Chapter 3 #2
“Fine,” I relented. “But if you decide you don’t want to play this particular game anymore, you need to tell me.
” I widened my eyes meaningfully at William.
It seemed William’s way of coping with Sam’s death was to turn Lucy into a tennis player.
As soon as she’d been able to sit up on her own, William had started rolling balls back and forth with her.
Then came the balloons to bop around, then her first racquet, and then Sam’s first coach, Martin, started dropping by for private lessons after her third birthday to “avoid bad habits from the get-go.” I was hard-pressed to imagine what bad habits a three-year-old could possibly develop.
In a not-so-subtle attempt to change the subject, Rebecca clinked her glass with her knife. “It’s Friday-night dinner, you know the drill.” She smiled at Lucy. “Two roses and a thorn. You start.”
Lucy nodded and dove in. “One rose: I played princesses with Ashley today. Two rose: swimming after tennis! Thorn, hmm.” She looked up at the ceiling and tried to come up with something, which I took as the sign of a happy little girl living a happy life. “I got it! Thorn: eating with this hand.”
“You’ll get used to it, sweetheart. One day you’ll see Grandpa is right about this,” Rebecca said to Lucy while slipping William an affectionate grin.
Though Sam had been laid-back in some respects, he was also good at standing his ground on things that mattered deeply to him.
If he were here, he would probably push back on this ambidexterity crusade.
Recently, I’d been wondering if I should ask William to dial back the tennis.
But they weren’t my parents. They’d been so incredibly generous through these challenging years, so I bit my lip.
“Nothing like a left-handed ace to take your opponent by surprise,” William said, winking at Lucy.
“Your turn, Mommy,” Lucy said.
This time it was me who was happy to change the subject.
“Hmm, let’s see. First rose: going to the comedy show with Frannie last Saturday night.
Thanks again for babysitting.” There’d been no comedy show.
After months of Frannie’s relentless nagging about needing to get on with my life, I’d finally let her set me up on a date.
I’d been hesitant about dipping my toe back in the dating pool, but I was definitely ready for Frannie to shut up about that particular topic.
And I had to admit, at least to myself, that she did have a point.
I wasn’t even thirty yet. It was at least a few decades premature to call it on the sex-and-romance front.
But a date, no matter how casual, was a huge deal for me, and not only because my self-confidence had been obliterated by Sam’s death, but also because Sam was my first and only boyfriend.
My first and only everything. We’d met during our sophomore year of college.
I was working as a tutor for the athletic department.
In my experience up to that point, most athletes thought “tutor” was code for either an easy hookup or some chick who was going to write their papers.
Not Sam. Yes, he needed a lot of help with his writing, but he was a willing student.
I was almost instantly attracted to his .
. . work ethic. And his curious mind. And his forearms. And his strong legs.
I couldn’t stop talking about him to Frannie, but I worried that a relationship with him might constitute some form of sexual harassment because of the power imbalance.
I mean, I understood subject-verb agreement and he didn’t.
Frannie took it upon herself to look up the men’s tennis schedule, and we became fans until the semester ended and Sam mastered writing a topic sentence. Then he asked me out on a real date.
But now it felt all kinds of weird to tell Rebecca and William that I was going on a date, so Frannie and I had invented a harmless cover story.
Ironically, I’d spent most of the evening wishing I were actually at a comedy show with Frannie.
It would have been far more entertaining.
Instead, I’d had dinner with a guy who referred to both me and our server as “bruh” the whole night.
But his worst offense was that he wasn’t Sam.
Followed by the fact that he was boring.
Sam had spent most of his childhood traveling across the country to tennis tournaments, and his parents had made a point to see one interesting thing in every city, which had ignited an interest in American history, politics, and current events.
He was an engaging conversationalist who was also curious about everyone and everything, and listened at least as much as he talked.
Unlike my dull dinner companion, who was a low-level entertainment industry lawyer determined to share his obsession with up-front and back-end compensation models, which frankly sounded vaguely sexual and a little creepy coming from him.
“It’s nice that you’re getting out a bit, and we would hardly call it babysitting. You live here,” Rebecca said, and turned to Lucy. “We had such fun decorating sugar cookies, didn’t we, sweetheart?”
