19. Elizabeth
Nineteen
Elizabeth
I realize that all the things I bought online will of course not be arriving today in time for my date with Kellen in eight hours.
I groan, realizing I’m going to have to go shopping again.
I know I just told him we have to take things slowly and there’s no earthly reason to suspect he might be anywhere near my underwear, but the thought of going on a date in my current sagging stash of lingerie makes me shudder.
Somewhere in the past decade, I slipped into my mother’s worst nightmare: I have nothing but gray, threadbare bras and panties with withered seams. “Jake,” I shout down the hall. “Do you need anything at the mall, babe? I need to buy some things.”
“Ugh, I hate shopping,” he groans. “I’m supposed to be online today with Mitchell.”
“I didn’t say you had to come along. I asked if you need anything.”
By the time I get out of the house with his list I’m confident the stores will at least be open.
I decide that purchasing these things has very little to do with Kellen, actually.
Even if he doesn’t end up seeing the pretty lace underthings, I am buying them as an act of self care.
I care enough about myself to buy bras without the wires bursting through the fabric, to buy underwear that wouldn’t bring me shame if the paramedics ever had to cut them off my unconscious body.
While I’m in the department store searching for the undershirts Jake likes, with no tags or raised seams, I decide to splurge on a long dress for myself and a bra/panty set for tonight.
The dress, a flowing black maxi with an asymmetrical neckline, covers the walking boot.
The new bra hoists up my bust so I can barely tell that it sags practically to my navel.
I stare at myself in the full length mirror for a long time, accepting that I don’t look a thing like the frumpy, flustered mom I’ve felt for the past decade plus.
“I look so good,” I say out loud, realizing that I’m still Jake’s mom, and so much more. I’m the woman who stood up for herself, the advocate who stands up for her son. “And I’m the woman going out on a date with a sexy man tonight,” I mutter, bagging everything up and heading to the checkout.
My parents are delighted at the opportunity to have Jake over to their house, and Dad even pipes in that he’s going to drive the two of them over to some sort of event at the board game store.
“That sounds perfect, Dad,” I tell him. I expected Jake to resist when I told him he’s going to his grandparents’ house, but he surprised me by asking if he can go down there immediately rather than wait until 4pm.
“Well, I can’t see why not,” I start to say, staring at him.
This isn’t the sort of day I’m used to having, where an attractive, kind man brings me coffee, asks me to dinner, childcare appears, and my usually-rigid son rolls with the punches.
I feel myself holding my breath, waiting for the catch.
We are not “loose plans” people. As I return from my unplanned errand, my body waits for the meltdown or the call from someone that will throw everything into a tailspin.
I’m so used to planning for the worst and feeling relief at any scrap of a nice time. It actually feels a bit unsettling to arrive home to a pleasant kid, a house that’s not on fire, no trace of a meltdown in sight.
Instead, Jake tells me, “I want to use Granddad’s account to get another copy of the Roblox promo skin.”
“Another copy? What?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “There’s a free promotion through our cell phone service. I’m going to ask Granddad if I can have his code, too. Can I go now? I’ll walk.”
He tosses on a hoodie and heads for the door without glancing back at me.
“Text me when you get there,” I shout to his back, but he’s off.
I want to chase after him, to make sure he knows the way without getting lost, even though of course he knows.
He probably knows exactly how many sidewalk squares he’ll cross between our two houses.
And he’s determined to go now. There’s evidently some sort of free video game code and his body is drawn to it like a beacon.
When he’s gone, I take in the stillness in the house, how it doesn’t feel oppressive or frightening. It just feels content.
When Kellen rings my bell a few hours later, I’m more relaxed than I’ve felt in years.
I spent hours alone, reading a romance novel that made me blush.
So this is what it’s like, I think, marveling at how quickly I feel like a goddess, how little down time it takes to help me feel like my lungs fully expand.
I’m so used to being on, so used to being fully attuned to Jake’s specific needs.
Is it possible that all of the therapies are kicking in?
That he’s navigating the world with less assistance?
Did I not notice things getting easier before the move or has it really been this sudden? “Beth?” I hear Kellen’s voice on the other side of the door and realize I’m standing in my hall, talking to myself.
I pull open the front door and the sight of him takes my breath away. He’s standing there looking unbelievably sexy in dark jeans, a button down shirt, and a blazer. And he’s holding flowers. I literally swoon, sagging against the door frame. “Kellen,” I breathe.
His jaw works up and down as he stares at me, and I smile when he says, “I feel the same way. You look breathtaking, Elizabeth.”
We stare at one another for a few beats and then I reach for the flowers. “Let me put these in water,” I say, hobbling to the kitchen and plunking the flowers in an empty water glass I pull from the sink. I don’t have a vase, but I can’t find it in me to care.
I get to go out with this man, looking like this, looking at me like that. He reaches for my hand and we walk back across the street to get in his car. “How do you like mussels,” he asks. I melt into his interior.
“My favorite.”
“I normally walk to Park Bruges,” Kellen says, putting his arm around my seat as he backs out of the driveway.
I’m immediately taken back to 30 years ago when I used to swoon when he’d do this, driving us somewhere in his parents’ car.
It gives me comfort to know that some things like this don’t change, even when people have lived a lot of years of a lot of struggle and change.
“Next time we’ll walk,” I tell him. “When our old feet are up to it.”
It’s less than a mile drive, and Kellen is able to find a parking spot near the restaurant.
It’s early enough that there’s no crowd inside the sunny little cafe.
“I’ve never eaten here before,” I tell him.
“I’ve heard of it, though.” The restaurant is famous for their Belgian beers, their fries and their mussels.
Kellen slinks an arm around my waist, drawing me out of the way as an employee rushes past with a hand truck holding two barrels.
“Careful now,” he says, his breath tickling my neck. “We’re here at the same time the food’s getting delivered.”
I shrug. “It’ll just taste that much fresher, right?”