“You absolutely are.”
“Okay,” I admitted. “Maybe a little.”
She sipped her drink slowly, clearly enjoying my suffering.
“What exactly qualified as overcorrecting?”
She shrugged. “That depends on whether you ask the local clergy or me.”
I barked out a startled laugh. “Oh, I definitely need details now.”
“You’re not getting them.”
“Oh, come on. Not even one?”
“No.”
“You can’t casually imply scandal and then refuse to elaborate.”
“That is exactly what I can and will do.”
Another performer strutted across the stage in towering heels and an enormous, feathered cape, the audience screaming their encouragement. Beside me, Winnie was laughing openly.
Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was simply exhaustion finally loosening its grip after years of grinding myself into dust.
But somewhere during the second act, I realized I felt young. Like a person instead of a machine wearing human skin. I hadn’t noticed how small my life had become until I wasn’t focused solely on work, kids, bills, schedules, and grief, endlessly on repeat.
Somewhere along the line, I’d stopped existing outside obligations. It had happened slowly, without me realizing it, after Jade died. Every piece of myself that wasn’t useful got stripped away one exhausted year at a time. Hobbies disappeared first. Friends next. Then spontaneity. And finally, the idea that I was allowed to want anything unrelated to productivity or parenting.
Winnie was watching me. Her eyes were squinted, and she chewed on her lower lip. As if she had the ability to read thoughts, she asked, “When was the last time you did something just because it was fun?”
I thought about it and came up disturbingly blank for several seconds.
“I can’t remember. That’s bleak.”
Winnie didn’t laugh. Instead, she watched me closely, an unreadable expression on her face. “You’re allowed to exist outside of your job and the kids, Conrad.”
The words settled in a deep and uncomfortable space inside me. Obviously, I knew that. But knowing something and believing it were completely different things.
“I think I forgot how,” I said finally.
“You havenotforgotten.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because you’ve been laughing for nearly two hours.”
I looked at her then. Really looked at her. At the woman who had come into our lives armed with funeral wear and impossible patience. She’d steadily dragged all of us back toward something resembling happiness.
Somewhere along the way, the future had stopped being something I merely had to survive.
A performer in glittering gold shorts cartwheeled across the stage. Grinning, Winnie tossed a dollar bill onto the stage. She had surprisingly good aim. The performer caught it mid-spin without missing a beat.
The music swelled again while the next act prepared backstage. Without really thinking about it, I inched closer to her. Not enough to touch. Just enough to exist inside the same pocket of air.
Perhaps Winnie sensed the shift because her smile softened.
My stomach did that inconvenient flip-flop act it’d been performing lately.
