by Ellie Hall
She appears over the back of the couch and I expect her to dive bomb me with a kiss. She holds back and gives me a little wave. “Are you okay?”
I was about to ask her the same thing. Maybe living in this reality with me is more than she expected when she finally agreed to commit.
Was it too good to be true?
I brush my hand over my face. “I’m sorry, Hazel. I think I was in denial for most of the ride. I’m sorry you had to look after me last night and drive back here through the storm. It was sweet and brave and—” I give her my best look of apology, but I’m looking like a sorry sack, to begin with. I’d anticipated a fun cap off to our weekend. Not this.
“You would have done the same for me.”
I smile in agreement. I’d do anything for her. I’m a guy who dated countless women—even Conrad used to tease that I probably have a black book hiding somewhere. I never denied it. But there is no one I’d rather have play nurse or just hang out with me. She doesn’t need to lift a finger. Either way.
As she lingers by the end of the couch, I fear something has shifted between us, but I can’t identify what. I think fast. “I’m going to hire help for the next couple of weeks but want to thank you—”
She waves her hands. “There’s no need. I’ll take care of you.”
We go back and forth for a moment—I give her every opportunity to recant her offer. Hazel insists.
I hobble to my feet and give her a spare key and a kiss. We watch reruns of Friends. Recap the disaster that was the baking contest. At midnight, she makes sure I’m comfortable and then goes back to her apartment.
I feel cold and lonely without Hazel here. I want to bake her cookies, woo her, take care of her. I’m helpless. My thoughts seesaw between wanting to give her more and giving up. But that’s not who I am.
I grab my phone and send a text. I wish we were in front of the fire at the cabin.
The little bubbles blink, indicating she’s replying. Me too.
I don’t know how to tell her I want a future, a real one, a forever one. I wish you were still here. Goodnight. I add an emoji heart. I’ve never been a snuggler before. Then again, I had every reason to believe she wasn’t either, but she’s really good at it.
I’d like to sleep, but I’m restless because I’m not used to being stationary for so long. I open my laptop. I have one module left for that silly UUniversity thing. I’ll finish it then send a friendly email to my mentees, share the link, and use my current situation as a teaching point for perseverance.
I scan the highlights for the last module. There are reading assignments and journal responses. I read one of the prompts: Using your journal, free write about what you knew you wanted to be when you were a kid.
I prickle with resistance but open a fresh document and title it When I grow up… The cursor teases me when minutes pass and the page remains blank. I didn’t want to be a banker. Not a baker either. I start writing and realize I lean more toward one than the other. Or is my heart leading me to Hazel?
She was the reason I started baking. This program brought me to step out of my comfort zone. To step closer to her.
Could I have both? Or all three? My career, baking, and Hazel. Can I have my cake and eat it too?
I reread the module notes. Remember the innocence when you were little, how you trusted wholly in yourself, in possibility, and magic. Most of us change as we grow up and our desires take us in different directions. Some of us are told our dreams are impossible. Other times we simply let our dreams go to sleep and fill our lives with what we think is practical, feasible. Visit the attic in your mind and when you dig out those old treasures, hold them in your hand, recall the way your big dreams made you feel.
What about your dreams in the present? Repeat the exercise above.
This isn’t something I can talk to Conrad about or my family. I’m not a put-your-emotions-out-there kind of guy. I remember there was a private online group with the other members of the program. I take a deep breath and then introduce myself using the screen name BankerBaker. I instantly regret it because of the hashtags, but it’s too late.
I get only a modicum of relief when I agree to the terms—everything shared in the group is confidential.
It looks like a few users are online at this late hour, including TrinaT, NicoleB, and Professor Loves-Her-Life herself. I scroll through the current topic of conversation (pressure from a stubborn and old-fashioned parent). Professor LHL coaches everyone to ask themselves important questions and find answers.
They bare their souls. They write thoughts and feelings and talk to each other through troubles without judgment. I take a risk, introducing myself from the relative anonymity behind the laptop screen.
