Chapter 15
Rose
Waiting for Tank reminds me of the time John came home two hours after his curfew.
He thought I would be asleep, but instead, I was waiting for him on the couch when he tiptoed in the front door.
Phone in hand, I snapped a photo of him, with flash for extra drama, in what felt like the ultimate parental gotcha moment.
These are two completely different situations, and yet as the minutes tick by, I have a deep sense of déjà vu.
Finally, I hear the distant sound of the street level door, the slam I’ve become accustomed to today with so many people moving in and out, helping carry things to the coffee shop. Then Tank’s steps, heavy but moving quickly up the stairs. He might be taking them two at a time.
The thought makes me giddy.
Then it makes me panicky.
Tank is a little out of breath and grinning when he walks in.
His smile fades as he takes in my rigid posture.
He joins me on the couch, sitting close but with a little space between us.
A little less than when we started playing video games yesterday.
But a little more room than when we finished playing, just before we left for our date.
It’s almost like Tank can read my uncertainty and is leaving me a little space to work it out.
I find myself fixating on that stretch of cushion, like it’s the focal point of something important.
While I waited for him to return, I planned out how I wanted to start. A somewhat formal but clear, I hoped we could talk. But when I open my mouth, instead, my mouth says, “You know what I hate? Reading glasses.”
Tank laughs, and I’m not sure whether it’s the surprise of my words or what I’ve said. “Tell me about it,” he says. He means it as the expression, like I totally get what you mean.
But I choose to take his words literally.
“I can’t stand having them on, forgetting they’re there, then looking up to see the whole room blurry.
I hate how they remind me I can’t see the same way I used to.
So now, I close my eyes when I take them off.
To avoid the transition. Then I don’t have to witness how my sight changes with the glasses off. ”
At first, Tank was smiling, but as I continue, probably more because of the brittle edge to my voice, the furrow of concern I’ve seen before appears between his brows.
“I’m afraid that this”—I gesture between us—“is me wearing reading glasses.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Tank says after a moment. “But I’m listening.”
The kindness in his voice almost does me in. For a moment, I wonder if I even follow my own logic.
Is it logic? Or is it just fear and panic talking?
I twist my fingers together in my lap, noticing a tiny smear of frosting on my wrist from when I demonstrated a better way to hold the piping bag for Kyoko earlier.
“This feels so real. So good. Like it could really be … something.”
I want to cringe at my words. They’re too bold, assuming a lot from a few interactions and a single date. But Tank nods at this, agreeing. Like he feels it too.
Which thrills and terrifies me in almost equal measure. Right now, the terrifying part is winning out.
“It’s just moving fast. Which feels both right and terrifying.
Because what if this is like wearing reading glasses?
” I ramble on. “What’s in front of me looks fine.
It looks good. Readable, I guess, to stick with the analogy.
But then a point will come when the glasses come off.
And things aren’t the same. What we thought we saw so clearly was …
wrong. It’s probably way too early to be worrying like this, but I guess my worry isn’t constrained by silly time limits.
I guess I don’t want to just date. If we’re doing this, I want to be serious.
All-in. But I’m scared of … the ending.”
I stop here, biting down on the inside of my cheek to keep my chin from wobbling. I’ve said the words, even if I’m not sure my analogy or metaphor or whatever it is makes sense.
This conversation is farther than I’ve gotten with anyone on my other first dates after David. With them, I just … was done. I stopped answering my phone, never called them back. My silence was my answer, even though I know it was cowardly.
I wish it felt good to speak my mind like this, but I still just feel awful.
“May I?” Tank gestures to the space between us, asking to move closer. I nod and he shifts over, slowly, like I’m some wild bird he doesn’t want to startle.
Feels fairly accurate at this point.
He extends his hand, palm up, reaching out but keeping it on his thigh, not touching me. It’s an invitation. But one he’s leaving me room to refuse.
I hesitate, then slowly slide my palm over his until our fingers link together.
