“Can you just show me these dating options now?” I’d asked. Because yes, fine. I’m curious.
He pulled a face. “Not a chance. We’re going to do this right.”
I still have no idea what he meant by that, but I assume he’s going to make a big production out of it. Probably Minnie’s influence.
She once made a PowerPoint presentation to try to convince John and I that our family needed a dog.
It was very persuasive, and two weeks later, we got Samson.
I loved that dog.
John did not.
I should’ve seen that as a red flag. I mean, who doesn’t love dogs?
I spent the rest of yesterday filling out more online job applications and baking pecan bars just like my grandma used to make. The great thing I’ve discovered about being in the city is that there are lots of specific, even imported ingredients I can find here—like fresh milled flour, Lyle’s Golden Syrup, and the freshest fruits in any season. I’m happy to report that Chicago is a foodie’s paradise.
Baking gave me some much-needed stress relief and also the reminder that while none of these businesses seemed to want me, my grandparents always did.
Gram was a constant in my life right up until the time she passed away when Minnie was five. She never wrote her recipes down, and she rarely measured anything. I’d asked her about it once because I’d grown to like rules and structure, but she’d winked at me and said,“It’s better when you’ve got some skin in the game.”
John didn’t even go to her funeral with me. Didn’t help pack up the farmhouse for the estate sale we’d had because my grandpa was also gone by then. He knew how much she meant to me—I’d told him many times—but he claimed he had to work and couldn’t get away.
I’d agreed to move to Colorado after we got married because it was practical and John needed a job, but I would’ve hesitated if I’d known it would mean I’d only see my grandma a few more times. I still regret that.
I realize this as I turn on my KitchenAid mixer and watch all the ingredients come together. I stand like that for a few long seconds, processing.
Baking therapy. It’s cheaper than the alternative.
Were there red flags all along that I chose to ignore? After I found out about Misty (blech, even her name in my brain tastes like plastic), I tried to answer that exact question.
How could I not have known?
“You know what I always say—if she isn’t paying enough attention to know about an affair, she’s probably the reason he cheated in the first place.”
The memory of the overheard comment in the adjacent bathroom stall smacks me in the face with the same force it did the day I heard it, once again conjuring a gnawing question—Was the divorce my fault?
John and Ihadbeen happy once... hadn’t we?
The knock on the door is a welcome distraction that thankfully takes me out of my own head.
I open the door to find Miles standing outside holding three large brown paper bags. I hold in a smile.
“Where’s your robe and your mud mask?” I ask, a callback to the night we met.
He grins. “Speaking of that night—”
“Oh, let’s never speak of it again, please,” I cut him off, half joking.
He chuckles. “That night you said that you hadn’t ever tried Chinese food.”
He remembered that?
He holds up the bags. “I figured then you probably haven’t tried Indian food either.”
I’m not sure how to respond, other than to wonder if he somehow broke into my apartment and read my journal.
Also, I didn’t expect him to be so thoughtful.
