Page 119 of Just Ten Seconds

“I can’t tell you, or it won’t come true.”

She drops the candles with a thud. “It’s Saturday night, Mara. Fuck wishes and go make your dreams come true.”

I know why I’m here.

I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to say or how it’s going to be received.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

Regina, the nighttime radio show, comes on. Regina speaks in that ever-soothing voice. “Tonight, we are rekindling romances and talking about second chances. Loving someone through thick and thin is hard. Everyone has a unique history and unique dreams. Many times, those two elements clash. If you can work through those differences and find a common connection, an understanding of where you are today, then the rest will fall into place. The most important thing is that you show up.”

I pull into the parking lot of Zion Episcopal Church and see the blazing blue of Dean’s truck. I park next to it and contemplate turning around.

You came this far, Mara. You know what you have to do.

The door to the building is propped open, as always. I walk down the yellow corridor and find it’s more inviting, cheerful even, than the first time I came in here. I was so unsure of this place then. Now, I know its power.

Tracey is leading the group in a discussion. I stand in the back. Kevin is in his usual seat, as are Lauren and Joey. There are a few others I recognize, and it makes my stomach tie in knots. Especially because in the back of the row, with his back to me, is Dean with his arms crossed and his chin raised.

I take a step in, and Tracey notices my intrusion.

She offers a wide smile and an outstretched hand. “Come in, friend. We’ve missed you these last few weeks.”

My steps are timid as I walk to the front of the circle. When I left Jackie’s house, I had this high-energy feeling, a sense of doing the right thing. Now, as I look at the small crowd of eyes staring at me, I’m wondering if this was just about the worst decision ever.

Probably, but it’s also the right one.

“I’d like to speak to the group, if that’s okay?” I ask Tracey, who nods with a wave of her hand, offering up the space to me.

I could sit, but I choose to stand. My palms are sweaty, so I rub them on my jeans. I clear my throat.

“I have a confession to make,” I start.

The room is silent as everyone sits, listening intently. It’s almost too quiet because I can hear my heart beating in my chest like a runaway train.

“Where do I start?” I’m talking to myself.

Breathe, Mara. Just breathe.

“For the past three years, I’ve been walking around this world, unsure of who I am or what I’m supposed to do. Everyone says you need to move on, but how can you move on when you’re mourning the future? Then, one day, I came here to attend a group meeting. Not this one. I actually came here for the one down the hall. It was Coping Families of Inmates. You see, my ex-husband is in jail. Our marriage ended because he was a liar, a thief, and a murderer. I couldn’t go in. The memories of being in that room left me crippled in the hallway. I was going to leave. I almost did. That’s when I heard you.” I turn to Lauren, who is sitting with Joey.

She has a knowing look on her face. I think she figured out my story a long time ago.

“Lauren, when you spoke about your plans for the future being destroyed after Ryan’s death, I understood that pain. It was your words that drew me into this room. And you taught me that it’s okay to love after loss.” I turn around the room and share with everyone. “I walked into this room, and for the first time, I felt understood. I led you to believe I’d lost my husband. I had but not in the sense I led you to believe. You know what it’s like to mourn, and while I hate my ex-husband, I miss the wonderful man I thought he was. You showed me that it was okay to miss the old him and move on from not having that person in my life anymore.

“Because of your stories, I know it’s okay to talk about my past—the good and the bad—because it’s my past, and I have to feel it in order to keep living. Everyone in this room gave me the chance to express how I feel. To target that hurt and not be afraid to say it out loud. I was grieving. You helped me see that.

“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry for turning your pain into a learning experience for me. It was selfish. But I suppose my greatest confession is that I don’t regret it. I’d do it over again. You gave me the strength to fall in love again.”

I turn to face Dean. He’s still here, in his seat. His eyes are glassy, his mouth is open, and his face looks pained.

“He is good and kind. He walked into my life with his heart on his sleeve, and it was that vulnerability that lit my soul. His need to protect the ones he loves overwhelmed me like wildfire. And then he grinned, and my heart has been burning ever since.”

I look into the crowd and explain to them just how amazing Dean is, “He’s the kind of guy who can make a five-star meal, yet he will also have a hot-dog picnic in Times Square. He knows the act of a simple gesture, like bringing you a candy bar to put a smile on your face, and he has the most self-deprecating—yet at times, odd—and cocky humor you’ve ever known. He can dance, which according to my landlady, makes him marriage material. And he’s a magnificent father. For a girl who was raised to believe men were the devil, I have yet to find anything less than angelic in him. I see his perfection when he’s painting neon jellyfish for his daughter’s play or panicking over purchasing a bralette because his baby is getting too old to cuddle with. He knows how to braid hair and make horrible pig-knuckle dishes that probably taste amazing, and he does movie night. Simple popcorn-and-pizza movie nights. And did I also mention he can build a farmhouse table from scratch?”

I laugh nervously even though each word is coming from my heart.

“He’s a man who fixes things with his hands. Most of all, he fixed me. He taught me to laugh—really laugh again. He taught me it’s okay to open my heart. I wasn’t ready, but he was a constant my heart couldn’t ignore. And I hurt him. Because I lied. I was so afraid of my past that it cost me my future.”