Page 65 of Even After This
Scooting down in my bed, I curl my body into the fetal positionwhile pulling the blanket out of the box to cover myself in the sea of solace.
I have no energy to analyze Harlan and his confusing embrace with Olivia. No interest in dissecting our sporadic texts or his voicemails.
Instead, as I fall asleep, my only thoughts are of the sweet embrace he sent to me.
16
Social pressure to readintellectual literature increases with age. If you dare to admit to choosing fiction, dear Lord, make sure it’s at least literary fiction. It’s as if you need to justify your reading choices by how complex the story is and how well it honors the craft of writing.
But I just can’t get me enough of Tris and Katniss.
Because I’m a closet young adult book fan, I can’t discuss with anyone the most irritating issue with those stories. There seems to be a common love triangle theme between the damsel in distress—who is not really a damsel in distress because she’s so strong but she does need some help—and the two boys whose combined body fat is three percent. I don’t want to disappoint the young women ... or thirty-six-year-old women ... of America, but I’m not sure this scenario is realistic. On a couple of levels.
Still,DivergentandThe Hunger Gamessit in my DVR, waiting for the days I need to escape to a teenage dystopian world.
Before I married Steve, my dating life represented the who’s who of misfit toys. I was the queen of attracting the good-guynerds who lack the chemistry they profess to know so much about. No hot vampires and werewolves fighting to the death for me.
Instead, my world is full of Stanleys.
Maybe Molly’s right. Maybe Stanley is a good option for me. Maybe women like me, with stories like mine, need to look for the good options in life.
Claire would hate that I’m thinking this way. Even though we all grew up together, or maybebecausewe all grew up together, it’s her life goal to get Molly out of my head. She was kind enough to drop the topic of my first kiss as a widow, but not without telling me over lunch that she was proud of me for taking a risk, something Molly would hate.
Still, can’t there be value in good options?
Good options that don’t include decreasing, erratic phone calls. Good options who aren’t distant, exhausted, and vague when they do call. Good options that don’t mention maybe reneging on their promise to come for Thanksgiving in a couple weeks. What was it he said on my voicemail yesterday?
“I don’t know how to tell you this. I really wish we could talk. I am one hundred percent planning to be there on Thanksgiving. One hundred percent. But something has come up that I don’t have any control over, and if it plays out a certain way, I might need to miss. I hate this, Meredith. Please know that I hate this. And please call me ... I know. I know that I’m not around when you call, but that doesn’t mean ... Just call me. Take care of yourself.”
What happened to the Harlan Holcombe I met in Colorado?
This morning, Stanley’s coming over to drop something off. Instead of looking forward to talking to my good option, I find myself checking for all the possible exit routes from my own home.
After I open my tall oak door, Stanley raises the Styrofoam cup he’s holding in greeting. “Hey.” As he shuffles by me into thehouse, he leans in for an awkward hug. His other hand grips a travel mug, and a book is tucked under his armpit.
Our touch is fleeting but ignites nausea. Are “good options” supposed to make you ill at the thought of kissing them?
“I brought you some coffee. Just the way you like it.” Shoving the cup in my direction, he loses his arm grip on the book and it falls. “Oh, sorry.” As he picks it up, a slosh of his drink spills on my hardwood floor. “Shoot.” He pulls the edge of his shirt up over his wrist and rubs the splattered liquid into the cuff of his plaid button-down.
Rather than help him, all I can do is stare.
My gut clenches as I realize I can’t be that person for him.
“How is your day?” the nicest man I will never date asks.
“Good. Thanks. Do you want to come in?” I gesture toward the living room.
Stanley, having been to this home many times over the years, enters and sits in a leather armchair. As I pass the coffee remnants on my hardwood, I rub my sock-clad toes over the spot.
He brushes his straight brown hair back and smiles. “I thought of you the other day.”
Oh,please,don’t have thought of me the other day.
I sit across from him in the corner of my couch, tucking my foot under the opposite leg.
“I found this.” He stretches his arm across the ottoman to hand me the paperback. “A friend of mine said it was helpful to him.”
I run my fingertips over the cover.TheGifts in Grief, by Person Who Hasn’t Lost Their Husband and Two Children.
