I laugh. “Same. I’ll bring Argos next time. They can wear each other out instead.”
“Deal,” he says.
“Thanks again,” I tell him, “for dinner.”
“Thanks for doing all those dishes,” he says appreciatively.
“Happy to.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t mean that. No one is happy to do the dishes.”
“I am,” I admit. “I find it relaxing.”
He leans in, eyes wide, cards pressed to his chest. “Relaxing?”
I lean in with my cards against my chest, eyes wide, mirroring him. “I am just as incredulous that you find cooking enjoyable.”
“Strange,” he says.
“Agreed.”
We both sit up, eyes back on our cards. Alex just explained the rules of two-person euchre to me five minutes ago—for the second time—and I’ve already forgotten them. Other thoughts have been bouncing around my mind tonight, loud and insistent, taking up so much space that I can’t hold on to anything else.
Maybe it’s the whisper of change in seasons that’s turned me pensive, but ever since we were at the playground this morning, I’ve been thinking about this summer. While Alex and Mia and I soaked up this sunshiny almost-fall day, filled with her bubbly laughter, the wind in my hair, kicking a soccer ball in their backyard, reading books with Mia while Alex cooked, then tucking herin, I kept thinking, I feel such a comforting happiness when I’m with Alex.
I needed this gentle summer, when so much else was abrasively painful: divorcing, moving out of my home, saying goodbye to Lauren. And I’m grateful for what my gentle summer with Alex gave me.
But I also know this isn’t real life.
With the exception of the infamous, near-death experience of our bike-ride race, Alex and I have insulated ourselves from our exes, from the bigger picture of what brought us together, steered our conversations clear of the topic of our divorces, when the fact is our exes are still here, weaving in and out of our lives. In conversations about plans and logistics for Mia, handoff and pickup days for Argos. In unexpected moments, because I swear there’s something about this city that keeps wrenching people from your past onto your path, when, either alone or together, we’ve spotted Ethan or Jen or EthanandJen, and it’s been a bucket of ice water dousing me head to toe, every time.
I’ve been rereading some of my middle-grade favorites the past few weeks, most of them Karen Cushman titles—The Ballad of Lucy Whipple;The Midwife’s Apprentice;Catherine, Called Birdy.Stories of young girls on the cusp of womanhood, not fully on their own, physically, at least, but very much on their own within themselves, thrust into often harsh, daunting circumstances. I loved those stories when I was younger, because they felt true. Because I often felt alone even when I wasn’t, and there was something inspiring about their courage; they didn’t try to deny what they were up against, more or less entirely on their own, and they didn’t buckle, either. They faced it, leaned into it, stretched, and grew.
I know why I’ve been rereading them. Not for nostalgia, butfor the reminder. That’s who I wanted to be when I grew up—a brave, resilient woman who forged a life of her own.
But somewhere along the way, I lost sight of thatwant. Or maybe I stopped fighting for it. I let Ethan’s want be the louder one, the want that steered my path. Then I met Lauren, when I was so lost and she was so sure, and I often piggybacked on her wants.
Now, I have Alex. And Mia. And it’s so tempting, the thought of throwing myself intotheirlife, telling myself it’s some platonic-version redemption of the story I’d wanted with Ethan. A man in my life who’s kind and playful and cooks before I do the dishes, a sweet little girl to tuck in at night, a deck of cards and a bottle of wine between the two of us, after she’s fallen asleep.
Rereading those books, I’ve been reminded that while that path is tempting, it isn’t what I want—to keep turning to someone else’s wants to guide me, rather than search myself for those answers, even if I’m not sure yet what that want is.
I still have a lot to figure out, but I know this: I want to stretch and grow. I want a life that isn’t a rebound from the shattered one I had with Ethan or a replacement for the one that plugged into Lauren’s.
I want a life that feels new, and strong, and true to me, built from the foundation of what I want. A life that’smine.
Possibilities flash in front me, all the things I could learn, try, do on my own; the ways I could make myself bigger, like Lauren said.
As I look at Alex, one clear idea pops into my mind.
“Would you teach me how to cook?” I blurt.
Alex lifts a card from the middle of his hand, moving it to the end, unphased by my outburst. “Sure,” he says.
Sure. Just like that. Like I asked if it’s September. If it’s Friday. No hesitation.
I never tried to ask Ethan if he’d teach me. I knew, if I did, he’d laugh, or worse, if he did say yes and try, it would have turned out like it did when I was younger, with my mom—strained patience, taking over the moment I messed up or lost focus, far away in my vivid imagination, interrupting with questions that only elicited a weary sigh.
Thea knew she could be hasty when doing tasks. And while she’d learned not to interrupt with questions, she was still insatiably curious. She struggled to follow directions that weren’t written down, and even then she had to reread them. She always managed to keep up with life’s logistics—homework and soccer practice and piano lessons as a kid, the bills and the laundry and the doctor appointments as an adult—but it was never easy, and sometimes she let things go too long because she couldn’t figure out which task to start, when her brain felt so loud and dizzyingly noisy. And even when she’d done it all well, it was exhausting, a tenuous juggling act riddled with anxiety, teeth-clenched, dreading the moment she’d finally drop a ball.
