Chapter 17
“Hey, it’s me.” Sydney. Funny how people have to identify themselves when they call now—a habit long since dropped when we all started seeing each other’s names and faces pop up on our screens. “What’s up?” she asks.
“I was about to bake a cobbler,” I tell her.
“You were about to what a what?”
“Bake. A cobbler,” I say a bit proudly. “With wild blackberries I picked myself.”
“Who are you? And what have you done with my friend?” It’s an understandable reaction. “Though the music box pictures were pretty cool,” she confesses.
“I know, right? I guess I’m ... just starting to explore some different ways of spending my time.”
“Well, you sound in a good mood, so it must be agreeing with you.”
Hmm. Intriguing thought.
“I wanted to give you a remodeling update,” she goes on. “Even though you never ask.”
Huh. Funny how that’s dropped out of my mind. I should care. I need to care. I’m spending a lot of money on it. “I guess having to carve out an existence for myself here has kept me preoccupied. But yes, I’d love an update. How’s it going?”
“I went over last night and it’s looking gorgeous! The new flooring is fabulous, and the cabinets are beautiful.”
I’m trying to envision it all—it feels like a long time ago that I finalized my choices. I ask Sydney a few specific questions and learn that the new granite countertops have arrived but aren’t installed yet, and the backsplash will happen after that.
“Sounds great,” I say, even though I feel very disconnected from the project.
“The guys were just leaving when I showed up last night, and the only bad news is ...”
Ugh. “There’s bad news?”
“Well, just that it won’t be quite done by the Fourth of July like we were hoping. He says a week or two after, though. I hope you aren’t upset.”
Okay, the truth is, I’m aware that it is now late June—but I haven’t been paying close attention to the calendar, even which days are weekends and which ones aren’t, because that doesn’t seem to matter right now.
And despite knowing it’s almost July, I’d kind of forgotten my desperation to be home by then.
“I’m not,” I tell her quickly, “so no worries.”
I can almost hear her confusion in the silence before she says, “Again, who are you? A couple of weeks ago, you were climbing the walls wanting to come home.”
“I know,” I answer. “I guess I’ve ... relaxed a lot since then.”
“And you pick blackberries now and make cobblers? So you just, like, stumbled upon these blackberries or what? And you just felt safe picking them?” These are all fair questions as we are both city women who do not pick things.
“Well, I found this cobbler recipe and mentioned it to Matt.”
“Matt. The neighbor.”
“Right,” I say. “And he knew about these wild blackberries we could walk to, so we took buckets and picked them yesterday afternoon. And we saw a deer! Like right next to us! And it actually ate berries right out of Matt’s hand. It was pretty amazing.”
She stays quiet when I finish, until she asks, “Was it wearing a wreath of flowers on its head and talking? Have woodland animals started helping you clean your house and decorate it with daisy chains?”
I let out a laugh. “Okay, I suppose that’s fair. But the deer was cool.”
“I’m sure it was,” she appeases me. “It’s just that the last thing I expected was for your life in Lost and Found to start sounding like a fairy tale. And so, next question—is your neighbor Prince Charming?”
I instinctively blow out a sharp “Ha!” sound and tell her, “Only if Prince Charming wears a dirty cowboy hat and goes barefoot.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Is it just me or does that sound kind of sexy?”
I push out another disbelieving breath. “It’s just you. This guy is many things, but Prince Charming he’s not. Besides which, just ... no.”
“No to what?”
“That’s ... the last thing I need right now.”
“ What’s the last thing you need right now? Exactly.”
I take a deep breath. Here I was, minding my own business and trying to make a cobbler, and now I’m suddenly defending my life choices.
“As you know, I’ve pretty much dismissed the idea of a man ever making me happy.
” And I’m content with that. Romance has never gone well for me.
My relationships end quickly for the most part.
Sydney says it’s because I’m closed off emotionally.
Kevin says I’m too inflexible, expecting a guy to want everything I want and like everything I like.
But whatever the case, I’ve made my peace with it and am a perfectly strong, happy, independent single woman who doesn’t need a man.
“Which leaves dating for social purposes or physical needs, and right now, I don’t require that kind of interaction and I don’t feel physically needy—or physically attractive.
I’m still getting used to my scars and very short hair.
And even if none of that were true, this guy . ..”
“Yeah?”
