“Fair point,” he concedes. “But good choices can’t always guarantee good outcomes. You can do everything right and make all the right decisions. You can hold up your end of the bargain, and still—the world can blindside you with some gnarly stuff.”
I go quiet as I take another drink, mostly to fill space. Because I get the sense that Miles isn’t talking about me.
He’s talking about himself.
And I wonder what “gnarly stuff” he’s been through and if it’s the reason he’s so opposed to ever having a real relationship again.
Which begs the question—who hurt him?
“The world does have a knack for chewing you up and spitting you out,” I say. “But I’m not willing to hide anymore. I’ve done the wallowing thing, and the angry thing, and the can’t-get-out-of-bed thing. I don’t want to do any of that anymore. I want to feel like I’m alive again.”
“And the list helps you do that?” His tone is incredulous.
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” I say. “The list is a powerful tool. It helps you get really clear about what you want.”
“I know what I want.”
I look at him. “Do you really, though?”
His raised brow asks a silent question.
“I just think maybe you should, you know, be open—to whatever life wants to bring you.”
“I am,” he says, lifting one shoulder. “Mostly.”
The light changes, and we cross the street. The subject is dropped when Miles asks, “Where are we going?”
I point down the crosswalk. “We’re just walking.”
“No, we’re not. You seem like you have a destination in mind,” he says, more perceptive than I had hoped. “It’s like you’re on a mission.”
We reach the other side of the street and I stop, turning to face another red light, the only thing standing between us and the storefront.
I can feel him watching me, and I realize that if I had my journal here, I’d have something else to add to my list.
Because telling Miles about the plans and ideas I’ve been dreaming up is possibly the scariest thing I’ve done yet.
Which is why, when the light changes and I step out into the street, I say, out loud, “I want to show you something.”
I make lists.
Maybe that’s why I bake. I like recipes.
Recipes are just lists.
Do them in order, follow the instructions, and boom, you have a scone.
Maybe, subconsciously, I think that if I do the things on my list, follow the instructions, then boom, I’ll be whole again.
I don’t think it’s about control.
Miles is in my head.
He’s in my head about a lot of things actually.
Like the whole idea of starting a business.
I think he might be more excited by the idea than I am. After I showed him the space and told him about my ideas, we walked back to The Bexley, and he didn’t stop talking about it the entire way.
