This is something I’ve thought a lot about. If Henry and I had had kids, the choice would be much more difficult. We didn’t, and there is no reason for me to keep Henry’s last name. But going back to Maxwell feels like yet another piece of evidence to show we failed. First the separation, then the divorce, and now going back to my maiden name. There are so many ways in life in which we cannot go back, but in names, we are allowed a redo.
“I've already thought about it. It's just a matter of actually doing it. I made sure it was listed in the divorce decree, just to make things easier on me. If I have time this week, I'll stop by the Social Security office.”
“You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.”
“I know. But I do want to go back to Maxwell. It's just,” I shrug, searching for the right words. “It's just so odd that for four years I was known as something else. Professionally, I've only been Shay.”
“Do you want your first bestseller to say Shay or Maxwell?”
“Maxwell.” I didn’t even have to think about my answer.
“There you have it.”
I sweep my hands together as if I'm brushing off the problem. “So easy.”
Aidan plucks the iPad from my hands and sets it on the table beside his empty plate. Pulling me into him, he rests his chin on the top of my head. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to put pressure on you.”
“You didn't. Going back to my maiden name makes sense. I want to do it. I guess I'm still little shocked that my marriage failed. Not that I miss Henry,” I hurry to say. “When I'm eighty-five, and I look back over my life, my first marriage will be part of what I think of. If our lives are like a beautiful tapestry, and mine is still on the loom, then that part of my life has already been woven in. Does that make sense?”
“I understand your words, but I don't relate to them at all. As you obviously know, I've never been married. Which means I've never been divorced. What I do know, is that every single person has a tapestry. And every tapestry looks different. Some tapestries will have four or even five marriages. Some will only have one, or none. Who's to say which one is better? Who's to say that either one of them is bad?”
I pull back so I can look at him. “You're very wise.”I run my fingertips over his face, inspecting.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for wrinkles. Somebody so wise should have more wrinkles.”
Without warning Aidan dips me back, and we tumble together on the couch. “I’m forever young,” he says, his fingertips brushing over my stomach. I laugh and twist, trying to escape his tickling fingers.
“There's no way I'm letting you go.” His teeth nip my collarbone, his hand drifts lower.
This is the kind of Sunday I could get used to.
17
Aidan
For someonewho’s never considered himself a romantic guy, I'm not doing too bad of a job.
“Thank you for lunch,” Natalie says, leaning into me. She plants a kiss on my cheek before bending over and lacing up her ice skate.
“Of course,” I tell her, lacing up my own ice skates. When I'm finished, I straighten up and lean back on the bench, surveying all the happy ice skaters on the rink in front of us. It's picturesque. The rink in Central Park, the barren trees with the buildings towering all around them.
Natalie pops up from the bench. I can already tell her balance is better than mine.
“When was the last time you've done this?”
“Last winter, with the girls from work. They were trying to cheer me up. When was the last time you’ve been?”
“Not since I was a kid.” I push off from the bench, wobble, and grab onto the side of the rink. Natalie giggles.
“You have to promise not to laugh if I fall.”
She shakes her head. “I will make no such promises.”
I scowl and she laughs again. She holds out a hand. “I promise to stay beside you and hold your hand. If you go down, I'll go down with you.”
I place my hand in hers. “Deal.”