TrinaT writes: Anything on your mind tonight?
I explain what brought me to the program. It turned out that it helped me try something new, which led me to realize that I could step outside my comfort zone in relationships too, but...
TrinaT replies: But...?
But I’m not sure where this is going.
My fingers hover over the keyboard to say more, but the words to describe my feelings stall between my head and my heart. Then Professor Loves-Her-Life’s icon lights up to indicate she’s writing.
Professor LHL: Love doesn’t have a roadmap. If it did, no one would get lost.
My answer comes fast: I don’t feel lost. I know I want to be with her. I’m just nervous. I don’t want to do the wrong thing.
She adds: Or you’re scared...
I’m not scared either. Okay. Maybe a little. But what if...
What if? All three of them reply.
It’s three on one. The words flow this time: What if she doesn’t want to be with me anymore? What if it’s too much? What if she leaves me? What if she meets someone else? What if she realizes I’m not the guy for her? What if she wakes up one day, realizes she hates chocolate chip cookies and me and...
Professor LHL: The first five, forget. The last one, you’re acting nutty.
Fair enough.
NicoleB: From my experience, the questions you’re asking reveal insecurity, but it’s a relatively common, if not normal, part of developing in a relationship. If you were one-hundred percent confident in it, I’d ask for the girl’s number and warn her. Trust me, I’ve been with guys like that and so much ego never turns out well.
TrinaT: Exactly what NicoleB said and I’ll add that part of having a healthy relationship is communication. You may not want to dump all your insecurities on her, but this might prompt an honest conversation about where you’re at and what you’d like in the future. If you’re on the same page, great. If not, at least you know.
I take a moment to let all of this sink in. They’re exactly right. The tension in my neck loosens.
Professor LHL writes: Well said, ladies. Also, when we’re feeling stuck, it’s because we’re thinking about what is or might go wrong in our lives when we should look at what’s going right. Now, go deeper. Envision what you might say to her. Think about how it would feel to come out with your concerns. It might draw you closer. She may have the same ones.
But there’s still a part of me, a little voice that tells me to be careful. Not to risk anything.
TrinaT writes: Have you thought about why you might feel this way? Sometimes exposing old wounds and allowing them to heal will also do the trick.
In the UUniversity program, they call this process digging for diamonds in the rough. My thoughts flit to the engagement ring, the ruined cake, and the proposal that wasn’t. I don’t dare tell them about that. Likely, I was moving into something serious too soon, especially if we’re not rock solid. Caught up in the moment, and afraid of losing her, I acted on a whim. Well, almost.
Professor LHL’s avatar lights up then goes dark. Lights up then goes dark. Maybe she’s having connectivity issues.
It’s like I’m on the edge of knowing something big about myself, but it’s still just out of reach...and so is my water bot
tle. I heave myself to sitting. My leg aches. Like a nor’easter, worries about why Hazel would want to be with me blow into my mind. Why would she want to be with me when I can hardly move?
Professor Loves-Her-Life’s avatar lights up again and my computer beeps with a notification when she posts: Big shifts in our lives take time.
I slouch on the couch and the reply. I have plenty of that all of a sudden. I feel like I’m at a crossroads and my compass isn’t telling me which direction to go in.
She writes: I don’t think that’s your problem.
What? That’s exactly my problem.
You don’t need to read a compass to figure out which direction to take. Love doesn’t work like that. You need to follow your heart.
Her comment burns something inside that I can’t identify other than feeling a prickle, an irritation, an energy that makes me clench my jaw and ball my hands into fists.
I close my computer without signing off. She doesn’t know me, my story, or that my heart did a terrible job guiding me the last time I listened to it. A storm brews inside, winds of war cut across the peaceful calm Professor Loves-Her-Life tried to cultivate. The clouds filling my mind aren’t gray, but red.
Anger. Deceit. Distrust.
