6. Owen
six
Owen
I wake up at five-thirty out of habit. It's still dark, barely, the room going the very pale grey of pre-dawn. She's asleep on her side, facing me, one hand tucked under her chin.
I stay still.
I watch her sleep for a few minutes, which is something I haven't done in ten years and which I'd forgotten is one of the small private pleasures of sharing a space with someone you care about.
She sleeps differently than she used to — more contained, less sprawled.
More like a woman who's learned to take up an efficient amount of space.
I realize that I was wrong. Not just about telling her to go. About everything I've been telling myself since. That she left because she wanted a different life. That Silver Ridge wasn't enough. That I was the one who stayed and that staying made me right.
She left because I let her. Because I said take it when I should have said stay, if you can, and I'll find a way to make it worth your while.
I get up at six, make coffee, sit at the kitchen table.
She comes out at seven in my flannel shirt. I don't say anything about that because I'm forty percent certain I'll say it wrong.
She pours herself a cup and sits down across from me and looks like someone who is preparing for a conversation they're not sure they want to have. She's quiet for a moment.
Outside, the morning is starting. I can hear the birds.
"Okay," she sighs. "Tell me what you want to say."
I take a breath. I've been sitting here for an hour partly because of this. The saying-it.
"I told you to go," I say. "I told you to take the job. And I've spent ten years calling that the right call. Telling myself I was respecting your choice. That it was what you needed."
She's watching me.
"It wasn't the right call," I say. "I was twenty-four and proud and I didn't know how to say stay without the job if you have to, and I'll come with you if I can, but I need you to know that I want you to stay. I didn't have the language for it. So I said the easier thing."
"You said what you thought was generous," she say.
I chuckle and shake my head. "I said it because I thought asking you to stay was the same as trapping you. That it was unfair to put that on you. But the real reason I didn't ask—" I stop. "I was afraid you'd say no. And I couldn't have that, so I made the choice for you."
She sets down her mug.
"I would have stayed," she says. "If you'd asked. Or I would have tried to make it work, or—" She stops. "I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe I would have gone anyway and we'd have the same outcome. But I wanted you to want me to stay. I needed that. And you let me leave without it."
"I know."
"And now?"
"Now," I say, "I'm asking. I'm asking what this is and I'm asking if you want to figure it out and I'm not telling you what to do with your life. But I'm not making the choice for you this time."
"My life is in Vancouver. My job, my apartment, my—"
"I know that."
"Owen, I can't just—"
"I'm not asking you to just do anything." I lean forward. "I'm asking if you want to try. That's it. I'm not asking you to decide what Silver Ridge means or what you want long-term. I'm asking if you're willing to try."
Outside the festival grounds are waking up. I can hear the first truck engines from here, the radio from the equipment shed. Day two of the competition. I should be over there by eight.
She looks at me for a long time. "I don't know what trying looks like," she admits.
"Neither do I. We’ll figure it out."
"That's—" A half-laugh, half-disbelief that her type-a planner mind has a hard time accepting. "That's terrifyingly unspecific."
"Yeah."
"What if it doesn't work anyway and we're just back where we started?"
"Then we're back where we started. At least we'll know."
She looks down at the mug, the coffee, the table. I watch her face and I let her think. I've gotten good at letting things be. After all, ten years working with timber teaches you that you can't force the grain, you have to work with it.
Finally she looks up. "Okay," she says.
"Okay you'll try?"
"Okay, I won't leave Saturday morning without figuring out what I'm agreeing to." She stands, takes her mug to the counter. "That's all I can give you right now."
"That's enough," I say.
I’ll take it. It's more than I had yesterday.