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“You don’t have to be in love with him for your heart to be reaching out to him. Besides, since when has it ever been a horrible thing to love someone?”
“Says the woman who has never been in a serious relationship,” I said, immediately regretting it.
But my mother, as usual, was not offended.
“Oh, my darling girl, don’t mistake lack of commitment for lack of love. I have loved. I have loved big and deep. I have dived in and submerged myself in it. Done backstrokes and breaststrokes in it. But love, for me, has always been deep and overwhelming, but short-lived. And that’s okay. I have been happy with that. But Ihaveloved. And it worries me, Savannah, that I haven’t seen you even showing signs of it. Until now.”
“I’ve…” I started to object, then stopped.
Because if I gave it more than a moment’s thought, I would have to admit the truth. I had liked. I had lusted. I had even been mildly infatuated. But I hadn’t loved. Not even close.
I couldn’t even claim to relate to the idea of my heart “calling to someone.”
But maybe that was what this was with Nino.
Why I couldn’t stop thinking of him, dreaming of him, obsessing over him.
“I just haven’t found someone to love yet,” I decided. “Not in that way.” Because I did love. Often and deeply. Just… platonically.
I was still in contact with this girl I had an intense friendship with during a summer beach vacation when I was ten. I’d gone to her wedding. I’d bought her babies Christmas presents.
I loved the homeless man who had told me stories about his family that he loved but was afraid to be home with because of his violent PTSD.
Then there was the elderly lady whose hair I’d brushed and braided at the temporary shelter where my mom had been volunteering after a horrible hurricane.
And the dozens or hundreds of others I’d met during my lifetime.
But not a man who I was involved with intimately.
“I guess I haven’t. Not in that way,” I said, feeling a little sad that I hadn’t noticed that before.
“Maybe that is because you are meant to only love once and deeply,” my mom suggested, giving my thigh a pat.
“But not Nino,” I insisted.
“Why not?”
“It’s just not like that.”
“You said it is.”
“Was,” I corrected.
“Oh, I see,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “Perhaps that is because of your condition?” she suggested. “He is clearly still interested. Taking you to dinner, weeding your garden, telling you all about his family.”
“I don’t know. We’ll see, I guess,” I said, not sure if he was going to show up again.
But secretly praying he would.
“So, how about some rosemary bread today?” she asked, sensing I didn’t want to talk about Nino anymore. I mean, I did. Endlessly. But not to analyze what was going on with us.
The rest of the day went as usual.
We were busy.
Yes, with Nino’s family. But also, the word seemed to be getting around from them to their friends because there were many unfamiliar faces as well.
My hip was smarting but not as bad as it had been when I’d first been shot, so I guessed Nino was right about it healing from the inside, little by little. Another couple of days, a week, I was barely going to be feeling anything.
