Page 80 of When There Was You
“Are youlonely a lot?”
“Yes,” I whisper. Admitting it sounds pathetic. “Lately I’ve wondered if I’ve expected others to solve that for me, while simultaneously realizing they can’t.”
“That’s very insightful. Loneliness often has little to do with other people.”
“Exactly. I’ve experienced it in rooms full of people, or out with friends, and certainly with my family, where I’m viscerally aware I’m not connected to anyone. Don’t think I’m a loser, but… it’s paralyzing, a hole I’m constantly trying to fill, only nothing plugs it up. It just gapes like an open wound.” I squeeze my eyes shut, a smallughescaping. “I can’t believe I just admitted that out loud.”
“You’re not a loser, baby. But I don’t think another person can fix it for you. It’s your riddle to solve.”
“Sometimes when I’m around other people, it’s wonderful and nothing hurts.”Like with you.
“Maybe you’re with the right people in that moment, the kind who create those unseen connections, like when all the pistons fire to make your four-stroke run.”
Mechanics.“You’re wise beyond your years, Lumberjack.”
He scoffs. “I don’t know about that, but my parents infused a healthy dose of common sense into me. Or rather, it was beaten into me with a sledgehammer. I try and assess situations with logic. Except with you, Jacqui. You turn my world upside down.”
“Ditto.”
He’s thrown me for a loop...or ten. When I’m with Butch, I’m not lonely. I don’t understand if that’s positive or not. Does he solve my problem…or camouflage it? I could lose myself in him so easily. Probably already have. And if I’m clear on one thing, it’s that nothing lasts forever.
But what if wearepistons in the same engine that work together, like he said?
“I’m sorry again about this weekend. Are you going somewhere fun?” he asks.
No clue now. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I’ll be exceptionally envious.”
“Why?”
“One, because I’ll wish I was with you, and two, you’ll have time to yourself, something I rarely get anymore.”
Hmm. “And I have more of that than I want. Isn’t it strange how we each want the opposite?”
His rueful laugh travels across the miles. “It’s completely fucked up. I can tell you this, Sundance. The more I get to know you, the more I want to be with you. I’ll give you all my minutes, my hours, my years. You’ll never be lonely again.”
“That’s downright romantic, Butch. But now I’m wondering if you’re ready to offload a bunch of man crap—like your laundry—and I’m just the unsuspecting pack mule.”
He chuckles. “Baby, you’re a breath of fresh air. And right now, I want to gulp it down.”
Forty-Two
Saturday, after some internal waffling, I force myself to go out and explore. It’s another brisk day, clouds blocking the sun and dimming the light. I button my new black wool peacoat and draw the collar up as I walk several streets until I intersect Monument Avenue.
Beautiful homes line both sides of the street, and my gait slows to admire their trim details, masonry, and manicured gardens. There’s no missing the gigantic monuments in the center strip, either. They seem a rather bizarre inclusion in a city neighborhood, but many of my coworkers said to check them out.
It’s only a few blocks to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, where I spend a couple of immersive hours meandering the expansive halls of paintings, photography, sculptures, and featured exhibits. Art museums hold a special place in my heart, and this one is well worth the visit.
To cap off my day, I treat myself to an early dinner at a seafood restaurant, something I’ve missed since leaving my western shores. I order a bowl of clam chowder and a glass of white wine and nibble on warm French bread smeared with chilled butter in foil-wrapped rectangles.
I long for a book to keep me company and regret my decision to leave my current paperback at home. Solitary dining seems sad and pathetic—look at the loser with no friends—and I scan for anything to latch onto. When the body language of a nearby couple suggests trouble in paradise, I make up elaborate backstories for their argument.
My food arrives, and the combination of the creamy chowder, delicious bread, and dry wine eases my angst and is worth every penny.
I’d still be happier if Butch were sitting across from me, grinning at me like I’m the best entrée on the menu. Still, I can do this. Spend time with myself. Pamper myself. Take myself out on the town. And you know what? For Thanksgiving, I’ll go to a double feature, stuff my face with candy and popcorn, and be thankful I’m alive. No more moping, no more hoping, no more hanging my happiness on what men deign to give me of themselves.
On the way home, my thoughts veer back to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Foresty. I do miss him, and he sounded like he needed a big hug. When I near the grocery store, I impulsively swing into the parking lot with the idea to make chicken noodle soup for Butch and his parents—a care package of sorts. He’s inundated and they’re sick. It’s such an easy gesture. I’ll drive it down tomorrow and surprise him with it.
