Through my fresh lens, I observe my brothers and sisters-in-law too. Their gender-role dynamic might not be what I’d choose, but it’s what they’ve chosen, and it’s clear they’re glad for this. They don’t have fireworks leaping between them, but thereisa spark there—a slow-burning bonfire that lights things up instead of burning them down.
My family isn’t perfect, but they’re happy. Or maybe they’re happybecausethey’re not perfect. Because they’re free from the pressures of needing everything to be flawless. Because they give their spouses and their kids and themselves the grace to be human. The grace to understand that relationships aren’t ninety-minute Hollywood movies.
I’m reminded of Rory and how peaceful I felt sitting next to him on the Marlow House couch. How I always thought that comfort implied complacency, but maybe it’s just the feeling of being fulfilled exactly where you are and as you are.
It makes me wonder, not just in the abstract anymore, if I might be in love with him. I don’t linger on the thoughts because they don’t really matter, not when he wants to marry someone else and might even be proposing at this very moment.
When we return to my parents’ house, I shake off my snowy boots in the mudroom. There’s an old family portrait hanging on the wall. We’re all sitting out on the dock with sunburns, ice-cream cones, and bad tan lines. I’m probably six or seven, about the age when I first declared I wanted to be a CEO. It was a dream then—something whimsical that made me squeal with glee to think about. But as I’ve grown up and gotten closer to the reality of it, it’s devolved into an obligation—something I feel like Ishouldgo after because it would be good for me and good for women. Not because it lights me up inside.
I miss you, Kit Kat,I hear myself telling my younger self in the portrait, only realizing how much I mean it once I let myself think it. How much I wish I still had her spunk and innocence.
The little girl in the portrait doesn’t latch onto any of my own worries or regret. She just smiles back, gap-toothed and beautiful with her wide eyes and bushy, untamed hair—long before the years of keratin treatment made it sleek and flat.
“I’m still inside you, silly goose,”she seems to say, and it punches me in the stomach with the force of a tiny but mighty fist.
For so long now, I’ve been trying to grow up, trying to get away from my past self, leave her in the dust. But she’s stayed with me the whole time. Like she knew I’d want her back someday. Like she knew I’d finally start loving her. Loving me. Lovingus.
Dabbing a finger kiss on my face in the picture frame, I go into the family room and hang Mala’s mitten ornament on theChristmas tree. Then I sit down on the couch with a mug of Mom’s hot cider and hold my baby niece, carefully cradling her head. This is first time I’ve met her, but she doesn’t shriek or even whine. She seems to trust me, even though I’m not sure I even trust myself.
Like a sponge, her huge blue eyes absorb every little thing. Her raw awe becomes my own, and we watch together in wonder as the family room shines under the lights from the tree and the fire and the love packed into this house—love that, only an hour ago, I could hardly feel or even see, and now seems so completely obvious. Like only a fool could miss it.
A fool, or someone who’s turned rom-coms into her bible on love.
Which, on second thought, might in fact be the very definition of a fool.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
My big revelation doesn’t make me want to quit my job and move back to Kalamazoo and settle down in a cottage across the lake from my parents.
It doesn’t make me want to drive over to Rory’s house and knock on his door and say, “Oh hey, so funny story, I think I might actually have romantic feelings for you. How about we head over to Culver’s to talk it out over frozen custard and curly fries?”
Sure, I’ve contemplated those scenarios, but the more I think about them, the less sense they make.
If I moved back here, I’d get bored and restless in two seconds flat. I’d regret giving up on my goals. One day in eight years or so, I’d be at the grocery checkout line in Meijer and see a display of Forbes magazines featuring a glossy woman on the cover with a power suit and formidable blowout.That could’ve been me,I’d think bitterly. And then I’d run some red lights on the way home just tolet out some steam, and next thing you’d know, my mug shot would be plastered on the front page of the Kalamazoo Gazette—Local Soccer Mom Wreaks Havoc on Westnedge Ave.On the plus side, perhaps the story might go viral and kick Little Miss Forbes right off her high horse, but that’s beside the point.
As far as Rory goes, it’s not like I’m actually in love with him. He’s a good guy, and I’m tempted to give good guys more of a chance after spending more time with my family. But Rory and I are still too different. If this were a Hallmark movie, there’d be a chance for us with the big-city-girl-falls-for-wholesome-hometown-guy plotline, but as we’ve established, life isnota movie, and my newfound realism tells me I wouldn’t be able to give him what he needs—someone who wants to live in the same zip code for the rest of her life and raise a bunch of kids (without ending up in an orange jumpsuit). And I don’t think he could give me what I need either—the adventure and spontaneity and kissing-in-the-rain date nights.
Yes, I can make more time for my family, and yes, I can open myself up to people who don’t fit the typical Prince Charming type. But that doesn’t mean I have to run back to my hometown and profess my love to Rory. I’m not going to let fear hold me back. And that’s all this is—fear. Existential spirals are normal at the holidays, especially when you’re the last single one standing.
The rest of the visit at my parents’ house isn’t exactly ideal. Cranky and on edge, I throw myself into work, leading Q1 planning Zoom calls from my childhood bedroom while my mom clanks pots and pans from the kitchen below. With each hour, I get more antsy to leave. Jump back on the corporate treadmill andsweat out all the angst. Seek refuge in the rat race because at least I belong there. Or even if I don’t, there’s no time to pause and dwell on it when I’m jamming to meet a deadline.
Maybe it’s not the most mature solution, but the most expedient one is just to move up my flight back to London. Before I do, though, I check with Rory to see how things are going with Emily. If they’re back together, that’s an extra reason for me to leave ASAP and avoid having to be on the same return flight and see his glee juxtaposed to my gloom.
How’s it going with Emily?I text him, hoping the strictly platonic, supportive-friend tone comes through.
It takes him a while to text back. Not at all like his typical time lines. Finally, my phone chimes, and my mood lifts at his name, then sinks at the message:She wants to get back together.
It feels like losing a friend, only worse because of the part of me that was wondering if just maybe we might be more than friends, in another universe or potentially this one. The thought of Rory being there and available was highly comforting. And now it’s gone, just like that.
Knew she’d come around,I reply because I did. No one with an ounce of common sense would let Rory go.Congrats!!!
I’m hoping the three exclamation points do the trick to make him believe that I’m being genuine. He probably will think that—he always likes to believe the best in me and other people. The thought paints me even bluer.
I tell him something has come up for work, so I have to fly back to London a few days early. Then I pack up my carry-on bag, and both my parents drive me to the airport, even though I tell them I don’t need them to.
As they hug me goodbye, they ask when I’ll be transferred back to the States, and I say hopefully soon. But on the flight back to Heathrow (back to first class this time), I send some emails to request that my next case be in Dubai or Singapore or any English-speaking place east of the prime meridian. I might not know exactly where I’m heading in life, but I refuse to go backward.
Then I recline my seat one hundred and eighty degrees, spreading out in my private pod, somehow less comfortable than I was when I was crammed in next to Rory at the very back of the plane.
