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I want to say more.
I want to say less.
I flip the phone upside down on the nightstand and consider this whole fucked-up situation.
The wrong woman at the wrong time is easy to walk away from. The wrong woman at the right time isn’t worth any effort at all. There’s no point.
But the right woman at the wrong time? That was always the dilemma.
Livy Morgan is perfect.
And I couldn’t have her.
It would’ve been detrimental… her hopes and dreams dashed, her sense of self abandoned. Everything she’d worked for would’ve been smashed to bits. Word getting out would’ve ruined her. I had one choice, one card to play.
Walk away.
And now? Now she could have it all, and I can’t be what she needs or who she deserves.
The right woman deserves it all, and since it’s in my power to give it to her, I will. I’ll ease her mind and relieve her heart of this burden.
And again, I’ll take the high road.
Again, I’ll lose a good woman.
Again, I’ll fight to survive theafter.
* * *
Livy
I rise with the sun and head to the beach. It’s already warm, but the wind blows off the water. I close my eyes and take deep steadying breaths, thanking the sun for rising and granting me one more day.
My practice has changed since I got home. I assume I’m breathing life into my body. It may be silly, but I can visualize what strangles me or I can imagine the pure air pushing oxygen and light to where it should be.
It’s allowed for a different focus. The mind-body-soul connection is less in my head and more rooted in my body. I’m in tune with the movement and the why and am thrilled with how clear my mind is and how strong my body is.
The soul part is a work in progress.
I walked away from my parents’ home and left Mother, Father, and Natalia—as she demands to be called—there. Their position in the kitchen, their posture, the anger and the displeasure on their faces, the rising anger in their voices… all are burned in my memory with the scent of lemon wood polish and burned espresso beans.
It was a defining moment. It’s not as if they ever doted on me, but now that I see the condescension and control coupled with never-ending correction, it’s easy to put my mental and emotional health above their demands.Easyis the wrong word. It’s necessary.
No matter the striving, it will never be enough. No matter the achievement, it could’ve been more.
No amount of me bowing and scraping will grant me their approval.
I sat at Fenway and cried. I mourned the loss of my family. I grieved the relationships I wished I’d had with them. I sat in the sunshine with the jeers and cheers and accepted the hand I’d been dealt and held it up against what I desired my life would’ve been.
I wished my mother had been a mom. I wished I had someone to meet me in Delaware and hold me when I heard my fate. I wished my dad had wanted to hold me on his lap and tell me stories, even if they were rip-offs of Medieval literature with a Livy twist. I wished my sister told me secrets and was safe to share mine with. I wished I’d had a best friend in her.
And by the seventh inning stretch when the crowd was on their feet, swaying with beer and singing a one-hundred-year-old song, one that’s been surely sung by millions of people, I dried my eyes, released my grievances, and made my way to the gate for my Uber.
I got on the plane with swollen eyes, a baseball tank that was too big, and I left it all behind.
Like coming from under the surface of water, I broke through, took a gasping breath of air, and shed those what-ifs and I-wishes. When the runway fell below our feet, I left the shackles there.
My life is a good one. My home is amazing. My job is fulfilling. My friendships are life-saving and life-giving. My mind is strong. And Kyle is perfect.
