I couldn’t judge her. She and I were doing the same thing, trying to figure out who we were after years of being someone else.
“Our divorce is final,” Joe added. “Officially.”
“I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say. Then, “It’s getting late.”
“Let’s get you home,” Joe said, sliding out of the booth and up onto his two mismatched legs.
“You look great, Joe,” I said. “I can’t tell you how good you look.”
The ride home was quiet except for my navigation instructions—turn left here, you’re going to veer to the right here, at the second light turn again. That’s me, straight ahead, the second town house on the left.
Joe shifted into park and turned off the car, then turned to me. “This has been an amazing day.”
“What now?” I asked.
“I have a room booked at the Hilton. I’ll drive back to Jersey tomorrow.”
I reached for his hands. “I want to see you again.”
“I want to see you again, too,” Joe said.
I looked at my town house, thought about the rooms inside, the lifeless existence I had been living in that space. My wretched imposter of a life. I thought back and wondered what I was doing at the exact moment when Joe was in the fight of his life, when his leg was blown to bits and he was evacuated alongside his fallen comrade. What was I doing then? Watching Jeopardy! and eating gelato?
I looked at him. I’d never wanted anyone or anything more in my life. “Can we?”
“You’re in Virginia—”
“And you’re in New Jersey.”
“And last I heard, you were engaged to be married—”
“And you’re very recently divorced.”
“Yes, I am,” Joe said.
“Still.” I leaned over into his space, settled in there, and let my mouth curl around his pillow of a neck.
At the door, Joe hefted my suitcase through the threshold. “I just wanted to see you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I overstepped . . .”
“You didn’t!” I said. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“But . . .”
“But it’s complicated.”
“We should probably settle the open items in each of our lives before we consider something else,” Joe said.
I nodded. I thought of Lucas, what I needed to do.
He nodded, and we stared at each other. Wordlessly we gazed into each other’s truths, the thousands of steps that had brought us to this point.
“Okay,” he said.
He walked down the few steps and I watched him smoothly manipulate his legs into his van, held my breath until he drove away. I love you, I love you, I love you, I whispered, over and over. Words I hadn’t yet given to Lucas.
I thought of Dad, recalling again his wisdom. “Lovey,” he said. “You’re one hell of a money manager, but every now and then—in life, in love—you need to ride it to the top. All the way to euphoria.”
Joe was my euphoria.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The first morning light sprayed in through the cracks in the blinds. Still awake, my emotions were taking me on a ride. The certainty I’d felt about Joe last night had been tempered by fear and anxiety. That I loved Joe was a given, and probably always would be. Still: I had loved him from afar all these years, but what was the reality? The truth was that Joe was an amputee war veteran, a brand-new divorcé, and a single dad to three children. How could his life have space for me? And what could I possibly add to it that would be worthwhile? I was Missy Fletcher, unmarried yet engaged, childless, kind of jobless, a woman who had never had a serious relationship in her adult life. How could I possibly have significance in Joe’s life? His children would despise me because I would be the person occupying their father, attempting to replace their mother. And who was I joking about Joe wanting me as badly as I wanted him? Sure, he said last night that he’d like to see me again. Sure, he drove down from Jersey to meet me. Sure, the two of us together found the perfect rhythm in our conversation, a seamless fit in our touch, a flawless understanding of each other’s situations. But still—how would it work?
The confusion I felt regarding Joe was the polar opposite of the certainty I felt concerning Lucas. Dear Lucas—good-looking, sweet-and-kind, tax-attorney Lucas. My mirror. My male counterpart. My safety-police partner. My risk-averse, nothing-wrong-with-staying-in-Virginia, who-needs-to-eat-raw-fish, crossing-borders-can-only-lead-to-trouble boyfriend-fiancé. He was a great guy, a man I would be proud to introduce as my own. A guy any girl would be honored to call her husband. But he didn’t bring me to euphoria, and for that matter, I didn’t think I brought him to euphoria, either. And for that alone—Joe or no Joe—we had no business staying together.
At seven o’clock, I texted Lucas. I asked him if he could come over for coffee—though coffee was mere shorthand, as I knew that Lucas would show me his water bottle and tell me he was fine, thank you.
An hour later, Lucas knocked. “You’re back,” he said, reaching for me, pulling me into a tight hug. “How was it?”
I hugged him and inhaled his scent, because Lucas was a good man and I was about to hurt him, and I wanted to create a scrapbook in my mind of the affection I felt for him, just in case this got ugly.
I spent a few minutes detailing the trip, the progress Reina and I had made with the local governmental officials, the paperwork we’d filed, the women we’d spoken with who were interested in teaching. Then I got down to business. “Lucas, we need to talk.”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “You’re not going back to India again, are you?”
I took Lucas’s hand and led him to the sofa. “Let’s sit down.”
“This sounds ominous.”
“I want to be totally honest with you,” I began.
Lucas dropped my hands and scooted away from me, pushing his back into the corner of the sofa.
“Do you remember once I told you about my friend Joe from high school?”
“You dated, right?” Lucas said warily.
