Why I Love Singlehood: (31 page)

I smiled, and my eyes stung. It was if my parents had just told me that they were proud of me, and I couldn’t help but wonder in that instant if they would be proud of the life I’d made. Would they approve of my being a coffee shop owner, an entrepreneur, or would my father be disappointed that I didn’t stay in teaching? Would my mother have preferred I’d settled down with a family of my own, like Olivia? Would it have even taken me so long to figure out what I wanted to do had they not passed away? Would I have followed the same path?

In that instant I felt lost at sea, alone and adrift, the boat bobbing up and down, and I clasped the edge of the desk to steady myself. I could hear Norman’s voice echoing,
Singlehood really isn’t my thing
, followed by,
Not that there’s anything wrong with it
…trying to figure out which one applied to me.

Scott arrived carrying two bags of Chinese food takeout, and as I ritually retrieved two plates from the cabinets and two beers from the fridge, he sorted and opened the boxes, trying to make small talk with me. When he’d had enough of my one-word answers, he asked why I was so quiet.

“Just thinking of everything that’s been goin’ on, I guess,” I replied, filling him in on Ed Rush’s call and Jenna’s condition.

“You’ve been burning the candle at both ends, huh,” he said. I nodded. Looking down at the food, I immediately lost my appetite.

“I’m sorry, I can’t eat any of this.”

I took him by the hands and led him out of the kitchen and outside to the deck. I sat on the patio chair and stared out into the horizon, trying to avoid saying the words. Scott sat in the adjacent chair, waiting.

“Just say it, Eva,” he said after the silence had passed long enough. His tone was neither demanding nor impatient. I was pretty sure he knew what I wanted to say, and he was giving me permission to say it. Or perhaps he just wanted it to be over with, like ripping a bandage off in one fell swoop.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said, my voice soft, yet matter-of-fact.

“I know,” he replied in the same tone. “I’ve known it for a while. I was just hoping you’d change your mind.”

“I should’ve talked to you about it sooner, told you it wasn’t working out.”

“Yeah, you probably should’ve. But I don’t know that I would’ve listened. I would’ve tried to convince you to give it more time.”

“We both know I didn’t get into this with you for the right reasons. And even if it hadn’t been on a rebound, even if you’d asked me out conventionally, or if I didn’t know you and replied to your Lovematch-dot-com ad, it still wouldn’t have been for the right reasons.”

“Was it about him?” he said, not mentioning Shaun by name.

I shook my head. “It goes back further than Shaun. It was about
me
. I thought I was in such a good place when I wrote that first WILS essay.”

“Was it a lie?”

“Not exactly. I’d rationalized that I was doing just fine, when all I was doing was distracting myself from wanting all the people I’d lost to come back to me.”

“A lot of people care about you, you know,” said Scott. “Including me.”

“Oh, I know that, and I care about you, too. I just…I don’t…I don’t feel the way you’re supposed to feel when you’re in love with someone.” I could hear Shaun saying those same words to me, almost verbatim. “I’m so sorry. I wish I didn’t have to hurt you like that. I’ve been on your end of that statement before, and I know how crappy it feels.”

He looked down. “It’s OK,” he said, and I could tell that he was forcing the words. “I know you’re not trying to be mean or intentionally malicious or anything like that. It’s just the cold, hard truth, that’s all.” He studied his hands for a moment. “It does suck, though.”

“Yeah, it does,” I agreed.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you needed,” he said.

“Same here.”

Scott stared past the backyard, beyond the trees.

“Do you know we never went to the beach together?” He pointed outward in the direction of the beach. “I mean, it’s right there, right at our fingertips, and we never took advantage of it.”

“I know,” I said. “I used to be that way with New York City. I grew up about an hour away by train and could go in any time I wanted. And because of that accessibility, I took it for granted, thinking that it would always be there, whole and unchanged.”

“We should have gone to the beach,” he said.

We sat on the deck for a while, saying nothing and avoiding eye contact. I felt my hand slip into his, almost without my willing it to, and we stayed like that even longer, still silent. His hand felt warm in mine, a lifeline of some kind. Perhaps it was to keep me from falling into my own reverie with a picture of an incomplete skyline, a portrait with two missing faces, a future with no way to come back.

Finally, Scott stood up.

“I should go.”

I stood up as well. “Yeah. Wanna take the food with you?”

“You can have it. I’ve lost my appetite, too,” he said sadly.

“Have it for breakfast tomorrow,” I offered. “At least take the Kung Pao—it’s your favorite.”

He looked at me and a smile escaped him, followed by one of my own, and we embraced. It was a moment of genuine caring and knowing we’d both be OK.

“Thanks, Eva,” he practically whispered.

I whispered back, “You gave me exactly what I needed. You really did. I just didn’t need it for that long.”

We continued to hold each other.

“Does this mean I have to stop coming to The Grounds?” he asked. He almost sounded like a little boy. “Please say it doesn’t. I don’t want to end up like Jan and Dean.”

I squeezed tighter. “Of course not—your friends are there.”

He let go and looked me directly in the eye. “Are you one of them?”

I couldn’t help but look away, regretting it instantly. He looked down, utterly defeated, as pangs of guilt washed over me. I thought about the charade with Shaun—how many months I’d clung to a fake friendship under my self-induced false pretense that it would return to something more. Shaun must have known on some level that I still loved him, must have seen the desperation and longing for him that I failed to hide—after all, everyone else could—and pretended not to. No. I wasn’t going to put Scott through that. Hell, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

I resumed eye contact. “I really want to be,” I started, “but I have no idea what that means.”

