“Was Becca from California?” I watch Boone as I say her name, to read his expression for any indication about how he feels about me picking at the edges of memories, of his life before.
The lines around his eyes soften. “Yes. I met Becca in college. She was a California girl through and through, and I couldn’t get her to leave even though I’ll always prefer the mountains to the beach.” Then Boone leans over and swipes at the screen. “There she is.”
And she is there, on his phone screen, radiantly glowing, smiling at me. Tanned skin and legs up to her ears. Long dark hair but highlighted perfectly by the sun or by the expert touch of a fantastic hairdresser. Her face is thin, lips full, eyes matching blue to his. Cut-off shorts and a white tank top. “She’s beautiful, Boone.”
I can picture them together. Their towering heights, dark hair, and impeccable features. They would have had beautiful babies.
But I don’t want to just picture them together, I want to see them, so I find my thumb taking orders from my brain before reason can interfere, and I swipe through the photos until I landon one of them. Boone’s watching me, not stopping me. Completely at peace with me peeking within what was once his heart, and maybe still is. Or at least, still part of it.
And I was right. A picture of them together, not smiling at the camera but instead at each other, appears. Arms wrapped around waists, heads touching. They had been perfect.
It’s a weird feeling—seeing what was and knowing that it had been completely devastated in one moment. Boone had a life and had most likely planned out this amazing future with this perfect woman that probably didn’t talk as much as I did, or toe the line when you weren’t supposed to, or laugh at times when it was really inappropriate to do so.
I’ve never loved anyone in that way. The way that you begin to create a scrapbook of memories that could be. I’ve always been what men had said was too much or too controlling or too ambitious or too loud or just too anything.
And I don’t want to compare myself to Becca. It isn’t fair to me, and it isn’t fair to Boone, and it really isn’t fair to Becca. She isn’t here to defend herself, to reveal all her own insecurities, to humanize herself. Instead, she’s an angel, and my brain shouldn’t be figuring out how I compete with that. But it is. It’s what I’ve always done, and it’s what I’ve conditioned it to do.
Everything in life is a competition. It’s Kate Everett against the world after all.
Then my eyes crawl up to the corner of the screen, and I shriek, jumping up from the couch. “How is it already after four?!”
“Is that a problem?” Boone asks with no alarm to his tone as Ihand him back his phone.
“I better start working on our Christmas Eve dinner, or we won’t have one.”
Plus, I need the distraction, and cooking is always something that helps me focus on one feeling instead of all the others—hunger.
I start to march toward the kitchen, putting a plan together of what I need to begin with first. I am planning on making a couple ham steaks I found in the freezer that I moved to the fridge last night, mashed potatoes, canned corn, and cinnamon rolls. It isn’t much, but I think it is a decent meal, considering I’m shopping in Boone’s fridge and cabinet that pretended to be a pantry.
“Can I help?”
I look around nervously. I mean, what else is he really supposed to do? One can only poke at the fire so many times.
“Um,” I utter. “Sure.”
“You don’t really soundsureabout that,” Boone remarks, still sitting on the couch. “Haven’t I proven myself worthy after the omelet lesson?”
His comment cracks my lips into a small smile. “Yes.”
“I’ll make you another cup of coffee, too, if bribery works,” he suggests as he stands.
“You know I can’t say no to coffee,” I say while tilting my head at him.
“I know,” he replies. “You’re not so hard to figure out, Kate.”
“Oh, is that so?” I raise my voice, slightly offendedthat he thinks he has me all figured out.
“None of us really are, if that makes you feel better,” he teases as he reaches me.
And I suppose he’s right. We all like to think we are more complicated than we really are, creating mysteries within the fabric of our being, hoping people find us more interesting than the next person. But really, we’re all more of the same than we want to admit. Fears, insecurities, and feelings fluttering beneath our chests. I can’t fault him for the honesty, not when I pride myself on it.
“I’d feel better if there was a latte with gingerbread creamer in my hand right now,” I mutter as I look down at my empty palms.
“On it.” He laughs as he makes his way to the kitchen first.
I hear the espresso machine grinding beans, and I can’t help but wonder if he made coffee for Becca every morning. What kind of husband he had been. What kind of life he would have had with her.
And if he had a life with me, what would that look like, and would he wonder if it was as good of a life as he had hoped for with Becca…