“Can I have a cookie for dessert?” Lucy said in response.
“Absolutely,” William said, his eyes gleaming, while at the exact same time I said, “We’ll see,” and pointed at her broccoli.
Lucy looked around in confusion while the rest of us laughed.
“OK, moving on,” I said. “Thorn: same as always. I miss Sam.”
“We all do, honey,” Rebecca said sharply. “But you know my philosophy: Life is better tackled in drive than reverse.” She glanced at Lucy, then back at me to make her point.
I winced at the obvious implication that I needed to stop dragging the family down with my inability to let go of the past. It was true I still brought up Sam a fair amount, often spilling tears as I did, but he’d been my husband and Lucy’s dad, so why shouldn’t I?
Meanwhile, William tended to avoid the topic of his son, especially in Rebecca’s presence, although sometimes I would catch him lost in Lucy’s blue eyes and I could see his agony laid bare.
But despite how deeply she’d loved her son, Rebecca almost never mentioned him.
It was as though if she allowed a microscopic crack in the wall, it would all come crumbling down.
Sometimes I imagined the three of us—Rebecca, William, and I—all drifting around in individual grief bubbles, like the ones Lucy blew with a plastic wand.
Each of us sad and grieving in our own ways, alone.
Always alone. But then every so often one of our bubbles would kiss the surface of another, giving us a brief window into the other’s pain.
And just when there might be the slimmest chance of one bubble merging into another, allowing us to spread out and share the burden, that’s when we’d suddenly bounce off and float away in opposite directions.
“Mommy, you forgot the other rose!” Lucy observed.
“I didn’t forget. I saved it for last,” I said, booping her nose.
“I guess this one is sort of a thorn and a rose because it’s scary and exciting at the same time.
” I paused to take a sip of my sparkling water.
“So, completely out of the blue, I got a call from my agent this morning. She wants me to write a new book.” I left out the or else part.
Rebecca swallowed a bite of salad as she flashed a look at William before turning back to me with her head cocked and lips pursed.
Now that I spent my weekdays at the agency, I could place this particular look as the one she reserved for those times a client or a colleague said something that Rebecca thought was—well, let’s just say, a subpar idea.
She typically waited a beat before providing a thoughtful, carefully articulated response that brooked no dissent. I steeled myself.
With impeccable timing, Lucy announced, “Grandpa, your turn for roses and thorn!” Then she knocked over her full glass of milk. At least she used her left arm, I thought, smothering a grin.
Thankful for the diversion, I jumped up to grab a dishrag.
Moments later dinner was over, and William and Lucy took off for the family room to watch a Disney princess movie.
“You can go watch the movie, too. I’m happy to take care of the dishes,” I said to Rebecca, with more than a little self-interest behind the offer.
“Not necessary,” Rebecca said with a wink as she pulled on her yellow dish gloves. We both were at our wits’ end with this endless princess phase. “So. Do you want to talk about the call with your agent?”
“There’s not much more to tell,” I said, gathering up the cloth napkins.
I appreciated Rebecca’s interest in my life.
It was far more than what I received from my own mom.
But it came with a directness that I wasn’t always sure how to handle.
That was especially true now. I hoped I could keep this conversation brief without coming across as rude.
“Did you agree to write another book?” Rebecca asked, turning on the water.
“I said I would give it a try.” I stood next to her at the counter as I did many nights and handed her a dish to rinse.
“I’m surprised, I guess. I thought you’d put writing behind you. Between Lucy and your job at the agency, how would you even have time to write a book?”
“A lot of writers do it. I’d figure it out.”
“But how would you do it if you were running the agency?”
“I’m sorry, what?” I croaked. Obviously either she’d misspoken or I’d misheard her.
“Honestly, Thea,” she said, hip-checking me, “who else would we entrust to take over when we retire in a few years? You’re a natural, honey. And you’re family.”
My eyes welled with tears.
“I know.” Rebecca nodded. “It’s a little overwhelming, but when the time comes, you’ll be ready and I know you’ll be great.”