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As far as romantic relationships, most men wanted what most men want. When it worked for me, I gave it to them. Most didn’t rock my boat enough to bother. The others, the ones with potential, either couldn’t get past the fact that I had a child or could not accept the close friendship I shared with her father.
Neither of which were going anywhere.
Most, quite simply, didn’t measure up. And I wasn’t willing to settle, compromise, or turn my life inside out to accommodate them.
The dream was dying despite my mother’s death grip on it. I needed to accept that and find a new one.
My thoughts returned to Maeve’s offer to take on more responsibility at work. Though I was thrown by her words of warning, I reasoned that the only change would be a bit more travel. Maybe a few days a month. At most a week.
I rapidly tapped the tip of my index finger on the bow of my lip. I’d have to talk to Lucky about changing up Brayleigh’s routine. I knew my parents would leap at the opportunity to fill in where needed if Lucky wanted to keep everything the same. I wasn’t worried about not having coverage.
The problem rested with me. I wanted to be the one who was there for Brayleigh. While I enjoyed the last trip, I missed her.
Yet my current circumstances were not enough.
I loved my mother. Deeply. Selfishly. And I loved what she gave to me growing up. I didn’t want a carbon copy of her life, but building a career that took me away from Brayleigh didn’t sit well either.
My rejection of my mother’s lifestyle hurt her, but it wasn’t as if it wasn’t reciprocated. When I told her I accepted an offer to study fashion design, she did not hide her surprise. Or the fact that the surprise was not a good one.
“I know you love fashion, Hope. But what kind of satisfaction can you get from a job making people look pretty? You’re so nurturing! Have you thought of social work? Or nursing? You could be such a blessing for others, and it would be good for you, too.” Unaware of her knife in my heart, she continued counting off her reasons on her fingers. “One, it’s good money. I know how much you value independence. Two, you’d be helping people. Other than teaching, what better job could you ask for? And three, there would be plenty of opportunity to meet a handsome doctor, have babies, and retire early. Like me!”
She looked up, eyes bright and smile wide.
Almost two decades later, the echo of my reply and its effect on her face retained the power to make me cringe. “I have zero desire to throw my life and talent away on, one,” I mockingly counted off one finger, “taking care of a baby-man who won’t take care of himself. Two,” I counted off another finger, failing to stop even when her gaze hit the floor. “I don’t want to spend my life looking after everybody else. That’s your thing.” Guilt softened my tone as I continued. “And you do it exceedingly well within these four walls, but I want a bigger life.”
She nodded with a smile, but her gaze remained fixed on the floor, her stance frozen.
Suddenly, my father bellowed from the other room. “Maureen! Grab me a beer, honey.”
Without meeting my eyes, she smiled and shrugged as she turned away.
Anger toward my father for treating her like a servant near blinded me. I left quietly before I caused any more damage.
Considering how hard that hit her, it surprised me that she persisted in talking to me about finding someone. But what if it wasn’t in the cards for me? How long would she beat this dead horse? It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried.
As if I wasn’t trying still.
Eyeing the laptop, I snapped it up, sat on my bed, and opened my latest dating app. The flashing icon teased me with possibility. This moment, the one before opening the notifications, marked the high point of my romantic life. This one moment ripe with the promise of fulfilled dreams.
With one eye closed and the other narrowed in a squint, I opened my messages.
One dick, two dick, three dick, four.
Dr. Seuss would have a field day with this. He could have made a new study. Dickology.
Blockity, block, block.
The fifth notification showed some promise.
K: Hey. I’m Kyle.
I quickly clicked onto his profile. A few pics, not the best quality, but pickings were slim. It warranted caution. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d clicked based on a pic that turned out to be of someone else. Or taken a decade ago.
H: I’m Hope. It’s nice to meet you.
Leaving it open, I changed into my pyjamas then brought my laptop out to the living room. Here, too, I decorated with my imaginary future in mind. A blank canvas. I cleared a space on the coffee table for my laptop and grabbed a glass of wine.
I cocked my head to the side. How would I have decorated it if I’d only thought of what I liked?