“We dated. And then we went off to separate colleges. He got married, had kids, etc. We’re friends on Facebook, so I’ve kind of kept up with his life.” I went on to tell Lucas how I’d sent Joe a message when Dad was sick; how it had been important to me that he knew, because Joe and Dad were close. “From there, we began a correspondence—just friends, of course.”
Lucas began to fidget. I eyed his hands opening wide and then balling into fists, a vein in his temple bulging. I watched him swallow hard, as if the involuntary act had become a difficult exercise.
I reached out and put my hand on his knee. “As it turns out,” I went on, “Joe’s a veteran. He served three tours. He actually lost one leg in his last tour. When I landed last night, I thought Jenny was going to pick me up, but instead . . . Joe picked me up.”
Lucas sprung from the sofa and began to pace. “Whoa—wait, what? At the airport? Does he live here? Did you ask him to come?”
“He lives in New Jersey. And no, I didn’t ask him to come. But—”
“But what?”
“It was great seeing him. He knew my father so well. We shared a lot of memories.”
“Melissa, what’s this about?” Lucas gasped for understanding. “Is Joe just an old friend? You said he was married?”
“He is, was—well, he’s recently divorced.”
“What the hell does that have to do with you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just explaining why he came to see me.”
“Why did he come to see you?”
“Lucas,” I said. “Calm down, okay?”
“Are you breaking up with me for this Joe guy?”
I looked across the room while my brain absorbed the absurdity of Lucas’s words. It was an absolutely ridiculous thought that I would be breaking up with Lucas becau
se I saw Joe one time!
“Not exactly,” I said.
Lucas didn’t believe me. “Then what?”
“You know the Sir John Templeton maxim: ‘Bull markets are born on pessimism, grow on skepticism, mature on optimism, and die on euphoria’?”
“I’ve heard it,” he said.
I stood and took a step in his direction, but he backed farther away. “You and I, Lucas—our relationship—it’s maturing on optimism. We’re a great couple: we share the same interests, we’re worker bees, we believe in playing it safe. But Lucas, lately—in India—I’ve tasted euphoria. The girls at the orphanage? They were so happy to see me, and when I saw them, I couldn’t remember ever feeling such pure joy. Feeling that way, like my heart would explode? It leaves you breathless. The excitement of not sleeping at night because you’re so eager for the next day to come. The thrill of building something that might actually change the lives of children for the better. The exhilaration of knowing that knowledge plus money plus sheer will and determination could save lives. I don’t think I’m the same girl anymore. I don’t think I’m the play-it-safe, stay-in-Virginia, work-ten-hour-days girl anymore.”
“And Joe?” Lucas asked, clearly annoyed. “Does he leave you breathless, too?”
My heart raced. “I have no idea what will happen with Joe. I’ve only seen him once in fifteen years and I have no clue if our lives belong together, and if he would even want it.”
Lucas laughed, a little maniacally. “You want it, though.”
“If not with him, with someone else.”
“But not me.” Lucas’s face had flushed bright-red, the vein at his temple throbbed.
“Don’t you want it, too?” I asked. “Don’t you want to be left breathless?”
Lucas headed for the door, then turned to glare at me when he reached it. “I kind of like breathing, Melissa,” he said, pulling it open. “I kind of thought us breathing together was a pretty good thing.”
“Lucas, wait!”
“For what?” He stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening. What was Dad saying from his perch? You did it again, Missy. You blew another relationship. Here you are again—alone, same as before. You let a good one get away.
Or was he proud of my decision, to give up Lucas for the miniscule hope that Joe might someday want me? All of a sudden, the rationale for the arbitrage I’d just committed seemed insanely weak. I’d sold my position in a solid blue chip—an established, money-making, dividend-paying stalwart—and bet it all on the mere idea of a start-up, a concept that wasn’t even a thing yet.
Yet I couldn’t deny it. The relief in saying good-bye to Lucas was palpable. It was time to take some risk. Who am I to think that I can have greatness? the old me would have asked. Who am I to think that I can’t? I now pondered.
It was time to go big or go home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The high of daring greatly, of acting brave, was short-lived, clobbered only hours later by a much stronger force: self-doubt. The malaise of breaking up with Lucas over nothing, really—over the idea that I wanted more from my relationship with a man—left me in a flushed, light-headed daze. When Joe called only an hour after Lucas had left and asked to see me before leaving town, I told him that we’d better not. “You were right,” I said. “We need to tie up loose ends before anything else.”
Each day I called Lucas. “I’m fine,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “You don’t need to call me.” The fact that I had hurt him caused me significant shame, leaving me feeling wobbly and uncertain. I wasn’t used to upsetting people. With so few people in my life, my starting point was to “do no harm.” That Lucas was wounded at my expense made my chest ache.
And each night Joe called. We talked openly about his kids, the divorce, and his work. I told him about the orphanage, our efforts to turn it into a school. Without my telling him much, Joe knew of my breakup with Lucas. Are you okay? he’d ask. Are you at peace with your decision?
Days passed, and more than anything, I craved Lucas’s forgiveness. As if I couldn’t go on until I got it. I decided to employ my own twist on Dad’s version of Dale Carnegie: get Lucas to talk about the things he loved.
