“Love you, Books.”
“I love you, too.”
Even after getting changed and washing my face and brushing my teeth, I smell Levi’s cologne. It’s followed me home like a shadow, somehow staining my skin and memories. I shove my face into a pillow, searching for sleep, and wonder if he’s struggling as much as I am.
The yoga class is half-empty when I arrive, and the mood is heavier. Women are yawning and stretching. There isn’t the same exuberance and laughter that filled the space the last time that I was here. I wish I’d stayed in bed and caught up on sleep rather than coming here.
“Hey!”
I turn, recognizing Madison and her dark, curly hair from last week. Her smile grows, likely noticing my relief at a familiar face.
“I’m glad you came back.”
I smile. “I enjoyed it a lot.”
She nods. “I found your blog. I think it’s really cool how you’re trying these new experiences. And you’re funny. Don’t take this wrong, but you’re funnier than you look. You kind of come across as serious.”
“Do I?”
“Kind of.”
I consider this for a few moments, wondering if I am too serious. If I am funny. “Are you ready?” Madison asks.
“Yeah.” I follow her into the studio. A slight twinge of protest from my muscles as we stop and drop our mats and unroll them confirms my body remembers the ache that followed for several days. Music starts, and women begin stretching, their moods shifting. Happiness and excitement radiate from Madison, who’s beside me, dancing though no one else is. She’s uninhibited in a way that reminds me of Gemma and Theo, not childlike in her actions but because she doesn’t seem to even consider that someone might be watching her. I realize how much I envy her for that.
“Are you coming back next week?” Madison asks as I roll up my yoga mat.
“I’m going to try, but weekends are a bit hectic for me. I’m an event coordinator, and it’s getting into wedding season.”
“Really?”
I nod. “What about you? What do you do for work?” I’m expecting her to tell me she does theater or is an acupuncturist or leader of some sort of spiritual group. Her wild hair and confidence seems fitting of a role in the arts or Eastern medicine.
“I’m a high school principal.”
“Really?”
Madison grins. “One box doesn’t fit every size.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I…” I backpedal.
She places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. No offense was taken. I hope you’ll continue coming back.” With a wave, she’s gone, leaving me to wonder if she’d insinuated that I was being too simple in my thoughts or if she realizes I’m wondering if I didn’t fit into the past box I’d shoved myself into. I question this as I make a pit stop to pick up some doughnuts and coffee, and the thoughts resume on my way home to Felicity’s. My silent questions don’t stop churning until I open the front door and discover Gemma and Theo watching a cartoon while Dan sleeps on the couch behind them.
“Aunt Books!” Gemma cries, jumping to her feet. Her pink princess nightgown is paired with a pair of superhero rain boots and matching mask. Theo follows her, wearing a fireman’s hat and wielding a plastic pirate sword.
“Did you guys chase away the villains?” I ask.
“What villains?” Gemma asks.
“You guys look like you’re ready to battle with all of your gear.”
Gemma rolls her eyes. It’s the same expression her mother has been giving me since she was this same age. “We were just pretending.”
“Oh. Gotcha.”
“You have doughnuts?” Theo asks, craning his neck to get a better view of the box I’m holding.
“Oh boy, do I. Are you guys hungry?”
Their eyes grow wide and bright with excitement, and then they cheer. I place a finger to my lips to silence them. “Let’s go to the kitchen and let your daddy sleep a little, okay?” I fish the remote off the floor and turn off the cartoon before following the kids into the kitchen, where they’re both retrieving their plates and a stack of napkins.
“What kind did you get?” Gemma asks, climbing into her booster seat. I help her get scooted in and then lift Theo into his seat beside her.
“I got Theo’s favorite—maple—and I also got glazed, chocolate, cinnamon-and-sugar, and your favorite—apple fritters.”
“Yes!” she cries victoriously. Theo follows in the cheer while I disperse the sugary treats.
“What’s all the excitement about?” Felicity steps into the kitchen, her hair pulled back into a single braid that reaches her shoulders. The sight of her socked feet and braid remind me of sleepovers from twenty years ago. It has me realizing that I’ve lost sight of my best friend’s vulnerabilities. So often I see her as this well-put-together adult, kicking ass as a mom and wife and friend. I forget that like everyone, she’s merely human. She kisses Theo and Gemma on their cheeks before accepting a coffee from me. “Is it—?” she begins to ask.
I nod. “It’s decaf.”
Felicity sighs. “You’re the best.” She reaches for a glazed doughnut and raises it to her lips. “I think you should invite Levi over for dinner.” She takes a huge bite, her eyes closing with satisfaction.
“Who’s Levi?” Gemma asks, never missing a beat.
“A friend of Aunt Books,” Felicity explains.
“Do we know him?” Gemma asks.
Felicity shakes her head. “Mommy’s met him, but you guys haven’t.”
“Is he nice?” Theo asks, his mouth full of doughnut.
The three of them turn to me when Felicity takes a measured bite rather than answering him. I swallow, mental exhaustion returning. “He’s really nice,” I tell them.
“Does he like superheroes?” Gemma asks.
