“Jack,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes large with what could be shock or fear.
Behind her, there’s movement as Taylor slips out to leave us alone. I don’t even think Meg remembers she’s there, much less acknowledges it, all thoughts of anything else vanishing.
“Hi,” I say, my voice sounding more sturdy than I feel, and I slide my hands into the pockets of my slacks to wait and see how she reacts once the surprise has worn off. Yes, I chose to forgo my standard attire of jeans and dressed for the occasion in a black button-down and gray slacks. I don’t think she’s noticed, though; her eyes haven’t strayed far from mine.
Damn, she looks so good.
Beautiful. Just beautiful.
And then her face crumbles. “I’m sorry,” she says just before she starts to cry.
As she raises her hands a little higher to cover herself so she can’t be seen, panic shoots through me at her sudden distress. In just a few strides I’m down the steps, standing in front of her and wrapping her up in my arms. I didn’t expect her to cry, at least not like this. This isn’t like her at all.
“Please don’t cry.” I drop my head so my face is pressed into her hair. She smells so good, every muscle in me instantly soothed by just this one sensation.
Pushing up to her tiptoes, she presses herself closer like she’s trying to melt into me, and she buries her face in that sweet spot just under my chin and over my collarbone.
“I’m sorry, it’s just . . .” She lets out a strangled noise that vibrates into my skin, and my poor deprived heart thumps hard at the sound. My arms tighten even more around her.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left like I did. I’m sorry I didn’t text you back the first time, and I’m sorry it took me so long to make my way back to you.” And I am—I am so, so sorry. I know I was caught up in how that last week I was here made me feel, but I didn’t really stop to consider her feelings and how I made her feel.
She leans back, her beautiful face tear-stained, and she shakes her head. “No, this is my fault. I never should have let you go. You were right the whole time, about me, about us, and I’m so sorry.”
More tears drop from her eyes, and with each one, she steals another piece of my soul. I pull her back against me, and she wraps her arms around me, holding on for dear life.
I read somewhere once that human touch can be stronger than any verbal or emotional contact, that physical touch can promote a sense of security and belonging in any relationship, and they weren’t wrong. Every time I touch her and she touches me, I feel like all is right in the world, feel we belong to each other. I can feel my blood pressure coming down and my heart rate slowing as it seeks to fall into sync with hers. It’s the best feeling, and I hold on a little tighter.
“You smell so good.” She breathes me in. “You feel so good.” She snuggles closer. “And I’m so happy you are here.” She lets out a deep, long-overdue sigh.
Not as happy as I am.
Mine.
My girl.
Next to us, Zeus whines. I had forgotten he was here, and just like me, he doesn’t like the distress that’s been rolling off of her.
Pulling back, Meg looks down and spots him. “Oh, hi, buddy.” She sinks to her knees to hug him and buries her face in his fur. “I missed you, too.”
He looks up at me and glares. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was pissed at me for keeping them apart for so long. Trust me, pal, I’m pissed at me, too.
Standing up with her fingers still lingering in his fur, Meg glances behind me at the setup underneath the gazebo. “What is this?” she asks, wiping her face and under her eyes. As if I care about smudged makeup.
“I owed you a date, remember?” I place my hand on her lower back and guide her up the three steps to the center.
“A date?” she asks, confused. “I thought this was a private tour . . .”
“It is, private just for us. You mentioned in passing on the carriage ride that you loved this house and garden, and I never forgot, so I reached out. And yes, it’s my turn for a date with you. Taking a play from your playbook, instead of going to a restaurant, I made the food for you. Food is love, right?” The corner of my mouth rises just a little.
“It is,” she whispers, dropping her head and suddenly appearing shy.
Pulling out her chair, I guide her to sit then push her in before taking my own seat. Zeus settles in next to her feet, and she runs her hand over his head and back one time before she draws the napkin into her lap and pierces me with steel gray. There’s anger and accusation in her gaze, which I can’t blame her for; I did barge into her life and then exit without so much as even looking back.
“You didn’t text me back. I texted you like an hour and a half ago. I saw the dots and then you stopped. Why?”
“Yeah, about that . . .” Fidgeting, I pull my own napkin into my lap and pick up the bottle of white wine I had chilling to pour her a glass. “The first time, I have no excuse, other than my feelings were still hurt and I wasn’t ready. Today, I started to, obviously, but if I had, I never would have stopped, and I had a to-do list a mile long to get ready for tonight. I know it doesn’t look like much, but you’ll be happy to know I did prepare all of this by myself.” I glance down at the charcuterie board, the tureen of she-crab soup, the shrimp dip, and the other finger foods like stuffed cherry tomatoes.
“You made all this?” She looks at me with wariness and awe.
I nod, feeling slightly concerned that she won’t like it. She looks down at the table, at the different dishes laid out in front of her.
“Where? Where did you prepare it?” She glances at me quickly then looks back at the table.
“Actually, at OBA.” I open the lid to the tureen and ladle some soup into her bowl then mine.
“What?” Her eyes widen. “When? How come no one told me you were there today?”
