THE MORNING ISshiny and clear. A few low-slung clouds drift through the sky like barges on a river, but the sun is out and the sky is sapphire.
I’m on the trail, bright and early, and it feels as though a fever has broken. I feel like myself again. I’m running in inspired bursts and I even greet the man in his yard today.
“Morning, Harold!” I chirp as I jog by.
His binoculars thud against his chest as he lowers them, and his gaping smile reveals a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Beautiful day!” he answers, and tips his head.
Near the end of the trail, I slow to a walk and stroll down my street. The doves are cooing overhead, their soft, insistent murmurs sounding like a heartbeat, and I pause at a neighbor’s yard to admire their cotton candy–colored tulip tree, just beginning to bloom.
I’m turning in to our driveway when my phone chimes. It’s Erin, returning my text.
Erin:Sounds great! Our place. 7?
Me:Perfect.
Erin:See you guys then! I’ll make the sides and dessert.?
Me:?
I heat the remains of a latte in the microwave, then float to the nook to my laptop, and pound out a punchy blog post aboutShinrin-Yoku, the Japanese term for a “forest bath.” I mention the health benefits—lowers your stress hormones, boosts your immunity—and select a few crisp pics of the woods and the trail, and click publish.
I feel motivated, possibly the most motivated I’ve felt since moving back, so I hop up before the feeling evaporates and cruise down the hall to the bedroom. I cast off my jogging gear and tug on an old pair of cutoffs. The denim is so worn and buttery soft that it feels supple against my skin, and I’m pleased to find I can comfortably button them without sucking in my gut—I haven’t tried them on since shedding the baby weight. I pull on one of Graham’s Chicago Bears tees and head outside to the garden.
I slip on my gloves, grab my till, and dig a fresh row for the rest of the tomato plants and Erin’s transplants. Kneeling, I tuck them in the ground, tamping down the top layer of soil with the palms of my gloved hands.
I study the adjoining, empty raised garden and think about what to plant next. Probably heirloom tomatoes, from seed, from the earmarked catalog on the bench. I peel off my gloves, wipe the grit from my hands, and crouch down. When I’m nearly level with the ground, I snap a few pics of the freshly watered basil and compose an Instagram post: #basil #gardenlife #turningbasilintopesto.
I’m midway through hashtagging when a notification pops up on my screen.
A text.
My cheeks burn as I read the name of the sender.
Margot:Hey, there. Sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you. Things have been... kinda crazy. I’m about to head to the lake to lay out, if you wanna join. I have wine.
My heart feels like it’s drumming in my throat. I check the time. It’s only eleven. I don’t have to pick up Jack from preschool until two thirty. I take a second before I text back, trying to draw in a deep breath. But I can’t. Adrenaline is surging through me and I quickly type:
Absolutely! Sounds fun. See you soon.
I’m smiling so wide my cheeks feel like they’re going to burst. I must look like a madwoman out here in the yard, grinning and clutching my phone.
—
I LEAVE THEgarden hose where it is, splayed next to the raised beds, and head inside. I’m practically shaking as I change into my swimsuit.
I stand over the sink, wash my face, and apply a fresh coat of lavender deodorant. (I hate the chemical, powdery stuff.) I toss on my cover-up, grab a beach towel, and race to thecar.
21
WHEN I PULLup, Margot’s on the wraparound porch on the side of the house watering pots of tropical-looking plants. She waves and I walk over. She’s wearing a straw sun visor and a stark white cover-up that’s open in the front, revealing a red string bikini.
I’m grateful my eyes are shielded by oversize sunglasses so she can’t see them roving over her chiseled stomach, her coppery legs, her pert breasts.
“See,” she says, sprinkling the leaves of a hibiscus with water. “I’m not completely useless.”
She twists the faucet off and bends over to grab a fabric cooler.
“Let’s head down.”
