected actually."
"What did you expect?"
He thinks about it. "I expected to enjoy spending time with you. Which I did. I just didn't expect it to feel this easy."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just look at him.
He's standing about two feet away. The late afternoon sun is behind him and his eyes are warm behind his glasses.
He has a paper bag of vintage chisels in one hand and a cherry wood box in the other and he's looking at me with an expression that I recognize because I haven't seen it in so long that I'd almost forgotten what it looked like.
"Can I drive you home?" he asks. "I'll come back for the tent later."
"I have my car."
"Right." He laughs a little. "I'll follow you then. If that's okay."
"That's okay."
He follows me home in his truck. I pull into my driveway and he parks on the street. I don't invite him in because I'm not ready for that yet and I think he knows it. Instead we stand on my front porch with our bags and our purchases and the quiet settling around us.
"I should go," he says. "The tent won't pack itself."
"No it won't."
He sets down the bag and the box on the porch railing. Then he steps closer. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just a step.
"Brook."
"Yes?"
He puts one hand on the side of my face very gently and he kisses me. It's soft and brief and unhurried. When he pulls back he doesn't apologize or explain or ask if it was okay. He just looks at me and waits.
"That was nice," I say. Because it was.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He picks up his bag and his box and smiles. "Good night, Brook."
"Good night, Ross."
He walks to his truck and drives away. I stand on the porch for a long time after his taillights disappear.
The neighborhood is quiet. Down the street Mrs. Peterson is watering her lawn.
A kid rides a bicycle past my house and the tires make that soft whirring sound on the pavement.
Everything is ordinary and familiar and unchanged.
But I feel different standing here than I did when I left this morning.
I touch my lips with my fingers. Not dramatically. Not like someone in a movie. Just checking. Making sure it happened. It did.
I go inside and call Amanda. She answers before the first ring finishes.
"Tell me everything."
I tell her about the festival. The preservation tent. The antique vendors. The bluegrass band. The pulled pork sandwich. The cherry wood box from Millford. Dr. Martin Cole's talk about the founding families. The lunch. The afternoon. All of it leading up to the porch.
"And then he kissed me."
Amanda screams. Actually screams. I hold the phone away from my ear.
"Amanda."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just. Brook. He kissed you."
"He kissed me."
"On the porch."
"On the porch."
"After a day of antiques and history and pulled pork."
"That is an accurate summary."
"This is the most romantic thing that has ever happened to anyone I know and I'm including my own wedding."
"It was just a kiss."
"It was not just a kiss. It was the first kiss of the rest of your life and I am so happy I could cry."
"Please don't cry."
"Too late. I'm already crying. These are happy tears. Let me have this."
I sit on the couch and listen to Amanda collect herself. When she stops sniffling she asks me the question I've been asking myself since it happened.
"How did it feel?"
I think about it carefully. "It felt right. Not exciting in the way things used to feel exciting when I was younger. Not dramatic. Just right. Calm and right."
"That's because it is right. That's exactly what the right thing is supposed to feel like." My bags are sitting on the railing next to where his cherry wood box was a moment ago. The evening is warm and quiet.
Something has shifted. Not suddenly. Not dramatically.
Slowly and steadily over the past several weeks through coffee and sandpaper and old documents and a pulled pork sandwich at a history festival.
Something has been building between us and now it has a name even if I'm not ready to say it out loud yet.
I go inside and put the ceramic planter on the kitchen windowsill and hang the dried lavender above the back door. Then I sit on the garden bench on the patio. The oak is smooth and warm under my hands. The joints are solid. The finish is clean.
I built this bench. With help from someone who respects my work and shares my interests and kisses me on porches without expecting anything in return.
I sit there until the stars come out and I think about what I want. Not what Kirk wanted. Not what I spent nine years settling for. What I actually want. And for the first time in longer than I can remember the answer isn't complicated.
I want this. Whatever this is becoming.
I want to find out.