I shrug my shoulders and grin, hoping this doesn’t get Taylor in trouble. I can’t imagine that it will. “From what I heard, you haven’t been in much the last couple of days.”
She frowns. “No, I haven’t.”
Picking up her spoon, she dips it into the soup and tastes it. Her eyes light up at the flavor, and a flash of heat sears me upon seeing that she’s pleased. I didn’t realize how nervous I was for her to eat the food I made until she sat down at the table.
Deciding I need to let her lead the conversation between us, I load up a few items on my plate and start eating. She does the same, and I watch closely as she tastes different things. It’s quiet between us, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence, more like a regrouping about what’s to come next. I know how I feel about her and she knows how I feel about us, so really, it’s her who needs to break the ice and explain what she’s thinking and how she feels.
Fortunately, she doesn’t make me wait long before she blurts out, “I made promises to myself.”
Promises. I’d like to make a few promises to her, ones that begin and end with us and forever.
“Like what?” I ask her, setting my spoon down and giving her my full attention.
“Like . . .” She stops talking, frowns again, and starts pulling apart a piece of bread. I don’t say anything, just watch her, and piece by piece, she unknowingly builds a pile of crumbs.
The sun has now dropped enough that it’s more night than day. Although I do have a few small candles lit on the table, the lights strung up around the gazebo have cast her in a mixture of brightness and shadows. I could stare at her indefinitely, and I’m certain I would continuously discover something new.
Letting out a sigh, she tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She’s struggling and I hate this, but she needs to talk; she needs to tell me. There’s no way to move forward without her opening up to me. Then she drops the bread, straightens up tall in her chair, and meets my gaze eye to eye.
“I made five promises to myself, only five so they could be manageable and obtainable, and easy to remember.
I needed them, and I’ve held onto them because they’ve fueled me, shaped me, and given me strength to get through the day.”
I want to ask her when she made these promises and what they have to do with me, but I don’t. I’m patient, and I wait, lifting my glass and taking a sip of the wine.
“The first is that I would not let the cancer fears get to me, and there are a lot of fears. The second is that I would eat healthier, exercise, and practice mindfulness. Third, I wouldn’t freak out every time I felt tired or got a fever. Fourth, I would embrace each day as if it were my last and do my best to live a full life. And fifth . . .” She pauses and looks at me nervously. “I promised myself I wouldn’t inflict this on anyone but me.”
Leaning back, I remain silent as I watch different emotions wash through her eyes. Pride, because she’s proud of who she’s become over the last couple of years; sadness, I think because she finally knows she’s missing out on some of the really great parts of life; and then disappointment because she thinks that’s what I feel about her and her promises. She’s completely wrong about that, though.
And then she does the thing, this thing where she shakes her head and then smiles. I’ve seen her do it before and have never given much thought to it, but now I think it’s because she’s trying to shake away bad or negative thoughts, and by smiling she’s reminding herself that she must be grateful, must be happy—even when she’s not. It’s a mask, and for us to work, she’s going to have to take it off.
I continue to stare at her as I replay these promises, considering how they impact her and how they might impact us, and other than the last one, which she’ll need to explain, they all seem like nice things to work toward. I’ve also concluded that she made them to herself sometime during or after when she was sick.
“I went out with a guy—”
“What do you mean you went out with a guy? When?” Jealousy and betrayal slip in, and I scoot my chair back a bit to cross my right ankle over my left knee.
Her eyes drop to the table, which tells me she went out with someone recently and she knew it was wrong. Even so, she wants to tell me anyway, so I do what I told myself I was going to do: I keep my mouth shut and listen without overreacting.
“Sorry,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Keep going.”
Her eyes come back to mine, only this time the emotion present is loud and clear: fear. She’s afraid to tell me, afraid of what I might think of her.
“Three days ago.” Her cheeks tinge pink.
Pursing my lips, I feel my jaw clench. I’m not necessarily angry at her as we both know she wasn’t looking for a relationship or to hook up with anyone; it’s that she did it anyway knowing if I found out about it, it would most likely hurt me.
“Don’t worry, I knew it was wrong—and everyone told me it was wrong.” She smooths out the napkin over her lap. “But I saw the pictures you’ve been posting and it looked like you were moving on with your life, so I wanted to do the same. I just wanted things to get back to normal.”
“Did they?” I ask her, needing to know if she’s looking to regain her version of normal from before me, or if she’s wanting to make a new normal with me.
“No. Within five minutes, I was openly crying on the sidewalk, and I ruined the poor guy’s night.” She reaches for her wine and takes a sip.
Part of me wants to be happy about this because she wanted me and not that guy, but the larger part of me—the part that wants her to just to be happy—has my brows pulling down.
“Meg,” I say softly. “I don’t want you crying. Not over this, not over me.”
“I couldn’t help it.” Her eyes turn glassy behind the candlelight, and she sets her wine down. “I can’t help it now. I didn’t want him—I don’t want anyone but you. I missed you. I missed you so much.”