“Don’t hang up!” I blurted when Lucas answered the phone. “I need some tax advice, and I know you’re the guy.”
“I’m busy, Melissa,” he said wearily. I could hear him pounding on his keyboard.
“I’ve been looking for hours on the Internet,” I fibbed. “And I can’t seem to find the answer I need. The orphanage/school in India is going to be tied to our 501(c)(3) charitable organization here in the States, but I can’t seem to figure out how to apply for that: a US-based nonprofit benefiting an overseas operation.”
He stopped typing, and I could almost hear him straighten up in his seat, tap his perfectly sharp pencil tip against his desk mat. “That’s pretty standard, actually,” he said. “Any tax attorney could help you with that.”
“But what about filing the articles of incorporation?” I asked, not wanting him to hang up.
“You have to wait until your tax-exempt status has been approved,” he said.
“What else?”
“Missy,” Lucas said. “I don’t want to talk right now.” His angry typing resumed.
“Just one more question!” I exclaimed. “How do we set it up so that we can accept private and public donations? Just write that in?” I knew my nonchalance would rattle him.
“I get what you’re doing, Missy,” Lucas said, “and it’s not going to work. I don’t want to talk to you. You can’t fool me into answering tax questions. You fooled me once already. I trusted you. I know you want forgiveness. I know you want us to be friends. I know you want me to say it’s okay that you broke my heart. It’s not. Please leave me alone.”
He didn’t wait for a response before he ended the call.
The weight of being an adult grew heavier by the day. Only a year ago the burden I’d borne was featherlight. A child’s share. My default had always been to let everyone else take the lead. I didn’t argue against it. It fit my personality, to walk in the shadow. I didn’t crave the freedom to forge my own path. The old me would have never been in this position, because the old me would have never broken up with Lucas. The old me would have never asked for more.
The new me wasn’t just asking for more, but demanding it, no matter how uncomfortable it made the old me, who still hung around, usually wringing her hands. The new me didn’t care. She was making up for lost time, strapping on the yoke of responsibility and shouldering all of it, all at once: the future of Fletcher Financial, Paul’s and Jenny’s jobs, our clients’ financial plans and assets. The hopes of forty girls in India. My renewed love and affection for Joe Santelli—a man with children and an ex-wife and PTSD and a prosthetic leg.
And now I’d added to the load Lucas’s hurt and the knowledge that I alone caused it.
The following week, Joe asked if I could take the train up for the weekend. His wife would be home and would have the kids. He thought it would be fun to take in some “Jersey” sights: the shore, his favorite restaurant. “There is a nice hotel near my house. I could make you reservations.”
“Yes!” I said, without giving thought to the logistics. The fact that I couldn’t breathe, for one. When I hung up, I called Jenny. Dots materialized in front of my eyes, my chest squeezed, and my throat constricted. “Are you free for lunch?”
Jenny and I met at Ellie’s and though she had made two of my favorite soups—roasted red pepper, and vegetable and kale—I declined to order either. Instead, I ordered a cup of tea and a lemon bar, and even that sat untouched.
“I’m in foreign territory here,” I said. “Going to Jersey for the weekend! Who do I think I am?”
Jenny led me through it. “Let’s talk about your expectati
ons. What do you think this weekend will be about? What do you think will happen?”
Her question was a good one because if I was being honest with myself, looking at this as a dispassionate outside observer, this weekend would need to be characterized as nothing more than a first date. And maybe not even a date—more like old friends getting together. And even though I wanted it to be more, I was terrified of it being more. “It’s Joe,” was all I could manage to say, as if those words alone were adequate to explain fifteen years of caring for this man who once loved me.
Two days later, I boarded Amtrak’s Acela Express en route to Newark. In my shoulder bag I had the latest Businessweek, the WSJ, Barron’s. I had the latest Kellerman novel. I had my iPod loaded with music and podcasts. At the snack bar, I added a bagel and cream cheese and a yogurt/fruit parfait to the Starbucks latte I’d purchased earlier. I had enough food, beverage, and entertainment to last me across country. Spread out on my folded-out table, in the comfort of my reclining train seat, the food and entertainment sat, because all I could do was stare out the window and wonder what this weekend would bring.
Three hours later, I exited the train and made my way up the escalator toward the lobby. In the sea of people, I found Joe immediately, dressed in a black chauffeur jacket and hat, and holding a sign: MELISSA FLETCHER.
We ate dinner at Joe’s favorite restaurant, a seafood place right in Newark. When he insisted I try the lobster bisque, I nodded eagerly. When Joe asked if I liked sautéed calamari, I told him I loved it. When Joe couldn’t decide between the swordfish or the tuna, I told him I was having the same exact dilemma. We decided to split.
Because of our history, there was a familiarity that fooled us into thinking that time hadn’t passed. Eventually we learned to offer a preamble to every story, the backstory of our narrative. Joe spoke of the birth of his children, what it was like when he was deployed, the guys he’d lost in war and the ones who came home, with whom he would always have contact.
The Light of Hidden Flowers Page 24
