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“I’m not talking about sex, Ruby. I’m talking about love.”
My expression sobers and my shoulders fall.
“It sounds like the two of you had something really special, and I’m just wondering…”
“You’re wondering if it was love?” I ask.
When my mom nods, I let out a long sigh.
“I thought maybe it was.”
Pausing, I rotate my glass of cranberry juice in my hands, rolling it between my palms and watching the liquid slosh around inside.
“And now?”
I shrug. “If it was love, would I be here bawling my eyes out to you about it?” I joke.
“Oh, baby. I’m not an expert on love, not by any means. You know I’ve had my faults. But that kind of love where you cry over the idea of losing it?” She hums. “That’s how you know it’s worth it.”
I shake my head, my nose scrunching up in distaste.
“I don’t like that, though. I don’t like the idea that a love has to hurt in order for it to be real. That feels toxic and unhealthy, and I want to veer far away from that as much as possible.”
“I’m not saying real love hurts you,” my mom says. “I’m saying the world hurts you. Life hurts you. People hurt you. Real love, though? Real love soothes you, wraps you up and protects you. The crying isn’t because someone who loves you has hurt you. It’s because you’ve been hurt, and the person who loves you was there for you. The crying is knowing you have someone precious, and you never, ever, ever want to let them go.”
I consider her words, feeling that bubbling up of emotions begin again.
“But what if I already let him go?” I whisper, tears streaking down my cheeks.
“Then you fight to get him back.”
* * *
I think a lot about my mother’s words over the next few days as I get back to work and the normal routine of life. A few times, I even pick my phone up to call Boyd.
But I’m worried about what reaching out will do to him, especially when I’m still not sure how I feel.
I know I’m in love with Boyd. That’s not what’s in question. I’m just struggling with the idea that any relationship is worth the fear of what happens when it crumbles.
On Saturday morning, I show up at my yoga studio for class, getting hugs from the people I missed over the past two weeks while I was out of town. I go through my ritual, laying out my mat and setting up my yoga blocks, then heading into the corner to grab two blankets out of the closet. I head back to my little nest and get comfortable, lying flat on my back and waiting for Katie, the usual Saturday morning instructor, to begin.
Quiet movement happens around me as others get comfortable in their positions, but I try to tune it all out and focus on the sound of the peaceful music streaming through the speakers.
“Do you take walk-ins?”
My eyes fly open at the sound of a familiar male voice, and I jerk my head to look back at the doorway, my eyes colliding with a pair of beautiful brown ones that I worried I’d never see again.
They look just as beautiful, even upside down.
Katie walks over to where Boyd stands at the door to help get him checked in, and the entire time I lie awkwardly on my back with my neck twisted to watch him.
He’s here for me, right?
Right?
I mean, it would be a huge coincidence for him to decide to take up yoga upon his return and then come to my studio by chance, especially when I told him the name and that I come every Saturday morning at eight. He wasn’t even supposed to be flying back to Boston until Sunday.
He’s here for me.
