by J. L. Berg
But as they said…
Things didn’t always go as planned.
I wasn’t sure if we had been born with self-doubt or if it was something that had rooted itself in us slowly, growing over time, sprouting buds when we were at our lowest and withering during times of strength.
When I left the antique store that night, I had every intention of marching up to Sawyer’s door and telling him exactly how I felt.
Better yet, I planned on showing him. But I knew he was still sick, so I set aside my physical desires and decided to repay his kindness and take care of him instead. Then, when we talked everything out and he was back to tip-top shape, I’d make sure to revisit that kiss. But this time, there was no way I was stopping.
Of course, before all of that good stuff happened, I had an errand to run in town.
The grocery store and I had become a bit estranged since my mother’s exit from my life. For the most part, I came here when I needed things like coffee creamer and frozen dinners. Yes, I’d become sort of a hermit, but perhaps that was something I could change.
Change.
It was a word I’d become afraid of; Candace was right about that. I was terrified to do anything that could upset the status quo, including taking a chance on a man who could break my heart.
But I had to try; otherwise, I really would become a hermit—a bitter, old woman who survived on frozen dinners and watched Netflix to fulfill my emotional needs.
I knew I didn’t need a man to survive, but damn if I didn’t want one.
And I was pretty sure I knew which one this time.
So, down the soup aisle I went. I fetched a few different types, not knowing what kind he preferred. Usually, one went with the typical chicken noodle when one was sick, but maybe that wasn’t his jam. What if he was more of a split-pea kind of guy?
By the time I got to the register, I’d picked up at least ten different kinds of soups, three types of breads, a couple liters of sodas, and a dozen doughnuts.
To say I’d gone overboard was an understatement.
As I eased into my car with enough soup and bread to feed a large family, I briefly considered going back in to grab a bottle of wine but decided against it.
I looked like enough of a hot mess as it was without adding alcohol to the mix.
I would come to regret this decision later on in the night.
Driving out of town, I felt the familiar flutter of nerves return whenever I thought about seeing Sawyer. Nerves mixed with a heavy dose of anticipation and trepidation.
Daylight saving was still a week or so out, so although it was after five, the sun still hadn’t sunk into the hemisphere. Driving down the road, I could spot Sawyer’s house long before I came to the shiny green mailbox that indicated his turnout. The familiar glint of his red truck caught my eye as I saw it parked along the shed.
But it wasn’t the truck that had me swerving to avoid his house entirely.
No, it was the presence of another car entirely.
I was driving, so I couldn’t scope it out as thoroughly as I wanted, but what I did see was enough to make me drive on past, taking my ten varieties of soup with me.
Standing outside his house was a perfectly healthy-looking Sawyer, his wavy brown hair blowing in the breeze as he stood, facing a woman in a tight black skirt. His hand—the same hand that had held me less than twenty-four hours ago—sat on her shoulder.
I wanted to look away.
I wanted to turn around and demand answers.
Who was she? Why wasn’t he inside under a warm blanket, running a fever, like he was supposed to be?
Questions flooded my mind, making me blind with jealousy as I closed the distance from his place to mine.
Pulling up to the house, I grabbed all the groceries and stormed into inside, mad at myself for buying all of it and mad at myself for falling down this rabbit hole of possibilities.
“What was I thinking?” I said out loud, suddenly wishing I hadn’t listened to him and adopted that cat I’d wanted. At least then, I’d have someone to talk to.
Yeah, a dead cat, my inner self reminded me as I looked over at the very brown plants in the window. The fact that he had been right about my ability to care for another living thing angered me as well.
Maybe that was why he’d faked his illness?
Because he knew I couldn’t possibly be bothered to stop by and take care of him.
Did he find me shallow and disheartening?
I knew my mind was spiraling, and the fact that I’d chosen not to go back and grab that bottle of wine at the grocery store was really pissing me off.
“Well, at least I have a million cans of soup,” I joked before a tear fell down my cheek. I tried to hold them back—I really did—but when my eyes leveled with the Tupperware container still filled with the cookies we’d made the night before, nothing could be done.
The dam broke, and I lost it.
And that was how he found me—sobbing in the middle of kitchen while clutching a plastic bag filled with soup.
“Elle?” His voice barely broke through. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
Blinking away tears, I looked up, his blurry silhouette forming in the doorway of my parents’ kitchen.
The same kitchen he’d kissed me in the night before.
“What happened?” He rushed to my side, kneeling in front of me. He pulled the bag of groceries from my lap and set it aside, his eyes full of worry.
“I bought you soup.” It was all I could think to say.
“What?” Confusion melded with concern.
“I went to the store, and I bought soup and bread and doughnuts. I wanted to take care of you. But then I went by your house, and you were outside with a woman. And so, instead of taking care of you, I drove here. And cried.”
His face fell, and my stomach fell with it.
