"You have got yourself a client."
"Really?" His eyes light up.
Nodding, I say, “Absolutely. When can you start?"
"If you need me to start today, I could, but my plan was to spend the next couple of days biking around trying to drum up business."
"You should do that, then."
"Should we say Monday? Your grass is getting a little long, so I should definitely come back by then."
"Monday, it is."
After Colton leaves, I get back to pulling weeds while I think about him. He may be young, but in some ways, he's got a lot more wisdom than I do. He's got a plan and he's going for it, even though it means explaining to every person in this entire village what happened in California. He’s going to get all the humiliation over with at once and move on with his life, free and clear. What a relief that would be.
For the rest of the day, I add up the many ways I sidestepped embarrassment, and what that has cost me. How many things did I keep from my husband for that reason? Dozens? Hundreds? I never told him I didn’t like going to the symphony because I needed him to believe I was every bit as sophisticated as he was. I never admitted to loving Pink or Lady Gaga or Gossip Girls. I never told him I hated scotch—the smell, the taste, and the endless conversations about it.
I let him believe I was someone I’m not and never will be. I tucked away who I was and morphed into the perfect wife—the one I thought he wanted. The sad part is, I never even bothered to ask. I just assumed I knew who he wanted, then went on pretending. I wonder what our marriage would have been, had I told him everything that was in my heart.
Stronger? More fun? Over?
No wonder I never want to fall in love again. Losing your husband isn’t the worst part. It’s losing yourself first.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood.
~ Helen Keller
August has arrived, which means it’s been a month since Liam and I had our ‘moment’ in the kitchen. Since then we’ve both managed to maintain a more appropriate sense of decorum. It’s almost like he came to the same conclusion as I did as soon as it was over. Thank God we didn’t act on it because that would have been a hot mess of a situation, especially given how tangled up our lives are for now.
Our easy friendship has returned, aided by Olive, who we’re both more than happy to focus on. Things are so comfortable that I’ve accepted an invitation to go out with them for the day on their boat.
They’ve made it their mission to see a new spot every Saturday this summer, and yesterday, they invited me to join them. We’ll head out to the sea and lunch on a tiny uninhabited island. It all sounds so exotic, and I find myself so excited I can’t sleep. Instead, I get up ridiculously early to make a picnic lunch and get myself ready to go.
Good thing I’m up early because choosing the right outfit proves difficult. Today, I’m in the mood to be sophisticated Abby—well, as sophisticated as I get. I select a striped boat neck (obviously) with three-quarter-length sleeves, and some capris. I hold the pants in my hand for a moment before I risk trying them on. It’s been over a year since I could fit into them, and although I know I’ve lost some weight after months of cleaning and weeding and babysitting, I’m not confident that it will be enough.
Have courage, I tell myself. Then I laugh because trying on pants isn’t exactly a triumph of the human spirit.
When I pull them on, I’m delighted that they make it past my hips. They’re a bit too tight, but I fasten the button on the front of the waistband knowing they stretch out while I’m wearing them. I put on some makeup—nothing heavy, just a little mascara and a dab of CC cream with sunscreen in it.
Smiling at the woman in the mirror, I say, “Not horrible, Abby.”
I pop on my white Toms because they are the closest thing to boat shoes I own, then hurry out the door.
It takes me exactly six minutes to get to the docks, then another two to find a spot along the road to park. The water gleams in the early morning sun, and I am welcomed by the call of a few seagulls. The ocean has that slightly gray look that will turn to a deep blue once the sun is angled a little higher in the sky.
I load my arms with a bag containing lunch and another containing sunscreen, towels, and my swimsuit. As much as I don’t love the idea of wearing it in front of them, I brought it anyway, deciding it’s part of the new honest me, because cellulite, while not pretty, is real.
I walk down the sidewalk to the pier marked ‘Slips 11–20’ and step onto it. It bobs a little. I steady myself as I continue along. Tied to number seventeen is an older, good-sized yacht that Olive has told me is called a motor sailor. When I asked her what that meant, she said, “Well, Abby, you can either sail it or use the motor.” I grin at the memory. She can be surprisingly condescending for a not-quite-eight-year-old.
Liam told me that when the boat went up for sale, it was in such rough shape, he got it for a song. But now it sparkles and speaks of the glamour of the 1920s. The mahogany cabin has been polished to a shine, and it bears the name “Sarah’s and Olive’s” in flowery letters. It tugs at my heart, but I don’t have time to feel the full weight of it because Olive is standing on the deck, squealing.
“She’s here, Dad! Abby’s here!” I’m sure she could wake the whole neighborhood with the news, but she’s so cute, I bet no one would even mind.
I wave to her and watch as she climbs down the ladder, her arms and legs a blur. She hops onto the dock and runs to me with her arms out. A few seconds later, Olive crashes into my legs, and I’m on the receiving end of a fierce hug, with her head tucked in just under my chest as she clings to me with abandon.
Was I ever this carefree when I expressed affection? I think I may have been, but somewhere along the way, I learned a self-restraint that somehow seems pointless to me as I take in the glorious feeling of her little arms around me.