“He’s nice, but we have nothing in common. And I’ll be leaving in a month or two anyway.”
“Sounds like perfect affair material to me,” she says. “You both know it’s temporary, so that keeps it uncomplicated.”
“What about the I-feel-ugly part? What about the I’m-not-into-sex-with-strangers thing?
” The one actual problem with accepting that I’ll probably never marry is that I do have a sex drive—when not coming off cancer treatment—but I’ve never felt comfortable being intimate with someone until I get to know them.
It creates a conundrum. Fortunately, I do occasionally date someone long enough that it leads to sex before it all falls apart for one reason or another.
“Further,” I go on, having just remembered this part, “I’m not exactly .
.. in the mood. Not only because I don’t feel pretty, but because my body has had a lot of stuff done to it recently, you know?
So sex really isn’t on the menu for me right now, for many reasons. ”
“But blackberry cobbler is,” she observes.
“Yes. I guess I’m ... discovering new things.”
“Man in a cowboy hat sounds like an interesting new thing to me,” she mutters judgmentally under her breath. “But whatev.” Then her voice returns to normal. “And you know how much I hate that you’ve decided romance isn’t in the cards for you.”
I let out a long sigh. Yes, we disagree about it often.
But I decide to throw her a bone—a bone of diversion.
“You know what?” I begin. “When I get home, who knows? It’s going to be a whole new chapter in my life, kind of like starting over.
My hair will be a little longer, I’ll be back on the air, I’ll have a new kitchen great for entertaining—so maybe I’ll reopen my mind to the possibility of romance then . But not now. How’s that?”
“That,” she says, “is something I fully intend to hold you to. So I’ll drop the cowboy prince thing, but you can count on me shoving romance down your throat come fall.”
Oh goodie. But it does the trick for now. “Speaking of romance ...” I begin.
I don’t even have to finish my question. “He’s dreamy, Jess. I’m in love.”
I take that in. My dear, sweet friend is in love.
I’m so happy for her.
I’m so curious what that feels like.
I’m so ... broken to know that if this is really love for her, it will change my life when I get home—how much I see Sydney, everything we do together. But that’s so utterly selfish—I’d be ashamed to ever let her know the thought entered my head, so I share only the first one.
“I’m so happy for you, Syd. Tell me everything.”
“Don’t you have a cobbler to make?”
“It’s the only thing on my docket this afternoon—I have the time. I want to hear all about Jayden.”
And so she tells me. And I love her enthusiasm.
I love the pure joy I hear in her voice.
Even if I feel a little alone already as I think again about how this will affect my own life—which feels pathetic to me.
It’s just that ... alone is a hard place for me.
I’ve been alone a lot. Alone ... with thirty thousand social media followers. Life can be ironic at times.
I truly am happy for her—love couldn’t find a more deserving person than Sydney. And Jayden is a lucky man, which I will let him know at some point as I size him up more closely and make sure I think he’s good enough for her.
I just have to remember who I am: Jessica Fox, WRTB 11—strong, independent career woman and cancer survivor, with a fabulous wardrobe and ... well, hair that will grow back and be just as fabulous again, eventually.
The truth is, I’m not sure I’ve seen that woman in a while.
I’ve seen pieces of her, but not really her . I’ve become someone else—someone who digs through boxes of lost memories and bakes cobblers and oohs and aahs over nature.
I don’t dislike this version of me—but I’m not sure she’s as strong and tough as that woman behind the news desk. And that makes me glad this is only temporary.
But I’m still happy to return to the kitchen and make my cobbler after we hang up.
When I put the cobbler in the oven, it just looks .
.. blah. Like a bunch of cake batter I’ve accidentally dropped berries into.
But then ... magic. Thank God someone somewhere put interior lights on ovens and small glass windows you can look through, because I can’t take my eyes off my cobbler as it begins to turn golden and flaky and bubbly with tiny purple sizzles. And oh, the aroma!
I’m welling with pride as I finally remove it with two big oven mitts to cool on the counter.
And while I’ve nearly lost the habit of photographing every little thing in my life for social media, this one feels worth capturing, so I find my phone and snap a few fun pics.
I kind of miss the immediate gratification of being able to post it to the world in an instant—but not as much as I used to.
It’ll still be just as beautiful a piece of culinary art the next time I’m at the Piggly Wiggly.