“I don’t know.”
She stares at me, clutching her doughnut in one hand. “I bet he does. You wouldn’t like him if he didn’t.”
“Probably,” I concede.
Gemma nods. “Definitely.” She returns to her doughnut, and I turn to Felicity.
“Are you guys still planning to go see Dan’s parents today?”
“I’m serious. You should invite him over. We can do any day this week.”
“If you guys are going to be gone all day, I think I’m going to visit Grammy and do lunch and then get some work done. I’ve got that Bellum wedding next weekend, and I need to fill a bunch of tiny skulls with chocolates.”
“Do you think Levi likes Mexican food? I’m kind of intimidated to cook for him since he’s a chef.”
“Skulls?” Theo asks.
“What’s a chef?” Gemma asks.
“I should call Grammy and make sure she’s home,” I say, ignoring all of their questions as I reach for my purse.
“How about Thursday?” Felicity reaches for a second doughnut.
“You might as well say yes. You know she won’t stop until you do,” Dan says, entering the kitchen and stretching his arms high above his head.
“It’s a bad idea. I’m just waiting for recognition to dawn. It will. Eventually. I just have to ignore her long enough.”
“It’s a great idea,” Felicity cries. “That website we read about dating said you want to invite them to different settings to see how they get along and how compatible they are with your lifestyle. We need to make sure he’s not going to be a bore.”
I roll my eyes and press Send to call Grammy. It rings five times before she answers.
“Morning, Grammy.”
“How’s my girl doing?”
“I’m well. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I was just about to go out to the garden.”
“It’s a nice day to be outside.”
“It is,” she says. “They say it’s supposed to start raining.”
“It wouldn’t be spring in Chicago if it didn’t.”
She laughs.
“I was calling to see if you’d mind if I dropped by
.”
There’s a pause. “You know you don’t have to call and ask permission to come home.”
“I just don’t want to impose in case you had other plans.”
“I’ll be home all day. You come over whenever you’re ready.”
I hang up and turn to Dan and Felicity, who are laughing about something, a doughnut in each of their hands. Adoration is mirrored in their eyes and bowed heads. It has me once again reflecting on my relationship with Gabe. In six years of dating, I can’t recall us ever leaning close to each other and giggling. On the rare occasions we ate breakfast together, he would be going through emails, and I’d be going through my calendar. The only times we didn’t were when we’d go out with another couple, and then we spent that time talking with them rather than each other. I sip my coffee, allowing my thoughts to wander to Levi. I wonder what sharing doughnuts with him would be like. Would he be distracted? Does someone who loves food and works out to maintain a six-pack and biceps that make my belly curl eat something without a single trace of nutritional value?
“What did Grammy say?” Felicity asks. “You know, you’re welcome to come with us. You and I can sit in the back and watch a movie with the kids and experience how kids get to road trip these days. Snacks, blankets, technology, and a movie, along with regulated temperatures. It makes me a little jealous.”
I breathe out a chuckle. “I’m going to go visit Grammy today, but maybe next time.”
“They’d love to see you,” Dan adds.
I nod. “Next time, I’ll definitely go.” Dan smiles, content with my answer.
“All right, kiddos. Let’s go get you cleaned up and dressed,” Dan says.
The three of them disappear upstairs as I close the doughnut box. “I’m serious,” Felicity says, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching me.
“About what?”
“Inviting him over.”
I sigh. “I think I need some space from Levi. Let my thoughts settle.”
“Don’t let Gabe ruin a good thing. He was an exception, not the rule.”
I glance up, and our eyes lock. Felicity has been my best friend for so long I don’t need to hear her tell me that she’s disappointed in me for being nervous and pulling back from Levi or that I’m afraid of getting hurt and rejected; it’s apparent in her blue gaze.
“Make sure you drive safely, and I’ll see you guys when you get home.”
Felicity nods. “You, too.”
When I arrive at Grammy’s, she’s outside in her garden, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low on her forehead. “You want some tea?” she asks, standing from where she’s weeding around the tomato plants. “I could use a break.”
“Sure.”
Grammy nods, leading me in through the back door to her kitchen. Her long-sleeved floral blouse is rolled midway up her arms, and though she’s gardening, she’s wearing a pair of white slacks.
“I got you something,” she says, walking to a short stack of books sitting on the kitchen counter. I glance at their spines, reading the various titles offering self-help for moving on and recovering from divorce. I raise my eyebrows as I get to the last one that discusses happiness. Over the years, Grammy has given me a self-help book to address nearly every topic, beginning when I was a preteen and she randomly left a book in my bathroom with a box of sanitary pads. The book discussed hormones, menstrual cycles, hair growth, and sexual urges. Over the years, my collection from her has grown into an entire bookcase for things like succeeding in school, finding happiness, being positive, success in the workplace, facing adversity. She’d even given Gabe and I books on our relationship. Those books had been unwrapped and then slotted on the bookshelf as well. I never thought there was a reason for us to need them, and now I wonder if she had.
“Thanks…” I tell her out of obligation. “You know I’m okay, right?”