“And I missed you.” Dropping my leg, I lean forward and lay my hand over hers on the table. The contact between us is nice, and she flips her hand over so we’re palm to palm. My fingers trace the inside of her wrist. “Trust me, there was no moving on, at least not like you’re thinking.”
“What does that mean?” she asks, looking genuinely curious.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. I want to tell her about my time back in Tampa, how utterly miserable I was, and then the interesting turn of events that occurred over the last week, but not yet. “I hear you when you tell me you’ve made these promises to yourself, but I need you to explain where and how I factor into all of this.”
I do want this, more than anything, but only if she wants me in the same way.
And that is what I need to hear from her tonight.
She-Crab Soup
WHY IS THIS so hard?
For weeks, I have been dying to talk to him, to pour my heart out to him, and now that he’s here in front of me looking like the best thing I have ever seen, I’m nervous.
It’s not like I think he’s going to judge me. When it comes to me, he’s the most open and accepting person I know. It’s just that these are my inner thoughts, the places I rarely go to, because if I do, I’m not keeping promise number one. I’m letting the cancer fears get to me.
Staring down at our hands, I ask him a question I’m certain I already know the answer to.
“Have you ever known someone to die of cancer?”
The words linger in the air and he doesn’t respond right away; instead his fingers tighten on my arm and my eyes rise to find his. Warmth and love shine from them—they have since the moment our eyes collided across the garden—and it’s this, having him here, openly wanting to know me that makes this easier than I ever thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still so hard, but for the first time, I want to talk to him. I want to tell him.
“No, but I imagine you have,” he says quietly.
I nod and think about the three funerals I went to within two years of my diagnosis.
When you are going through the experience of treatment, support groups, and counseling, it’s comforting to be surrounded by a community who understands and is there to help. You meet people and make friends, but as much as it’s embraced and discussed, the aftermath of surviving and the guilt that comes along with personally knowing those who don’t is something I’m certain I’ll struggle with for the rest of my life.
As for the funerals, the poignancy evoked by being so close to what could have been and still might be my reality . . . it sits too close to the heart. Mortality stares you in the face, and there’s no escaping it.
“I’m sorry you lost people you cared for,” he says as he leans forward and slides his hand up my forearm, his thumb swiping back and forth over the crease in my elbow.
I nod again and swallow to try to hold onto my composure. It’s not just because of the topic, but because I’m discussing it with him and he’s displaying empathy in the way that I need versus sympathy. It’s easy to see when people feel sorry for you, but he wants to share this with me, and that’s what I keep reminding myself.
Echoes of the water fountain pick up around us as he allows me to get lost in my thoughts. I glance around at the beauty of the garden, smell the fresh dirt and fragrancy of the plants from where they are perfectly placed around the gazebo, and it’s through them I see flashes of people and the permanent etch of a lasting broken heart.
“It’s not just the loss, though.” I look back at him and do my best not to imagine what that expression would look like on him. “It’s what each of them left behind. Yes, I’ve struggled with the ‘why me’ questions, like why did I get cancer and why did I survive, but the greatest struggle I’ve had is watching the friends and family members of those who don’t, the ones who are left behind.”
Letting out a deep sigh, I let my shoulders slouch in defeat at the injustice life delivers sometimes. These people, the ones I met . . . so young, so loved, taken too soon. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me; after all, there’s nothing to be said. I know he wants to understand, but there’s no way he can.
�
�I know I’m not making any sense to you, but I can’t be the reason others suffer, Jack. It’s too much.” I pull my hand out from under his and tuck it into my lap. Looking down at the place where his fingers just were, I can still feel the heat of them, as if they were tattooing my skin, and pieces of my hair fall around my face. I’m not hiding, really I’m not, but when Zeus shifts on the ground next to my chair, my hand falls to weave into his fur, and I turn my head so even more is covered.
Standing up, Jack moves his chair from the other side of the table to next to mine. The table wasn’t that big to begin with, but now the only thing separating us is Zeus. Reaching up, he tucks the loose hair behind my ear and runs his hand over the side of my face to my shoulder then down my arm. He leaves his hand in my lap; he’s not allowing me to pull away from him.
“Who? Who are these others you’re worrying about? And why would you be the cause of them suffering?” he asks quietly.
“The families. The loved ones. Spouses, siblings, children, parents, friends . . . you. It’s too much.” My eyes again fill with tears. The thought of hurting him one day when it can be prevented—it nearly breaks me.
His brows pull down at my apparent distress as he studies the features of my face. “I thought you were cancer-free?” he asks, almost nervously. And that tiny shake in his voice, right there—it’s what I fear and what I never want him to experience.
“I am . . . but . . .” I’m pleading with him to understand. This is all so hard to talk about, and quite frankly, scary. Scary because voicing it makes it real, scary because I’m allowing myself to imagine a time in my life I never want to revisit, and scary because I don’t want this life for him.
“But you think it’s going to return,” he states more than asks the question.
I nod, rolling my lips in between my teeth. Two tears escape and roll down the sides of my face.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 24
