Page 58 of Lessons in Lemonade

Everything takes time; I know it does. I just need to keep reminding myself to not let my heart outpace my head. Before I can change my mind, I grab my phone off the ledge next to the tub, take a photo of my legs under the water, and caption it with this: Some things are worth the wait.

It’ll be a constant reminder for me, plus, she’s a smart girl. I hope she reads between the lines.

Southern Pecan Brownies

THINGS ARE NOT going well.

It was stupid of me to think things would stay the same after we spent the night together. We agreed to just once, and although we’ve both kept our end of the deal, we’ve been off since the morning after, and I don’t know how to get us back to what feels like normal. It’s like this wall has gone up between us, and as much as we are moving through the days together like always, he now feels more like a roommate than my best friend, and I don’t like it. It’s almost like his behavior is a polite formality versus what it was before: open, engaging, and cozy.

I just don’t understand what he wants from me.

I saw the picture he posted on social media last weekend, and it did stir emotions in me, but not the good kind. Granted, I may be taking it personally because things feel off when the reality is the photo might have had nothing to do with me, but I don’t think that’s the case. He knows I don’t want a relationship, knows I like the way things are, so I’m not sure what he’s waiting for. It makes me angry, because I feel like he’s not taking me seriously, and I don’t like feeling like this, especially when it comes to him. Normally I do pretty well at not worrying about what others think of me, but with him it’s different.

He is different.

He’s important to me—very important—and other than Shelby and Lexi, I’ve never had a friend like him.

Because of that fact, I’m trying to not feel completely consumed by how this shift is affecting just me, trying to be sensitive to how he feels as well. Maybe Shelby was right, but then again, he’s got a lot going on right now. We’ll get through this; I know we will.

“Hey, how about we get out of the house tonight?” I say as I come up behind him. He’s sitting on the couch in the same spot he’s been in for what seems like weeks now, and I’m not sure what to do with him. I’m starting to feel a little irritated toward his overall depressed mood, though I feel that’s unfair because we all handle things differently and in our own time. But I mean . . . come on. He should be over the shock of his injured knee by now and moving toward a better mental state.

My hand settles on his shoulder, and I realize it’s the first bit of contact we’ve had in two weeks. My fingers tingle at the warmth coming through his shirt.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, his voice rough, his eyes glued to the sports channel.

I know he’s not immune to the fact that he’s a Debbie Downer. He’s tried to be happy for me, especially after the great reviews we received from the festival brunch, but it’s like no matter how hard he tries, he’s just not. I’m certain most of it has to do with his knee and the uncertainty of what’s to come, but I also know deep down some of it is because of me. I hate this.

“There’s a place two miles north of Folly Beach that serves the best Frogmore stew. They’re really known for their oysters, but it’s not the right season, so we’ll have to go back another time for those.”

Another time. Oyster season is roughly six months away, and that’s such a long time from now. Am I planning on him being here in six months? Is he planning on being here in six months? If—no, when he heads back to Tampa, that will interfere with his season, so I doubt it, and the sudden thought of him leaving has me feeling off-kilter. It’s not a subject we’ve talked about, but we probably should soon. He isn’t going to stay here forever, and I’m certain he has an idea of when he plans to head back.

“What exactly is Frogmore stew?” He looks up at me. His eyes are shadowed with stress and unhappiness, and the scruff on his face is at least three days old.

“It’s another term for a low-country boil. You know: shrimp, sausage, corn, potatoes, et cetera. They also have great hushpuppies.” My hand runs across his back as I move to the end of the couch and sit on the armrest.

There’s a moment of silence between us as we stare at each other, and then his nostrils flare as he takes in a breath of air and says, “Sounds good.”

“I think so.” I give him a small encouraging smile. He reaches for the remote to flip off the television as I glance down and see he’s wearing old baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt that’s seen better days. Getting him out of the house is definitely going to be good for him, so I say, “Get dressed, and we’ll leave in twenty.”

Mostly, the drive out to the restaurant is quiet. We decided to take his truck since he fits more comfortably in it than in my car, and he lets me drive. He’s slipped on a clean shirt with a pair of jeans, and he attempted to style his hair. He looks inviting and familiar, and it creates an ache in my chest, a desire to climb over, sit in his lap, and be hugged by him. Again, I hate this place we’re in now. Even so, it’s going to be a beautiful night, so we roll down the windows to let the salty air blow in. I think the fresh air will be good for him, good for us. Maybe it’ll lift his spirits, at least that’s what I’m hoping.

After we’re seated at a table on the outside deck that overlooks the low country, I bite the bullet on trying to get to the bottom of this awkwardness between us. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on in your head?” I ask him quietly.

His gaze shifts to find mine and he frowns. Picking up the bottle of beer the waitress dropped off, he takes a sip before answering me, never breaking eye contact. “No, not really.”

My stomach dips at his focus on me, at his non-answer, and my lips press together in a line. Of course he doesn’t want to talk; he hasn’t for a while now, so why did I think he would? Maybe coming out here was a mistake. Glancing past his shoulder, I look toward the horizon, which is starting to shade with the early colors of night, and I try to think of something else that might open him up without his mood continuing to pull me down.

“How’s the therapy going with Eddie? You saw him today, right?” A breeze blows across the water, bringing with it the constant lingering odor of the pluff mud. To most it smells gross, like sulfur, but to me it smells like home.

“I did, and it’s not going well.” Unconsciously, his left hand reaches under the table and he begins to rub his knee. I noticed more so this week that he’s been alternating ice and heat rather frequently, and I also spotted a pill bottle on the counter that’s his.

My heart hurts for him at this admission. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, and you haven’t said anything.”

His eyes lower to the table and his shoulders droop. Seeing him like this, I’m again taken aback by how different he was at the party and Thanksgiving versus now.

“Yeah. It’s been almost three months.” He shakes his head. “I expected there to be some swelling, but not this much.” He leans back in his chair and lets out a sigh.

“Nothing went wrong with the surgery, did it?” I hadn’t considered the possibility that he wasn’t put back together perfectly.