“Are you? How’s work?” she asks, opening the fridge as I pull down two glasses.
“Busy, but that’s nothing new.”
“And you’re still at Felicity’s?”
My heart stalls. I glance at Grammy, working to read her expression. Unlike Felicity, I can’t read Grammy’s face, mostly due in fact to how impassive her features are. She never pries, which makes her question so confounding. “I am.”
She steps beside me, her attention on filling each glass with the amber liquid. “Have you spoken with Gabe?”
I shake my head, though she’s not looking at me. “No.”
She nods. “Maybe you should. Maybe you need closure so you can move on.”
“I don’t.”
She nods once again, but it’s visibly forced, her movements stiff and brief. “When you came to live with me, you used to cry if I was ever late. It didn’t matter if it was two minutes or ten, you got upset. I was worried that your parents and their actions might cause problems for you throughout your life, but after a few months, you stopped getting upset.”
My heart’s in my throat as I search for something to change the subject. Anything. “I don’t even think about them anymore.”
“Maybe not, but I’m sure your heart remembers.”
“Gabe didn’t…”
“Leave you? Disappoint you? Hurt you? He did. And the sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you’ll be able to move forward.”
“I’m over it. All of it. Gabe is in my past, and I’m only moving forward.”
“Then why isn’t a pretty girl like you dating?”
I grin. “I am. I’m dating myself right now.”
Grammy drops her chin, annoyance clear as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Is this about that blog again?”
A chuckle crosses my lips before I bite down to stop it. “Don’t worry. I don’t include where I work or my full name or anything. It’s just a random blog. One of billions.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“I know.”
“But I like that you came over again. You haven’t been eating enough. You’re getting too skinny.”
“You always say that,” I remind her.
“Because you’re always skinny.”
“You want to play a card game?”
“What do you want me to beat you at?” she asks as I put the jug of tea away in the fridge.
“Loser’s choice.”
Her shoulders square with my challenge. My grandmother, despite her age, is the most competitive person I know, and in her eyes, I’ve just thrown down the gauntlet.
32
Wednesday, May 15th
“The Art of Pottery”
I recently received an invitation to attend a local art studio and had the opportunity to try something brand new to me: pottery. I haven’t worked with clay since grade school, so this was definitely a new venture for me as well as Felicity. We did a little practice before going and used Play-Doh to create several shapes and designs, and surprisingly, I think it might have helped a little … maybe? The art studio, Cara’s Crazed Clayworks, was phenomenal. The studio had a really fun vibe with incense and calming music, which made the entire experience very calming. I think this also allowed us to be more patient when our creations took a couple of turns for the worse. Cara, the owner of the shop, was amazing. She sat with us and taught us about the properties and history of clay. I had no idea that fragments of ancient pottery have been found to date back 10,000 years and some even older. She taught us that pottery was initially used to transport water to crops, and that later, the Greeks were credited with making pottery into art and began using it for storing food and drink. We also learned that fine china—those expensive dishes we look at and rarely touch—is classified as pottery as well and dates back to 600 A.D. and is made from a special white clay called kaolin.
Back in grade school, when we played with clay and made pots, we didn’t use the potter’s wheel. This was an additional new experience and one that took a bit of patience and time. Felicity and I both attempted to make vases, and as you’ll see below, mine ultimately lo
oked more like a bowl than a vase, but I’m still pretty impressed that I managed to make it MOSTLY-ish symmetrical.
Overall, we had a wonderful time. This was a really fun experience, and though it taught me I’m not a natural artist, it’s still a lot of fun, and if you can sit back and not obsess over the lumps and errors to your work, it can be quite peaceful.
I attach a couple of pictures that show the clay sticking to our hands, and of the art pieces we made, and a final one of Felicity and me with thickly swiped lines of clay beneath our eyes like we were athletes preparing for a showdown.
I sit at my desk, sipping my coffee while I read over my brief blog post. It’s lacking excitement, humor, and intrigue, and yet I have zero motivation to rewrite it and make it sound less like a short essay for school. Hopefully, the pictures sell the experience more than my brief write-up, because I wouldn’t be jumping at the experience if I were reading about it.
My phone rings, breaking my attention from the failed post. “Glitter and Gold, this is Brooke.”
“Why are you at work already?”
My heart races, and a smile curves my lips. I’m grateful to be in the confines of my office, where I don’t have to try to stop the automatic reaction I have each time I hear Levi’s voice. “Why are you calling me so early?”
“I thought I was going to get your voice mail. You don’t seem like the type who silences their cell phone at night.”
“I’m not.”
“I know we’re supposed to meet this afternoon to pick out the flooring and countertops for the bar, but I have to fly to New York this morning.”
In the background, I can hear the quiet hum of traffic. “New York?”
“My dad. He fell down and broke his ankle. He needs surgery before he can fly home.”
“Oh no.” Concern replaces disappointment. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” Irritation makes his voice deeper, gravellier. “He’s so stubborn and proud he won’t let either of the two assistants who flew out there with him help him. He’s worried he might look weak. And my brother, of course, claims he can’t take time off.”
The Fallback Page 24