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“And he never looked at her the way he looks at you.”
I wanted to correct her wrong assumption but I didn’t have the energy. I’d barely slept a wink the night before waiting, hoping that he’d let me know what was going on. But that had just been wishful thinking. Why would he? We were friends who had sex a couple of times.
“Hank was a different person after his mama died. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He didn’t laugh anymore. Or smile. Or enjoy life.”
Mrs. Birch’s voice cracked and I glanced over at her and saw that she was getting choked up.
“I was sure that our old Hank, the real Hank was gone forever. But since you’ve come to town, he smiles again. He laughs. He enjoys life again. You gave him his smile back.”
As much as I appreciated Mrs. Birch’s attempt at reassurance, I wasn’t naïve enough to pin my expectations or hopes and dreams on a way that someone looked at me, or the fact that they talked more. Or that they smiled.
It was tempting to believe that I had the sort of effect on Hank as people seemed to think I did. Deep down I was a romantic, and being the person that brought someone back to life was an intoxicating idea that I could all too easily get drunk off of.
But that wasn’t reality. The reality was my life was complicated enough without trying to pick petals off a daisy and play he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not.
The facts were the facts. Hank’s ex showed up. She spent the night. He’d kissed her on his front porch.
That was the harsh reality and everything else was just a romanticized version of events.
I was done living in what-ifs and could-bes. I was living in what is. And what I saw this morning was what is.