The warm, solid reassurance of his touch has what’s probably a measurable impact on my body. If I were wearing some kind of monitor at a hospital, I’m sure it would register some deep, physiological change.
It’s enough to make me regret this whole conversation. My panic. The stupid reading glasses thing.
I feel foolish. One date—and I’m having a serious talk using ridiculous analogies.
“You’re afraid that this might not turn out to be what you hope?” he asks, and I nod.
“And maybe also … I’m scared that it will.”
Until I voiced this, I’m not sure I even knew it as true. But the moment they’re said, I realize this is really the root of my fear. Not that things won’t work and I’ll be disappointed, but that they will work out.
I am intimately familiar with disappointment and distress.
I’m not sure I remember or have the capacity to process this kind of happiness.
And that’s where this fear stems from. Clarity cuts through—but does not dull or assuage—my anxious feelings.
Gently, Tank’s thumb strokes the back of my hand, tracing a path back and forth. Slow. Steady. Comforting.
Even so, that light, safe touch wakes a yearning.
“About a year after Michelle died, James had this amazing football moment. He got chosen to play on the JV team, not the freshman team, which was a big deal already. He played cornerback—do you know what that is?”
I’m not sure why, but the fact that Tank is talking about something that seems so random and unrelated to my fears calms me. Or maybe that’s his touch. Probably both.
Either way, I feel slightly less panicked, and I’m definitely invested in the story, trying to picture a freshman year version of James Graham—tall but maybe not as tall as he is now, a little gangly, and definitely scowling.
“Cornerback—that’s not, like, some alternate version of a quarterback?”
Tank grins at this. “No. It’s a defensive position covering wide receivers.”
“I do know what receivers are,” I say.
“Good. So, he’s out there and the quarterback fakes a handoff, then throws to the receiver James is on.
But James was able to read the play and intercepted the ball.
He’s not the fastest of my sons—that was Pat—but he was big, even then.
He sort of bowled his way through everyone and muscled his way to the end zone for a touchdown. ”
Tank smiles, staring past me as though the memory is playing on the wall.
“I was in the stands with Collin and Pat and I had Harper on my shoulders—we were standing and cheering even before he crossed into the end zone. And as soon as he did, James looked up at the stands. They were packed, but we always sat in the same place for every game. He found us and his smile was so big—” Tank stops, seems to collect himself, and continues.
“And I saw the moment he realized his mother wasn’t there and had to remember once again that she was gone. ”
Forget feeling better. This story has ripped my heart out completely. I want to give Tank a hug and then march right down to the brewery, find James and give him one too.
Which makes my panic start to surge again because I am already way, way too invested not just in Tank but his family.
“He got swallowed up from view by his teammates and all the celebrating. That touchdown won them the game. I was so proud. But that night, I cried harder than I ever had over Michelle. Because it felt so incredibly wrong to have this big, important moment without her there. Happiness, joy, excitement—it didn’t feel fair or right or like something I was allowed to have. Not with her gone.”
Though I don’t have a specific memory like he does, I absolutely relate to this feeling.
How happiness or simple enjoyment felt after David died.
What it was like to sing happy birthday to Chelsea without him there, the strange guilt I felt once when I took the kids to Disney and rode a roller coaster, seeing my wild hair and wide smile in the photo afterward.
There was a wrongness, an inherent unfairness about it.
Even good weather felt like an affront in the early days. As in, how can we have this gorgeous day when I just had to make a choice on which casket to bury my husband in?
“I don’t like it when people say they know how you feel.
How can anyone really know that? Half the time, I’m not sure I know how I feel, so how could they know?
But I do relate to what you’re saying. Even all these years later, the idea of something good, specifically a potential relationship—the very thing we both lost already—comes with complicated feelings. ”
“You don’t seem to feel complicated about it,” I say.
“Honestly, right now, I don’t feel complicated.
But I bet I will. At some point or maybe at a lot of different points.
I don’t know. I suspect, though, that falling in love after losing it—no matter how many years have passed or what those relationships were like—will come with surprises.
