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Me:Don’t. It’s not like we’re running together. We happen to run at about the same time, and sometimes we talk for a minute. It’s nothing.
It’s a good thing I proof the text before I send it. All the exclamation points would not have made the point I’m going for.
Ivy:Why is Noah running where you are?
Me:He moved here a few weeks ago.
Judging by the number of angry, swearing, and eye-rolling emojis she sends, I should have informed her sooner. I explain why I didn’t.
Me:It doesn’t matter. I’m with Alec.
Ivy:My dear, you’re being stupid. Dump Adonis.
Me:There’s nothing between me and Noah. I’m. With. Alec.
She sends a GIF of one of those enormous dump trucks they use in mining excavations, with wheels the size of a car. My heart pounds.
I can’t dump Alec.
Ivy:There was a time when I didn’t want you to interfere and you did it anyway. I’m going to repay that blessing by asking you some questions that are pretty obvious to me but you’re not seeing. You don’t have to answer me. Think about them and be honest with yourself. Okay?
I send her an unenthusiastic thumbs-up and wait. It takes a while, and when her text arrives I can see why. It’s several screens long, and all of the questions make me think. But three of them prick my skin like the popcorn husks in my sheets.
Who could you talk to for hours on end?
Who lightens your load and makes you want to be a better person?
Who do you think about when you’re not thinking about anything?
Those three keep me awake long after I’ve signed off and turned out the lights.
* * *
Considering the lack of sleep, my working Labor Day goes pretty well. The boys at Pathfinder still have a half day of school in the morning, but most are content with an afternoon off from their usual routine. After a slow morning with shortened classes, we eat a quick lunch, load the boys up, and take them to the local outdoor pool.
The weather has cooled enough to keep some of the crowds away, and it’s great to sit and watch my boys interacting with each other. The other staff and I are confined to the deck chairs, each of us responsible for a defined area of the pool complex. I’m glad I draw the deep end. Diving-board antics keep me entertained until it’s time to leave.
Once the guys are settled and we’ve handed them off to the evening staff, I check my phone and head for the parking lot. It’s five o’clock, and the YCS group text has blown up while I was working. I take a minute to scroll through the panic, cracking my windows and cranking the air to combat the oven that is my car while confirming that all last-minute issues have been resolved. I make a quick stop at the grocery store for my contribution to the salad table. A caesar kit will have to do. I don’t have time for anything fancy.
I swing past my apartment long enough to do a camp-bath, reapply deodorant, and throw on a new shirt to subdue the sitting-in-the-sun-all-day smell I’ve cultivated. My salad bowl has popcorn in it from last night’s pity party, so I do a quick wash and dry on it before I run out the door. Halfway down the stairwell, I remember the salad kit I brought in because I didn’t want to leave it in the hot car. Sprinting back up the stairs does not help my lateness or my appearance.
By the time I get to the park, it’s nearly six, and I can feel Tony’s angst from the parking lot. He’s in the pavilion with Chris, counting soda cans and rearranging paper goods and wearing worry lines into his forehead. I attempt to summon enough inner calmness for both of us and hurry his way.
“Hey, Tony! Everything looks great!” I say.
He startles, then heaves a sigh of relief. “Glad you made it.”
“Sorry about that—just got off work. Salads?” I point to the mostly empty table next to the paper goods. He nods. I break out my kit and assemble my salad.
Jamie pulls into the parking slot closest to our pavilion and gets out, reaching the trunk as Noah parks next to her and jumps out to help. She hands him a stack of pizza boxes, giving him a broad grin as they make the exchange and sending a violent surge through my core.
What the heck?
“Where do you want these?” Noah asks Tony, tossing a head bob my way.
I shove the weird feeling aside. So what if they’re friends? Or more? It has nothing to do with me.
“That’s a lot of pizza,” Chris says approvingly.
