39. Kendall
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Kendall
NOW
The sweet smell of pancake batter mixes with the satisfyingly savory scent of bacon grease the second we walk into Marie’s Diner.
Though breakfast meat and pancakes fill almost every table as we’re shown to our table, my stomach growls with the thought of our usual order of hazelnut waffles and Coke floats.
Our go-to since we met. Sometimes, it’s the only constant in our lives.
When everything feels out of control and changing at a rate we can’t seem to get a grasp on, an hour spent in a booth lined with vinyl seats can put us back on track.
“Is there anything else you wanted? Like some fries?” James asks as soon as our server walks away from our table.
“Nope, I’m good.” I take a sip of my water, filling the conversation with something other than polite words.
But it doesn’t feel awkward or forced. Just…
unpracticed. I wonder if muscle memory works with the brain much like it does with our arms and legs.
I learned to ride a bike when I was seven and I never forgot.
I can still hop on a two-wheeler—sans training wheels—and ride off without having to go through an awkward learning phase.
I wonder if talking to my husband will feel like that.
If we need to get through the curve, as short as it may be, and it’ll be as if no time has passed.
Or if it’ll be as if my memory has been wiped.
And I’ll have to get to know him all over again, leaning hard on those training wheels I don’t want to depend on.
He nods with a pursed-lipped smile. His hands fold on the table, the silverware and his water tumbler bookending his conjoined fingers. We sit in silence, the sound of clinking plates and happy chatter amplifying the stiff air.
I play with my napkin, folding and unfolding the corners. Something to do with my hands instead of just staring at it, hoping some topic of conversation can be found in the creases along my palm.
“How are you feeling?”
I look up at him. “I’m fine. A little hungry, I guess.”
“I mean about the session.”
“Oh.” With it barely being the first session, we didn’t get very far. Scratched the surface, as Astrid mentioned. But still, it feels like we just ran a marathon. “I don’t know. What about you?”
He shrugs. “It felt like a lot but…it really wasn’t.”
“I know,” I confess, relieved we’re on the same page. “I feel like we just walked the last nine years of our lives on foot.”
“We kind of did,” he admits. “You know, talking about everything we’ve done since we met. That walk through our memories was a journey.”
We both sigh, our relief fading into a laugh. “Nine years can happen in a blink.”
“It can also feel like nine years.”
We told Astrid everything. Some included the nitty-gritty details we somewhat unwillingly told her about, and some more significant and noteworthy.
Ones that acted as milestones, like landmarks or crossroads.
There were moments when our stories swelled into excitement, our past bouncing off each other with excitement.
We started to talk over each other. I would start my account of a story, and James would cut in, desperate to tell his side, and then we became this giddy, childish version of ourselves.
And then there were moments when we struggled through our words.
Those moments in our lives that became low points and we had to dig through our past to rip out the secrets like an atonement for the cards life has dealt us.
We’ve had a whole marriage in nine years.
A mortgage, car payments, careers we’ve built.
A baby. And James is right. It flitted past us in the blink of an eye, but it also feels like we’ve been living this life for five decades.
Those days have felt long. All while the years have been too short.
And I realize there’s no one in this entire world I’d have all of this with than my husband. I wonder if he feels the same way.
“Do you regret any of it?”
“No.” He reaches for my hand, and I don’t recoil. I let him slip his fingers into my palm, and his thumb runs circles over my knuckles. “Of course not.”
“I don’t either,” I say, refuting any possible notion he may have that I regret any part of our lives. I give him a tight squeeze before adding, “Thank you for doing this.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know,” I tell him. “But I want to. I want you to know how much this means to me.”
He nods. He gets it. “You’re welcome.”
“You know, I was thinking,” I start to say, feeling relaxed and more comfortable.
We’ve debriefed, as brief as it was. We’ve gotten the hard part over.
Maybe we can talk about other things now.
Go back to the kind of conversations that filled our relationship, menial things that don’t necessarily matter, but also make the biggest difference.
No training wheels required. “Remember how last year I took a tutoring job over the summer? I was thinking maybe I could do that again.”
“Yeah? Is that what you want?” His thumb doesn’t stop moving, and his brow raises in an encouraging gesture.
“Maybe,” I tell him. “It’s better than just being at home all day. And I thought it would be nice to bring in some extra income. And—”
“But do you want to?”
“I do, just to keep busy over the summer, but I also kind of want to spend that extra time with Sophia. We could keep her home instead of sending her off to summer camp. Maybe go back to Washington, visit my mom this time.”
“Yeah,” he says, this time with more conviction. He smiles as if the thought of my summer spent making more memories with Sophia brings him nothing but joy.
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely,” he affirms. “I think Sophia would love that.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I wasn’t working?” Though we could use the extra money for a rainy-day fund or for emergencies, it doesn’t hurt us when I don’t work over the summer.
And I know it’s never bothered him when I stayed home the few summers before Sophia started preschool.
It’s mainly my own guilt at play. I need to contribute the way I’m supposed to, the way a partner is supposed to.
It’s my way of earning my place in our home when my place has never been questioned.
“No,” he assures, shaking his head and giving my hand an extra squeeze. His answer is spoken through a light scoff, almost as if he can’t believe I’m asking him. “Take a break.”
“Maybe I will,” I tell him with a smile.
I think for the longest time I let my depression convince me I’m an inconvenience.
And maybe I am to those who don’t understand it or don’t know how to deal with a person who’s like me, but James isn’t that person.
I know that now. He’s my husband. He’s not someone I have to convince to love me.
He already does. I don’t need to prove to him I’m worthy of a place in my own home because to him, I deserve all of it as I am.
I just have to believe this for myself too.
“Here are your waffles.” We unlink our hands, making room for our lunch in the form of a breakfast entrée. It’s a welcome interruption as my stomach rumbles from the sweet and savory scent. “Your Coke floats are on the way.”
I pick up my fork, pressing into the waffles with the dull side of the prongs.
“We have a Fourth of July picnic for work,” he announces, continuing our conversation.
“It’s near La Jolla Cove where they have the fireworks.
” I don’t notice a harsh tic in his jaw or a deep furrow between his brows.
Everything about him feels easygoing, and I realize this is what we’ve been missing.
Talking about our lives like a normal married couple does.
We’re talking about work, all the little details we omitted in the past because it felt superfluous, and I can’t believe how much I missed this.
And I can’t believe how easy it is. “You think we can go?”
“Of course.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “I get it if it’s a lot. It’s going to be pretty crowded with the holiday, but I thought Sophia would really enjoy it, so…”
“We can go. I want to go.”
He grins. “Okay.”
“Okay.”