The truth is that my heart has lied to me in the past.
Meow
Hazel
Maxwell is a week into recovery and we’re at his doctor’s office. Dr. Lee is middle-aged and has a trim beard. I have traumatic flashbacks of months of physical therapy and overhearing doctors whisper their doubts about me ever having the use of my legs again.
After reviewing the most recent X-rays Dr. Lee says, “I think you’ll be out of the cast in three weeks.”
“Really?” Maxwell asks, lighting up.
“It’s healing well, no reason to think otherwise.” His expression sharpens. “Stay off it. No activity for another week and then you can move around but just a little. The more gradually you move back into walking, the better chance it has of healing clean. The physical therapists will guide you through strength training.”
“The team at the hospital thought more toward eight weeks and talked about surgery…” Maxwell says, not quite believing the news.
“They were being cautious. She’s been taking good care of you,” the doctor says with a smile in my direction. “You’re a very lucky man.”
“I am,” Maxwell agrees.
We go to another office in the same building and Maxwell meets with the physical therapist. He leaves with a piece of paper outlining a few simple exercises to do at home to maintain muscle tone and circulation.
When we return to our building, a box waits for me in front of my door. Leaning heavily on his crutches, Maxwell waits in his doorway and says, “Ooh, do you have a secret admirer?”
I cast him a smirk. “Several.”
He’s somehow still attractive with an air cast on his leg, joggers, a hoodie, and waiting for me to open the parcel.
“Go ahead, I won’t be jealous.”
I pull out a pair of shiny black high heels with red soles. They look like they’ll knock someone’s socks off. A little note says For when I can walk again. XO Maxwell
I ignore the XO part for now and beam a smile. “How did you know I wanted these?”
“I saw you browsing them on your phone.”
“I love them,” I say, clutching the shoes to my chest.
His smile is sleepy. “I’m going to rest. But when I’m back on my feet, I’d like to take you on a proper date.”
“I’ll be over tonight after my class to help you with your exercises.”
“And dinner?”
I nod. “Dessert?”
Maxwell stares forlornly in the direction of the kitchen.
“My friend Omar is a personal trainer. Maybe he can come over to help—” Though I know as well as the professionals that healing happens in its own time.
Maxwell shakes his head. “It’s not that.”
“Are you restless?”
His shoulder rises and falls without comment. He seems deep in thought so I don’t press him. He hasn’t baked since we were in Vermont. Maybe it was his way of blowing off steam. Then again, it was a relatively new hobby.
Is this how domestication begins? Remember my theory about swans, peacocks, and pigeons? Well, peahens. I’m used to spreading my wings, but I’m afraid I’ll just fly right into Maxwell’s arms. Plus, peahens don’t wear shoes like this.
By the end of the week, like a champ, Maxwell crushes the exercises the physical therapist suggested: leg lifts, extensions, and gentle resistance. When we’re done with our third round, he scrubs his face with his hands. Healing isn’t easy.
As the week progress, he even makes it over to my apartment a few times for a change of scenery.
Early one morning my phone beeps with a text while I’m brushing my teeth. Come Quick. Without stopping or spitting the toothpaste foam into the sink, I hurry to 7G, worried he took a spill or started a fire and can’t get to the extinguisher.
He’s standing at his bathroom vanity casually brushing his teeth. I slowly resume doing the same, not sure why he rang the alarm bell.
Our brushes shush in time. Otherwise, the room is silent.
Awareness returns. I’m standing here with bedhead hair in a messy bun, an old sweatshirt, and leggings stained with paint. I’m not a vision of early morning beauty.
I grip the flecked marble counter, stabilizing myself. I don’t know what to do with the spit. Why didn’t I leave my toothbrush at home? I can’t ask what Maxwell wanted because my mouth is full. I avoid meeting his eyes because I don’t want either of us to acknowledge the frothy paste breaching my lips as I scrub my teeth.
