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And for the first time ever, it occurs to me that I don’t want it to be.
Nine
Becca
I don’t sleep that night, and I’m all testy the following day, barely keeping myself from shouting at Thea when she comes in to buy some shampoo she forgot the week before. I do manage not to bite her head off, however. Because the real fault lies with me, even if I’m loathed to admit it.
If I’d just kept my big yap shut, Sean wouldn’t be upset with me, and I wouldn’t be in this mess.
That evening after getting home, I discuss the circumstances with Jodi, swearing her to secrecy. She’s one of the few people who visits my salon that I can trust to keep this to herself. As we talk, I discover that the neighborly fling I’ve been enjoying with Sean had quit being something inconsequential to me a long time ago.
“I care about him, yet I’ve obviously pissed him off. I don’t know if I should try to catch him, to apologize again, or not.” Something tells me he’ll ditch my sorry ass somehow before I can. “What do I do?”
“Give him space,” she suggests. “Sometimes that’s the best medicine.”
“But it’s killing me that this happened, that I ruined things.”
“You’re going to have to be patient, even though I know that’s not your strong suit.” Jodi’s attempting to make me laugh, I realize, but I’m just not there yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be there. When I don’t take her bait, she sobers.
“Not everyone is okay with their lives being an open book for others to read. Especially when it might include some type of broader community discussion. Remember Brady? Sometimes people are tried in the court of public opinion and found guilty when they’re not. It can damage lives. For real.”
I know about Brady, and I’m sorry to say that I remember talking about him prior to owning my salon. It was different this time, though. I inadvertently blurted that stuff about Sean. It wasn’t premeditated. Not that that apparently matters.
Self-control is no more my forte than patience is.
Does that mean I’m just a bad person?
“Isn’t Sean the type to keep to himself?” my friend asks me, dragging me back out from the disaster in my head.
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s likely why he reacted so strongly.” She says this gently, but it only makes me feel worse. Mainly because it’s true. I know it is.
Right after meeting Sean, I realized he was the strong and silent type. So much so that he avoids large social situations. I despise how weak I’ve been, that I’ve let my shitty brain-to-mouth filter get so out of hand. Particularly now that it may have cost me something memorable with Sean. Something special.
“I care about him, Jodi. I feel awful about this, but I’m not sure saying sorry will ever be enough.”
“A lack of trust is a huge deal-breaker with a lot of people,” Jodi says as quietly as Sean typically does, patting me on the arm in sympathy. Is she consoling me like this because there may not be a solution this time?
For a week, I mull all this over, beating myself up. I have to face the facts that I’ve been doing this bullshit for years. Loved ones have yelled at me for it in the past, but they’ve always forgiven me. Yet, when I think about conversations I have with them, I have to admit that they’re not as in depth as they used to be.
Have my family and friends ceased telling me things they crave to keep quiet because of my blabbermouth tendencies?
From that point onward, I decide that this is a stupid habit that stops now. Not only will I no longer mention whatever parcel of intel I might hear, I will also make a point of stopping the patrons of my shop. I will even go as far as flipping on a hairdryer or turning the faucet on my sinks full blast to do it.
I miss Sean horrendously, more than I would’ve imagined. Then things grow exponentially worse when he moves out of the duplex. If he’s not nearby, my chances of ever getting to speak with him, to make clear to him how much I regret my actions, are through.
Yet my mama didn’t raise a quitter, and I don’t believe that any situation could ever be completely hopeless.
So I begin to send fully catered dinners from The Blue Heron to his house. He’d mentioned that his real home was the big Victorian over on Chestnut Street, so I drive over to retrieve the address, finding his vehicle there.
It makes me feel better, even if I receive no real proof that it’s doing any good. I make sure that I send him meals I know or suspect he’ll like, different selections each time. With each one I sends a note that says, “I’m so sorry. I miss you. Can you ever forgive me?”
I understand that I may have permanently ruined the best relationship I’ve ever had, and that it’s all my fault.
I spend Christmas Day with my family, like always, and my brother proposes to Jodi. I do all the expected things. I smileand clap for them. I hug them and say all the correct sentiments. Yet witnessing the joy between my brother and best friend still drives the dagger of losing Sean in deeper.
For the first time in my life, I fell for someone, hook, link, and sinker. It sucks even harder knowing that my chance to give him my heart is gone.