My answer took me by surprise.

“It means we don’t hate each other,” he said before tacking on, “and we don’t go out of our way to avoid each other, either.”

“It should also mean that we don’t pretend things aren’t awkward for a while,” I said, “or that things could ever go back to the way they were before, as if we never had a sexual relationship.”

“A damn good sexual relationship,” he pointed out.

I agreed with a chuckle. “Yes indeed.”

He took in a quick, deep breath. “OK, then. I’ll just get whatever stuff I have here and let myself out.”

He turned to reenter the house, but abruptly stopped and whisked around.

“This may sound totally stupid, but this is probably the best breakup I’ve ever had. Thanks.”

I let out a contorted laugh, not knowing what else to do. “You’re welcome,” I said.

He extracted his keys from the front pocket of his jeans, removed one from the ring, and extended it to me. I took it from him and stayed out on the deck, the key tucked tightly in my fist, until I heard the front door close and his car pull away from the driveway.

Which side of the door are you on?

I’ve heard the expression, “When God closes a door, She opens a window.” But what if there was no God or no windows? If there was just a door, which side would you be on?

One side puts you in the open world, the place full of possibilities—new faces, new places, new ideas and experiences at your fingertips. In the wake of a breakup, that world is a scary place—so vast, so unexplored, so far from your little patch of land where you know every corner and crevice and could navigate your way around with your eyes closed. And it’s so easy to linger there, to stay close to it, hanging out by the fence with the hopes that you’ll get back inside again. I know; I’ve been there.

Or you can be on the other side of the door—the side that keeps you trapped inside the box, a prison of your own making. One without locks, but you don’t dare step outside. I’ve been there, too.

I ended a relationship today, and although I’m the one who closed the door, I can’t help but feel like I’m on the other side. Only this time, I want to go out into that vastness, go exploring, step outside the box. The word
single
conjures up feelings of solitude, aloneness. No wonder some people think singlehood is a sucky place to be. Few people want to be alone, especially if they’ve been with someone else for a long time. They don’t want to venture out into that big world all by themselves.

But young birds would never learn to fly if their mothers (or in my case, sister) didn’t push them out of their nest. They need to use their wings.

I didn’t close the door on him; I opened the door for me. And this time, I pushed myself out of the nest, and my shaky, fragile wings are spread. Who knows where they’ll take me. Or you.

29

Thanksgiving

I’D SPENT THE
morning and early afternoon in a hectic whirl—every movement toward the greater goal of a family-style Thanksgiving. I typed up a schedule of events that was invaluable—both a to-do list and timetable that I checked and double-checked throughout the morning while the Macy’s Parade marched on in the background.

Once upon a time I’d looked forward to the days when I would have a family and host dinner parties and family get-togethers at my own house. Too young to see beyond my idealistic world, I’d imagined myself in a red checkered apron, smiling at my doting husband (presumably either Michael J. Fox or any one of the cast of
The Outsiders
) and setting outstretched dining tables with a spread deserving of magazine feature photos. And yet, year after year it just seemed to make more sense for me to go to Olivia’s rather than host my own Thanksgiving, even when I’d been with Shaun.

So last month, when I’d decided to do just that (the thought of hosting a
family
dinner thrilled me to the core), I’d enthusiastically made a list of ten guests (myself included) and called them one by one, starting with Olivia. She hedged at first, complaining about flight and hotel arrangements, but seemed to warm up to the idea.

“I’d love to not have to deal with all that crap this year,” she said.

I winced at the word
crap
—since when did having family over amount to crap?—and Olivia seemed to have picked up on it. “I mean,” she backpedaled, “I’d love to help you out.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” I answered, already excited at the thought of a full house.

Minerva and Jay had declined on account of her suggesting that they spend the holiday with Jay’s parents. I think it was her idea of penance for the Cici incident. I understood and silently hoped that she wasn’t setting herself up for another failure.

Beulah also politely declined on account of other plans. I’d never actually talked to Beulah about the letter she’d sent me, or responded to it. But since then we’d had an unspoken bond, a communication without words that invoked a mutual understanding. It was as if we “got” each other, and giving voice to it would’ve been redundant. So when the look in her eyes told me that she’d be spending the holiday with Lily (their first in years), I couldn’t be happier for her.

Scott had also been on the guest list, but for obvious reasons, that invitation never went out. Norman, however, was looking forward to it just as much as I was (it was too early in his relationship with Jeannie for them to be spending major holidays together, he explained) and even offered to bring dessert.

OK, so it wasn’t going to be the extended dining table. But six would suffice.

I’d been in my kitchen two nights before with Mom’s battered copy of
The Joy of Cooking
, the bible of all cookbooks, complete with singed corners marking the failed flambé and a rather ominous brown stain on page 483. Flipping it open with a dull thud on the counter, I’d fanned through the pages, but instead of seeing the parade of recipes march before my eyes, I saw the parade of Thanksgivings past, smelled the sour pan drippings for the gravy, heard Dad’s and Olivia’s laughter above the hum of beaters. Motivated by memory, I listed of all the classics and necessities: turkey, stuffing, and potatoes (of course), cranberry sauce in a can, green bean casserole, and, to add a Southern flair, biscuits, cornbread, sweet potato pie, and fried corn.