Complications. Weirdness. Maybe even guilt.
I think,” Tank says, “that’s just part of the deal. ”
Every word resonates. Tank is so much more articulate than I am. Maybe wiser too. I’m over here giving reading glasses analogies while he is aptly describing all the things I couldn’t put words to.
It’s honestly unfair. I know Tank isn’t perfect because he’s a human being, but he’s handsome and wealthy and kind and generous and understanding and expresses himself well. He needs more flaws! A lot more.
“So, here’s what I think, and then I want you to tell me how you feel,” Tank says. “I think what you’re feeling now and what you might feel later or what I might feel is normal. This may work out and be something really amazing or … maybe it won’t.”
The look in his eyes and the confidence in his words tell me that Tank already believes in this, and that gives me a bigger boost in hope.
“But what I think we’ll both regret is not trying. I’m not scared or anxious now, but I very well might be at some other point. And then you can talk me down. I’m not in a hurry, so if things are moving too fast, we can slow down. Your call on the speed. Do you want to slow down?”
“No. And that’s the thing, I think. I don’t want to slow down. I don’t want to wait or waste time. Does that sound contradictory?”
He chuckles. “A little, but I think I get it. And I don’t mind a little contradiction.
People are complicated. You feel how you feel.
I appreciate that you’re being honest. We said we’d make our own rules, and I think this should be one of them.
When it’s hard or things feel weird, we talk through it.
You were really brave to do this,” he says.
“I respect that a lot. I respect you, Rose. Does me saying that make you more nervous?”
He nudges my shoulder with his, and I realize he’s teasing me.
I laugh, the sound freeing something that felt lodged in my chest. “Yes. No more compliments or kind words. That’s a dealbreaker for me.”
“How about flowers?” he asks, jutting his chin toward the lilies on the counter.
“Absolutely no flowers. Ever. Starting now.”
“Do I need to throw those out?”
“Probably.”
“I should get a pen and paper. About how long of a list do you have for me? I might be able to remember one or two more things. After that, all bets are off if I don’t write it down.”
Tank squeezes my hand, and when I look over at him, he’s grinning.
This conversation—his words, his touch, his openness, and even his teasing—have eased the rising tide of anxiety in me. It’s not gone, but it’s quiet. For now.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I didn’t want to be too much.”
“You won’t be too much for me,” he says, and I believe him. He clears his throat. “So, do you still need help baking, or is that off-limits too?”
Tank somehow managed to defuse my emotional bomb with careful hands and thoughtful words. I’m so grateful I could kiss him.
So, I do.
When I lean closer and press my lips to his, I can literally feel the shock in the way his body stiffens. I’m almost just as shocked. Obviously, a little bit less, since I’m the one who did it.
But also—what am I doing?
I pull back quickly, surprised to find that I don’t regret making the move. But I do regret that it was not a good first kiss.
I squandered what is not only my first kiss since David, but my first kiss with Tank.
There was none of the buildup of the other night, none of the delicious tension and anticipation. It was more of a sneak attack. A stealth kiss. Tank was so startled that he didn’t even technically kiss me back. He froze.
And now, he’s staring at me with wide eyes.
“Did you … not want to kiss me?” I ask, and I think the only reason I am bold enough to say it is because Tank just called me brave.
“It’s not that, I do. I just thought we were taking things slow,” he says.
“And I thought you said the speed was my call.”
There is a flirty note in my voice I hardly recognize. It’s more than the teasing banter we’ve had back and forth. It’s … suggestive. I feel like a brazen woman, speaking her truths boldly and stealing kisses.
At my words, something in Tank shifts. His lids drop a little, and his eyes seem to darken to a stormy blue. He lets go of my hand to slide his around my waist, low, resting just above the hem of my jeans. His other hand reaches back to cup my neck, at once both tender and possessive.
“It’s absolutely your call. I just needed a moment to match your speed,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine.
Now, this is a first kiss.