“Is that the key to a long and happy marriage? Staying out of each other’s way when you’re in a mood?”
“If it isn’t, it should be.”
A stockbroker proposed to me once—about five years ago. We’d been dating six months when he asked me to come home with him to Kansas City for Christmas. I agreed since things were going well and I wasn’t going to Whiskey Springs anyway. But the last thing I expected was for him to drop down to one knee in front of his entire extended family and ask me to marry him.
I loved Ian—but it didn’t feel half the way it felt when I loved Wyatt, so I wasn’t sure if it was real love or if I was caught up in the newness and excitement of a fresh relationship. I didn’t want to hurt him, so I said yes and played the part of the gushing bride-to-be, and we spent the rest of that weekend celebrating with his family. But every time I’d try to imagine marrying Ian, a small piece of me died inside because I could only ever picture myself with Wyatt.
I waited another month to break it off—not because I was afraid to hurt him, but because I wanted to give it a chance. I thought maybe with some time I could wrap my head around committing to Ian. He was a sweet Midwestern boy. Corn fed. Kind family. Smart as hell. Great manners. And beyond good to me.
But it didn’t matter how great he was on paper (or in bed), the thought of tying myself to him for the rest of my life made me ill for reasons I couldn’t fully comprehend.
It’s as if my heart and soul were physically rejecting him.
I heard through the grapevine shortly after we broke up that he found someone new—a nice girl from Idaho. I wrote him an email after that, wishing him the best and telling him how happy I was for them, but I couldn’t bring myself to send.
No one needs a reminder of the one who broke their heart when all they want is to make it whole again.
“I got invited to a divorce party on Friday,” I tell my dad.
“And are you going?”
“It’s a bunch of girls I knew from high school. Bumped into one of them at the store earlier. I think she’d be bummed if I didn’t show up.”
That and I could really use a stiff drink and a night to let loose.
“You better not disappoint them then,” he says.
We stroll down the block, past the houses I used to speed by on my bicycle on the way to the park, and later in my car on the way to theater rehearsals. Many of them look the same. A few I hardly recognize. It’s not unlike seeing old friends, I’d suppose.
Old lovers, too.
No one stays the same.
But no one prepares you for the changes, either.
We finish our walk with small talk, dad jokes, and a handful of the same stories he always tells me every time we see each other.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks when we get home.
“It’s a date.”
I grab a banana from the pantry and head upstairs, taking a moment to text Ivy to let her know I’ll be there on Friday.
She writes back with a string of excited emoticons and an all-caps YAY with fifteen exclamation points.
I wish I felt the same. I do. But all I can think about is what if he’s there?
I’ve yet to be back a full twenty-four hours, and already we’ve crossed paths.
It’s not a matter of if I see him again, but when.
If he’s married with kids, I doubt he’ll be at the bar Friday night.
Then again, maybe it’s all the more reason?
I don’t know what his life has become nor do I know the man he’s become. All I do know is that I’ve reserved a handful of things to say to him when we meet again—whenever that may be.
6
Wyatt
* * *
“Happy birthday, Mama.” I hand my mother the bouquet of flowers, knowing more than anyone what it means to her. It’s so much more than a thoughtful gesture. It’s symbolic. My father never let her have flower gardens when he was around. He thought they were a waste and her efforts were better spent milking dairy cows or running meals out to the men in the field. Flowers don’t pay the bills, he’d always say.
Now she’s got an entire garden of them, and she makes a decent chunk of change selling bouquets at the farmer’s market every Sunday. Not enough to cover the mortgage, but enough to prove a point.
“Ranunculus? My goodness, are these beautiful.” She places them in a vase of water and arranges them just so before setting them in the middle of the kitchen table. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Wy.”