Page 76 of Lessons in Lemonade

Standing up with her fingers still lingering in his fur, Meg glances behind me at the setup underneath the gazebo. “What is this?” she asks, wiping her face and under her eyes. As if I care about smudged makeup.

“I owed you a date, remember?” I place my hand on her lower back and guide her up the three steps to the center.

“A date?” she asks, confused. “I thought this was a private tour . . .”

“It is, private just for us. You mentioned in passing on the carriage ride that you loved this house and garden, and I never forgot, so I reached out. And yes, it’s my turn for a date with you. Taking a play from your playbook, instead of going to a restaurant, I made the food for you. Food is love, right?” The corner of my mouth rises just a little.

“It is,” she whispers, dropping her head and suddenly appearing shy.

Pulling out her chair, I guide her to sit then push her in before taking my own seat. Zeus settles in next to her feet, and she runs her hand over his head and back one time before she draws the napkin into her lap and pierces me with steel gray. There’s anger and accusation in her gaze, which I can’t blame her for; I did barge into her life and then exit without so much as even looking back.

“You didn’t text me back. I texted you like an hour and a half ago. I saw the dots and then you stopped. Why?”

“Yeah, about that . . .” Fidgeting, I pull my own napkin into my lap and pick up the bottle of white wine I had chilling to pour her a glass. “The first time, I have no excuse, other than my feelings were still hurt and I wasn’t ready. Today, I started to, obviously, but if I had, I never would have stopped, and I had a to-do list a mile long to get ready for tonight. I know it doesn’t look like much, but you’ll be happy to know I did prepare all of this by myself.” I glance down at the charcuterie board, the tureen of she-crab soup, the shrimp dip, and the other finger foods like stuffed cherry tomatoes.

“You made all this?” She looks at me with wariness and awe.

I nod, feeling slightly concerned that she won’t like it. She looks down at the table, at the different dishes laid out in front of her.

“Where? Where did you prepare it?” She glances at me quickly then looks back at the table.

“Actually, at OBA.” I open the lid to the tureen and ladle some soup into her bowl then mine.

“What?” Her eyes widen. “When? How come no one told me you were there today?”

I shrug my shoulders and grin, hoping this doesn’t get Taylor in trouble. I can’t imagine that it will. “From what I heard, you haven’t been in much the last couple of days.”

She frowns. “No, I haven’t.”

Picking up her spoon, she dips it into the soup and tastes it. Her eyes light up at the flavor, and a flash of heat sears me upon seeing that she’s pleased. I didn’t realize how nervous I was for her to eat the food I made until she sat down at the table.

Deciding I need to let her lead the conversation between us, I load up a few items on my plate and start eating. She does the same, and I watch closely as she tastes different things. It’s quiet between us, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence, more like a regrouping about what’s to come next. I know how I feel about her and she knows how I feel about us, so really, it’s her who needs to break the ice and explain what she’s thinking and how she feels.

Fortunately, she doesn’t make me wait long before she blurts out, “I made promises to myself.”

Promises. I’d like to make a few promises to her, ones that begin and end with us and forever.

“Like what?” I ask her, setting my spoon down and giving her my full attention.

“Like . . .” She stops talking, frowns again, and starts pulling apart a piece of bread. I don’t say anything, just watch her, and piece by piece, she unknowingly builds a pile of crumbs.

The sun has now dropped enough that it’s more night than day. Although I do have a few small candles lit on the table, the lights strung up around the gazebo have cast her in a mixture of brightness and shadows. I could stare at her indefinitely, and I’m certain I would continuously discover something new.

Letting out a sigh, she tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She’s struggling and I hate this, but she needs to talk; she needs to tell me. There’s no way to move forward without her opening up to me. Then she drops the bread, straightens up tall in her chair, and meets my gaze eye to eye.

“I made five promises to myself, only five so they could be manageable and obtainable, and easy to remember. I needed them, and I’ve held onto them because they’ve fueled me, shaped me, and given me strength to get through the day.”

I want to ask her when she made these promises and what they have to do with me, but I don’t. I’m patient, and I wait, lifting my glass and taking a sip of the wine.

“The first is that I would not let the cancer fears get to me, and there are a lot of fears. The second is that I would eat healthier, exercise, and practice mindfulness. Third, I wouldn’t freak out every time I felt tired or got a fever. Fourth, I would embrace each day as if it were my last and do my best to live a full life. And fifth . . .” She pauses and looks at me nervously. “I promised myself I wouldn’t inflict this on anyone but me.”

Leaning back, I remain silent as I watch different emotions wash through her eyes. Pride, because she’s proud of who she’s become over the last couple of years; sadness, I think because she finally knows she’s missing out on some of the really great parts of life; and then disappointment because she thinks that’s what I feel about her and her promises. She’s completely wrong about that, though.

And then she does the thing, this thing where she shakes her head and then smiles. I’ve seen her do it before and have never given much thought to it, but now I think it’s because she’s trying to shake away bad or negative thoughts, and by smiling she’s reminding herself that she must be grateful, must be happy—even when she’s not. It’s a mask, and for us to work, she’s going to have to take it off.

I continue to stare at her as I replay these promises, considering how they impact her and how they might impact us, and other than the last one, which she’ll need to explain, they all seem like nice things to work toward. I’ve also concluded that she made them to herself sometime during or after when she was sick.

“I went out with a guy—”