His smile is so soft, so genuine that it hooks into me, tugs at my heart. “You guys get along so great, you and Wednesday. All worth it, right?”
“One hundred percent. And I didn’t even know that was what I wanted when I was pregnant. Until they put her in my arms, I didn’t realize that I wanted to spend all my time with her,” I say, and Liam’s beaming, like he finds this the most delightful thing. My God, it’s such an endearing look, but such a terrifying one too. It’s a reminder that he wants more of that—having a baby in your arms—and I want none of it.
I try to laugh it off. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shrugs a little sheepishly. “I think that’s lovely. It’s great that you felt that way. That you knew what you wanted to do. That you did it.”
“It was the only thing I felt certain about then, Liam.” I lean a little closer, lowering my voice a bit more, compelled to share this with him. I rarely gave voice to these worries with Vince. I rarely discussed them with my parents. But talking to Liam is so incredibly easy. Words just flow, truths come out, and banter unfurls like ocean waves, softly lapping the shore. “And because of that, because I was so sure I wanted to be with her in those early days, I don’t regret that I didn’t figure out what I wanted to do for a living until I was older.”
“When did you figure it out?”
I confess what I didn’t say at IKEA. “Not till she was six or seven and going to school. At that point I’d been out of the workforce for so long I wasn’t sure where to start, so I went to work for my dad because it was flexible. I could leave when I needed to at the end of the day and pick her up from school.” These are things I didn’t want to tell him over that lunch at IKEA. We’d just met, and I’d thought maybe they would reveal too much about me. But now I feel like we’ve been sharing more and it’s safe to tell him. Or maybe it’s because it’s nighttime. Nighttime makes you braver.
“And is that when you knew you wanted to start your own company?”
I shake my head, remembering the turmoil but also the moments of clarity that eventually came. “It was a few years later. When she was ten, my dad retired, so that made the decision easier in some ways. At first, I was scared. But he helped me get set up, gave me some of his supplies and such. Still, I worried so much. I worried I’d make a mistake. I worried whether I’d be able to pull it off.”
“Because of your mum? The champion worrier?” he asks, his voice gentle, thoughtful.
“You remembered,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.
“It was only a few hours ago.”
“Still.” I dip my head, trying to hide how much I like that he remembers what I say. I’m not used to that. Not used to someone noticing. I’m used to distance or obligation—those were Vince’s two settings on the washing machine of his emotions. There was little in between. “And yes, my mom worried a lot when we were growing up, not just over the elliptical. She worried when my dad started his construction company.” I rattle off all the what-ifs that plagued her, that she overshared with me when I was younger. “What if there’s a mistake? What if something goes wrong? What if there’s liability? What if we don’t have business? What if it all goes belly-up? What if something happens? She was masterful at worst-case scenarios. And I took on some of those worries as an adult too. That’s why it took me a while to finally do it.”
“How did you push past that?” He dips his spoon into the pint one more time, then takes another bite.
“My friend Alva. I met her when our daughters became best friends in grade school. She runs the hair salon in town, and I was stressing about starting my own carpentry business. One time when she was trimming my hair, she said, ‘At some point, you have to say fuck it to all your worries and just cut your hair off.’”
He gives a laugh, the deep belly kind. “Did you cut your hair off?”
I shake my head. “No. But her advice was the equivalent of going into a salon and asking for a wholesale change.”
“Are you glad you did it?”
I nod, big and long and proud. “Absolutely. Now I’m just doing my best to keep it going. To fight for it. To say screw the worries. I try not to bring them home, to let them consume me. I don’t want Wednesday to worry that my business might fail like I did with my parents.” I swallow roughly, taking a deep breath. “Or me to worry that the business would fail because my marriage already did.”
