William looked down at the creaky floor. “Can I buy you a drink?” he corrected.
I felt bad then. Lottie used to joke that I can see the good in anyone, even a murderer. She also told me, “Just because you can see the best in someone doesn’t mean they deserve your empathy.” Still, it was challenging not to find William’s deference, his desire to please, well… charming.
Besides, as Josie pointed out, he’s not exactly bad looking either. And it has been a very, very long time since I’ve been on a date.
The gray shingled cottages are close enough together that it’s impossible to avoid glimpses of their residents through the open windows: a middle-aged couple washing dishes at the sink, a young girl reading a book on the wicker couch of a screened-in veranda. Life everywhere.
An older woman in a crisp button-down is painting on her front porch balcony, capturing the light bouncing against the water in the distance. The sight makes my chest expand and then constrict. Why does everyone look so like Lottie these days?
I pause on the side of the street to read the text again. I have several notifications from clients of mine asking to reschedule or venting about a relationship of their own. I love my work. I’m not like Lily or Lottie. Where they receive inspiration from turning inward, I receive mine by looking out at others in my practice as a therapist. When I see something click with a client for the first time, that’s when I feel most aligned in my purpose.
Still, there are days like this—days when I feel my personal resolve tempered—when I wish there was someone besides Lily I could lean on, too.
Maybe “charmed” isn’t such a bad word. There are loads of worse ones. Yes, William’s silver hair was a little too overgelled, but hey! At least he has hair.
There were men I dated when Lily was younger, but I was always careful to keep our lives separate unless it became serious, which it never did. No one was ever significant enough to introduce her to. Or maybe I just never let it get that far.
Even though she seemed okay with the idea last night, Lily doesn’t need to know yet about this either: I don’t want to worry her until it’s solid. Josie said she’s not a baby anymore, but I’ve always done my best to protect her.
When Lily was born, I remember the first emotion being incomprehensible joy. Here was this tiny miracle in my arms, red and squealing. And then the next emotion immediately tumbled along: pure terror. Before Lily, I had fears, and worries, and hopes, but there was an elasticity to my life. If something bad should happen to me, the world would keep spinning. My dad didn’t need me; neither did my sister. And my mother was gone. But now I had Lily, and Lily needed me, and everything, absolutely everything, took on a newfound precariousness. I suddenly understood those stories of mothers lifting up cars, pumped with adrenaline, to save their children trapped beneath.
It was like before motherhood, I had been floating, swept every which way, and now I had this anchor tethering me to earth. To be a mother is to be in constant fear. Did I do enough? Did I mess her up? Will she be okay?
The panic attacks Lily has been having worry me. Even though they’ve been occurring less frequently since she left that awful job, I still worry that any sudden movement—any change—could set them off again. How is it that I can help my clients with their problems, but I can’t seem to reach my own kid?
The bus arrives, letting out a puff of steam.
Dinner on Wednesday?I type to William.
My thumb hovers over the message for a moment before I press send.
What’s one more secret, after all?
Chapter SixLily
I have officially outgrown the bed Lottie got me when I was a kid. When I wake up, my feet are almost dangling over the edge. I stretch, feeling the bruises from the grocery store incident.
I have a vague sense of embarrassment, and as I try to remember yesterday’s events, images flash by all at once: Henry’s face in the aisle, the bottles of detergent, the man at the bar, Mary’s diamond ring.
I groan audibly, burying my face in the flower-printed pillowcase. Next door, I can hear what sounds like the hum of a hair dryer, which means Rose is already awake. No surprise there. She’s probably lived a whole life today, while I’m still in bed.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, open up Instagram, and search Henry’s name. It’s a reflex, like biting your nails, like forgetting to put on a seat belt, like sticking a fork in a toaster. I had him blocked this past year, so I wouldn’t be tempted to check his profile. Now I let myself see everything I’ve missed.
Here, the girl is everywhere.
There are vacation photos taken in Greece, yellow flowers for Valentine’s Day with the city skyline behind it, and even, I notice with a sinking sensation in my chest, images of them in Nantucket at Queequeg’s, my favorite restaurant. Mary is shorter than I am, and in the photos, she’s cuddled up into Henry’s arm, smiling sweetly for the camera. She fits better there, in the crook of his shoulder, than I ever did. She looks like she belongs, like she could make it a home.
And then, the final blow. Henry on one knee in Boston Common at the golden hour. Behind them, the Public Garden. The bridge perched above the scene like a witness from God.
In all of the photos—the story of their romance—I check the date and can pinpoint the times we were still texting or catching up on the phone.
Just four months ago, we stayed up for hours on Christmas Eve talking. We did this frequently since the breakup. Our only rule was to never talk about our romantic lives, but we could discuss everything else: our families, jobs, mutual friends, movies, the past.
Had he been engaged then? His voice sounded the same, familiar and warm. Was it all an act? Was Mary in the other room, wrapping presents?
Something in the pit of my stomach pinches and loosens, and then I am running to the bathroom. The door sticks with humidity, so I bang my body against it, hitting the wooden frame with my hips until it budges open. I lean over the porcelain toilet seat, vomiting until I’m certain there’s nothing left in my body.
I’m not sure if it’s the hangover, the heartbreak, or both.