There’s a second bathroom, but he’ll think it’s strange if I suddenly run in there, and is likely to hobble after me, tripping on the laundry overflowing from the basket.
Frozen, like a scared rabbit, but not feeling at all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I realize I’ve been brushing my teeth for a full three minutes now. My dentist would be proud.
Maxwell washes his face, patting dry the shadow of stubble along his jawline. “You’re just in time.”
I rapidly shake my head and ask him what the emergency was, but he can’t understand me.
He points at the sink.
I shake my head.
I don’t even think my father ever saw me brush my teeth. It’s mortifying, humiliating, and so foamy! He must sense my deer-in-the-headlights fear.
“You okay?” Maxwell says casually.
I whimper. I want to ask him the same question regarding the text but cannot. I spin my finger in a circle to indicate he turn around.
His eyes narrow in question.
I mumble an unintelligible, “Don’t look.”
He covers his eyes, but as soon as the white foam funnels from my mouth that sly fox peeks.
My cheeks blister along with my shoulders, my outie, and my kneecaps. Full body embarrassment.
I wipe my face and then say, “Obviously, there’s no emergency. Get meowtta here.” I run from the room only to stop short when I catch a whiff of something sweet coming from the kitchen. How did I miss that before? Oh, right. Minty freshness filled my nostrils.
Maxwell pads across the room with an uneven gait. “Yeah, I wanted you to get breakfast straight from the oven. Wait. Did you just say meow?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking ameowt.” Fluttery panic makes me flap around.
Maxwell’s brow furrows. “I’m pretty sure you just did it again.”
“I don’t know what you’re meown.”
“Meow?” Maxwell asks.
In the stark daylight filtering in from the slatted blinds, his smile reveals perplexed amusement. His dark lashes skim his cheeks. His hair is tousled. His chin is a masterpiece. This man is too handsome for my own good.
My heart thuds between us. “I need a meowment.”
This is getting intense. Maybe I need to follow my
own advice. I might be falling...no, I already did. But I’m afraid of where I’m going to land. But there aren’t maps for this kind of thing, right?
It’s like my internal GPS repeats Destination unknown. Recalculating.
My feet slap the hardwood floor as I make a break for the door. “I need coffee. Want anything?”
“I have coffee and I’m heating up a jumbo chocolate, pecan cinnamon roll with spiced drizzle. The bakery on 74th delivers. That’s why I wanted you to come over.” Maxwell thumbs in the direction of the kitchen. “Any day now, I’ll be back in there wearing my apron and you’ll never want to leave.”
If I’ve resorted to speaking meow, that means I’m a cat and I need my independence. Meow. Now. Immediately.
My worlds have collided. Maxwell is serious about us. But am I?
I dash down the hall, pound the button for the lobby in the elevator, and inhale deeply when I reach the street. Like a cat on the side of a thunderous path, I bob and weave amidst the oncoming traffic. An irritable honk from a cabbie startles me and I dodge a paper bag caught in the wind. I sprint five blocks, ten, putting as much distance as I can between our building and me. I only slow when I remember my excuse: coffee. Starbucks supplies me with a macchiato.
I drift along the streets as the day warms with a hint of the spring thaw. Icicles drip, slush runs in puddles along the sides of the road. I pass a park revealing the green of crocus shoots and tender grass. Boutiques advertise winter sales and clearance shopping. Office buildings and restaurants crowd with people glad to be outdoors. I rarely see this much city in such a short amount of time. I wander until I smell chocolate and butter—a bakery on the corner invites me in. I order a cookie.
It’s fresh and chocolate chip and as big as my head. I break it in half and shove it in my mouth like a starved animal. Crumbs dot my jacket. It doesn’t matter; I’ve crossed the line of composure and mystery. Maxwell saw me brushing my teeth. I’m ruined! I tuck the other half of the cookie back into the wax bag. My phone vibrates with a few texts—one from Catherine, another from Lottie, but notably none from Maxwell.
