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“Sure,” I reply.
The last thing I should do is consume alcoholic beverages. It’s already four o’clock. A drink here, a couple at the restaurant, and I’m certain I will land on Brooklyn’s sofa. I don’t need to hear her argument. She’ll remind me that she spent the night at my house. I don’t have any tangible reason to decline the offer. And I know she’ll suggest I spend the night. It was hard having Brooklyn in the next room when I was attracted to her. In love with her? I might hide in this bathroom for the rest of time. There it is—the truth. I have fallen flat on my face for Brooklyn Brady. Dead-end-love is my greatest talent. I never learn. Never. Bam! I fall. Boom! I break. A couple of deep breaths, a splash of water to my face, and it’s time to face the music better known as Brooklyn.
There are few things in life more difficult or painful than concealing your emotions from a person you love. I don’t possess a proficiency in the area of disguise. My mother would say I wear my heart on my sleeve. I can’t afford to do that now—not with Brooklyn. I’ve traveled this road before—fallen for a friend. I was as sure as I could be that she loved me. She did. She didn’t try to deny it. I suppose most people would consider that a gift. She loved me. She didn’t want me as a lover. She never denied she was attracted to me. She never wasted time claiming she didn’t wonder what we could have together. She wantedmore. Whatever more is in life. Normal. That’s what she meant. I knew that then. I’ve spent twenty years wishing I’d never confessed my feelings to her. Once I did, there was no going backward. Anyone who says you can stay friends with someone after you’ve said the words, “I’m in love with you,” can’t prove it by me—or to me. Either you make a go of something or you eventually let go of each other. Unless, of course, you manage to fall out of love. That doesn’t tend to happen when someone is in your life daily.
We remained friends for a few years. Not so slowly, we grew apart. Daily phone calls, weekly dinners, and weekend excursions gave way to occasional trips to a movie or getting together with mutual friends. One day, it all evaporated. Not loving her. Having her in my life. It was too much for both of us. She found a boyfriend. I started seeing a woman I met at a conference. Everything changed. I don’t know when it happened. I can’t point to a conversation, a moment, or an event. I don’t know the date of the last time we spoke. She slipped away into the “more” she sought. I let her leave without a comment or plea. The worst part is I knew—on some level, I knew that we would never be together no matter the depth of what we felt. I knew her. I can’t claim to know Brooklyn as well. I may avoid admitting to anyone what Brooklyn means to me. I can’t deny it to myself. The only way out is through. Silent suffering until, hopefully, one day, I pick myself back up and move on. Make no mistake. I’m no martyr. Not even close. It’s not Brooklyn I need to protect. It’s me. One last deep breath and it’s time to emerge from the safety of my momentary cocoon.
“It’s an Old Fashioned,” she tells me as she hands me a glass. “I’m not much of a bartender. This is my sister’s drink of choice. It’s kind of her prerequisite to visit me.”
I accept the drink with a smile. “You were telling me about this birthday party—”
“Oh, I was, wasn’t I? Is it terrible?”
“I don’t know. What is it?”
“One-year-old parties,” Brooklyn says. “Like anyone remembers their first birthday.”
“I don’t think the party is for the baby.”
“See? That’s what I said.”
I chuckle.
“I mean, it’s cute,” Brooklyn admits. “I don’t even want to guess what my sister spent on Josie’s first birthday party. Balloons and streamers. Party hats. Catered food.” Brooklyn rolls her eyes. “And this extravagant Elmo cake that Josie destroyed with her hands.”
“It’s a rite of passage,” I say. “A milestone.”
“I guess, but for whose benefit?”
Fair question. “Everyone’s,” I tell her. “I hear you. I had the same thought with Jeremy. Don’t get me wrong, I loved spending time with him from the moment he was born. It was a lot of fanfare every year for years. I kind of felt bad when it was Phillip’s turn.”
“Why?”
“There was fanfare, just less.”
“It’s funny you say that.”
“Why?”
“I asked my sister about my nephew’s party and she was kind of matter-of-fact about it.”
“Second child. Still a milestone. Just a milestone everyone’s already experienced.”
“That’s kind of depressing.”
I laugh. “Weren’t you the one who said no one remembers their first birthday?”
“Yeah, but we will.”
I sip my drink and watch Brooklyn drum her fingers on her knee. “I won’t do that.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“When I have kids—I won’t do that. I commit to birthday party equality.”
My heart plummets. Another reminder of the distance between us. I gave up any ideas I had about raising a family when Andrea and I broke up. We’d discussed the possibility. Raising kids with Andrea wouldn’t have been easy, but I’ve no doubt we would have made it work. Had we made the leap, I’m sure we’d still be together. At forty-six, I don’t see babies in my future. Brooklyn is thirty. She has plenty of time. “Equal is good,” I agree.
“Come to think of it, my sister has made a few comments about me being the favorite.”