“Elle,” he said my name with such compassion. “That was a family friend. She came by to ask me to build a piece of furniture for her husband for their anniversary. I swear, that was all it was.”
I felt bile in my throat. This was all too familiar.
The fear, the paranoia. The loss of control.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Sawyer,” I finally admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. I felt like I was confessing something. Perhaps I was.
“Do what?”
I looked at him, my expression vacant, my emotions raw. The car ride past his house. The feeling of betrayal I’d just experienced.
It was all… too much.
“Us. You and me. Anyone. I don’t know if I can trust again.”
“Do you not believe me? About the family friend?” he asked.
I let out a breath. “I do,” I replied before amending, “I want to. But there will always be this part of me that wonders, that distrusts everything you say and do.”
“Because of what Reed did to you.”
I didn’t need to say anything. Both of us knew it was true.
“Look at how I reacted tonight,” I said. “I saw you talking to another woman, and I went insane. This isn’t a healthy way to start a relationship. I’m not rational. I’m not someone you want to fall in love with.”
Grabbing my hand, he looked into my eyes. “Let me be the judge of that.”
Pressing my lips together, I felt overwhelmed with emotions. “I don’t know how to trust you.”
“Then don’t.”
“What?”
“Trust is earned,” he explained. “Let me show you I deserve it.”
Biting my bottom lip, I asked, “And how do you know I deserve it in return?”
A small smile played across his lips. “I don’t, which is why you’ll need to earn mine as well.”
“That sounds okay,” I answered.
“Yeah?” He smiled, instantly making me want to touch him.
My fingers reached up to cradle his face, and that was when I felt it.
“You’re burning up!” I hollered, jumping up from
my spot in the kitchen chair.
He rose with me, my hand rising up to his forehead.
“What the hell are you even doing here? And why are you out of bed?”
His smile turned sheepish, and shy Sawyer took over. “I was so excited about selling a piece of my furniture that I had to come over right away to tell you. I sort of forgot about the fact that I was still sick.”
“And the family friend who tore down your door to demand this piece of furniture? She didn’t care that you were burning up with a fever? She couldn’t have called?”
He smiled, not answering immediately, making me impatient. “What?”
“You’re sort of adorable when you’re bossy and mean.”
“Oh, get in the living room!” I demanded, rolling my eyes while resisting the urge to grin like a besotted, lovesick fool. “I want you under a blanket. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered with a wink.
I followed him into the living room, watching his great big body occupy my sofa from end to end. I pulled off his shoes and covered him with the afghan my grandmother had made for my twelfth birthday. It was pink and had tiny flowers and looked absolutely ridiculous on him.
“I’m getting you some Advil and soup.”
“Don’t you want to hear about the furniture piece?” he said in a voice that almost made my heart melt.
Almost.
“Advil first,” I scolded, racing to the kitchen to grab the tiny bottle I’d only stopped using myself a day ago. Glancing at the Tupperware container of cookies, I felt myself smile.
The cassette tape wasn’t broken after all.
Returning to him in the living room, I had him sit up and take the medication before he spoke. I could tell that even though he wasn’t feeling the best, he was still beaming with excitement to share his news.
And I couldn’t help but feel pretty damn happy about the fact that I was the one he wanted to tell first.
Sitting down in the chair opposite from him, I motioned for him to spill. “Okay, tell me all about it.”
“It’s going to be fantastic,” he said.
“Going to be? It’s not one of the pieces you’ve already made?”
“Nope,” he answered, shaking his head. “Totally custom. She has this wood from a family cabin that was torn down a few years ago.”
“She kept the wood? Isn’t that kind of weird?”
He shrugged. “I figured a woman who still keeps porcelain cherubs on her mantel would understand.”
I grinned, eyeing the tiny monstrosities myself. “You know those aren’t mine.”
“Yeah, but that hasn’t stopped you from taking them down and putting up something that is.”
Shaking my head, I motioned for him to go on.
“The cabin was sentimental, so they kept a bit of the wood, thinking they’d eventually do something with it, but the husband has never had the time. So, she decided their anniversary would be the perfect occasion to surprise him. She had a local woodworker lined up to do it, but he got sick.”
“Flu?” I asked.
“Uh, no. But wouldn’t that have been a coincidence? Anyway, she needs it, like, next weekend for their big, fancy party, so she can reveal it and called to ask if I could do it. She said my mom mentioned I was doing furniture—can you believe that?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that one.
The woman used to be my mother-in-law. But I had a feeling the mother-in-law I remembered wasn’t anything like the mother Sawyer had had, growing up.
Luckily, his rambling continued, so I didn’t have to respond. “The only time she could drop off the wood without her husband noticing was today, so unfortunately, I had to get off my deathbed. I hope you understand.”
“I’d be more understanding if you weren’t running a fever, but yeah, I guess so. I’m really happy she called you. I can’t wait to see what you build.”
“She’s connected too,” he went on, his eyes briefly closing. “Her family is wealthy, so I’m hoping maybe I can get some other business with a few of her friends. This could be it—the in I need.”
Smiling, I stood up and placed a hand on his head. “You need to rest.”
“I want to keep talking with you.”
“You’re cute when you’re sick,” I murmured.
“You’re cute all the time. Come sit by me? I don’t want to sleep.”
“How about I go heat up that soup I mentioned, and I’ll come back and sit next to you?” I suggested.
“Okay.”
His face was flushed, and I could see his arms wrapped around himself under the blanket. Grabbing another, I placed it over his body before heading into the kitchen. Picking up the plastic bag from the floor where Sawyer had left it, I began placing the cans in the pantry and the bags of bread on the counter. Stealing one of the doughnuts, I ripped it in half and savored each bite before sneaking back into the living room.
Smiling to myself, I heard his heavy breathing before I saw his eyes were still shut.
Being as quiet as possible, I tip toed back into the kitchen and grabbed the journals from my work bag before sneaking upstairs to allow him some space.
We could talk in the morning.
We had all the time in the world now.
Monday, May 4, 1998
My visits to William’s house have become a daily occurrence. What started out as a friendly gesture has become a balm for what ails me.
I don’t think there’s a single thing he doesn’t know about me. I can’t seem to stop talking when I’m around him. Perhaps it’s nerves. I just feel such a flutter when he’s near—like those schoolgirl crushes I had so long ago.
When we’re together, he just sits in his recliner, gently rocking back and forth, and listens as I go on and on. He’s not much of a talker.
He’s told me stories about George. Lots of them, in fact. But when it comes to his own life, I know very little. I’ve heard this and that through the grapevine over the years but nothing directly from him.
It’s as if I’m speaking to a total stranger.
So, I guess the question is … can a woman fall in love with a man she doesn’t know?
Because I fear that’s what’s happening.
Our relationship has turned into something so much more. My afternoons with William breathe life to my old bones. In a time where I’d come to believe love was merely another word for obligation, I find myself wanting again.
Longing for more.
Can something so wrong be so right?
Could William have been brought to soothe the loneliness? Or is this just temptation meant to distract a fragile, old housewife?
All I know is, something inside of me has awoken, and for that, I am irrevocably changed.
But how do I know he feels the same?
And if so, what does it matter?
Believing in love doesn’t make it real.
My nana’s words haunted me that night. Her pain stayed with me long after I closed my eyes to sleep.
Believing in love doesn’t make it real.
She’d fallen for a man she could never have.
As much as I felt her struggle, I also couldn’t help but think of the man sitting in the nursing home just miles away as she’d written those words. Had he deserved this?
It was such a delicate situation—one I was only experiencing from the pages of a journal long since written. Who was I to judge the past?
Would my grandfather have understood? Would he have wanted her to be happy in the end? Or would he judge the very idea of his brother and wife together in any capacity as nothing less than adultery?
My grandmother’s words always had the ability to dig into my emotions, and I could pull similarities from my own life. Reading this journal was like looking in the mirror sometimes.
Maybe it was human nature—our innate ability to connect with everything we saw—but knowing she had fallen for a man she didn’t know… I felt that on a deeper level. One I couldn’t sh
ake.
Was history repeating itself?
“There’s that face again.”
Looking up from my bed, I saw him standing in the doorway of my bedroom. His smile was as bright as the morning sun filtering through the window, and he looked a hundred times better than the night before.
“Have you figured out what it means yet?” I asked, remembering an earlier conversation regarding this particular facial expression.
“You must be mulling something over. Something important or deeply intriguing.”
Stepping forward, he caught notice of the array of things scattered across my bedspread. I’d awoken early that morning, plagued by the words I’d fallen asleep to, intent on figuring out how it all related to my own life.
“I see you’ve got your nana’s journal out again. And… is that our high school yearbook?”
Feeling slightly embarrassed, I nodded. “Yeah. I guess I was looking for something.”
His eyes narrowed onto the page that was open. “Or someone?” he asked.
Looking at the picture I’d found of him from his senior year, I nodded, knowing he needed some additional context for any of this to make sense. “My grandmother fell in love with a man she didn’t know. I guess I didn’t want to make the same mistake.”
Concern washed across his face. “You don’t think you know me?”
Looking down at the younger black-and-white version of him immortalized in the yearbook, I shook my head. “Up until I saw this picture, I didn’t even remember you’d played football.”
He let out a sigh. “Not well. Not like my brother. And besides, we were two years apart in high school. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But I was your sister-in-law for ten years. I’ve known you since we were practically kids. And yet, I feel like we just met, and I’m the only one who’s talking.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve mentioned more than once that you know me. You can navigate my moods by my facial expressions, and you know whether or not I’m lying, but all of that is because I’m an open book, Sawyer. When you ask me a question, I answer it.”
“And you don’t feel that way with me…” he said. It wasn’t a question, but more of a realization.
