“Thanks.” He stumbled inside. Looking around him he asked, “Is your roommate here?”
“No. She’s in Idaho.” I momentarily wondered if I should have lied to him, told him that Kendra was in her bedroom. It’s not like I was frightened of Colin, but sometimes it was handy to have an excuse ready when a drunk old boyfriend showed up on your doorstep with bad news.
“Good. I need to talk to you.”
“I know,” I almost said, but instead I led him to the living room. “Have a seat,” I offered.
“I’ll stand,” he said, pacing around the small room a little. He stopped, “Actually, I will sit.” He plopped down on the floral sofa but, after a moment, stood again. “I’ll stand.”
He was obviously nervous. Moving a rose-coloured throw pillow, I sat on the loveseat, watching my ex as he paced, a little unsteadily, around the girlie living room. In that moment, I realized how serene I felt in comparison. While the news that Colin had moved on would not be completely without pain, I was able to accept it. I had grown a lot since our relationship first dissolved, and I knew that now, I could be happy for him. He was a good person. He deserved to be loved.
“So... okay...” Colin said, without looking at me. “The last time I talked to you, I told you that I was going to therapy.”
“Right.”
“Well . . . it’s helped me a lot . . . uh, helped me to see things clearer.”
“Good,” I said, encouragingly. “I think that’s really great.”
He glanced at me quickly, then cleared his throat and continued. “Like, I’ve kind of learned what it takes to be in a relationship and . . . well, I didn’t really know that before . . . when I was with you.”
“I’m happy for you,” I said, smiling at him. “Really, Colin . . . it’s okay.” His pacing was getting a little irritating. “Just say what you need to say. I promise I’ll be fine.”
He stopped and looked at me. “Oh god, Beth,” he said, and he almost looked like he might cry. This was apparently going to be harder for him to say than it was for me to hear. “I’m so sorry... Shit! I’m falling apart here.”
“It’s okay,” I said emphatically, crossing the floor to give him a supportive, friend-like hug. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
“Oh god, you’re so awesome.” He squeezed me tightly to him.
“Uh . . . How much have you had to drink?” I asked, my voice muffled by his shoulder.
He released me. “I know. I’m sorry, I had a few beers, but I just needed the courage to say... I know I fucked things up when I was with you before. I had a lot of issues that . . . well, I’ve dealt with the issues now so . . .”
I reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly to let him know I was ready to hear it. But to my shock, he dropped precariously to one knee. Clutching my pant leg for balance, he looked up at me and said, “Beth, I love you and . . . will you marry me?”
Thirty-four
I SAID NO, of course. This was only a slight improvement over his threat to propose on the sidewalk outside of his office building. Not to mention that he was drunk and the whole proposal had seemed excruciatingly painful for him. And I was no longer that insecure, needy girl so desperate for a commitment. Okay, I was still a little insecure, but I’d learned a lot over the past few months. I’d learned that protecting your friendships and living your life with integrity were more important than snagging a man—not to mention, infinitely easier to do. But I was gentle with my rejection, even a little ambiguous. “We’ll talk about this more in the morning,” I’d said. “Let’s go lie down.”
As we lay, side by side, on my double bed, Colin whispered into my hair. “I love you so much, you know. No—you don’t know. You don’t know how much I love you.”
“Shhhh . . .” I soothed. “You’re drunk and babbling.”
“But it’s true, Beth. I love you. Like, so, so much. You don’t even know...” And then he passed out.
The next morning, he was not as sheepish as I’d expected. We sat at the kitchen table, eating toast and drinking coffee (and a large glass of water and two Tylenols for Colin). He dropped his piece of toast onto his plate and said, “I meant what I said last night, you know.”
“Yeah?” I took a bite of toast. “Which part?” It was cruel of me to make him squirm like this, but for some sick reason, I was enjoying it.
“Uh . . . all of it. About loving you... about wanting to . . .”
“Yes?”
“... marry you,” he managed to croak.
“Colin,” I said softly, reaching for his hand, “you don’t want to marry me.”
“I do,” he countered, rather emphatically. “And . . . I even want to have”—he coughed into his fist—“kids with you.”
“Well... that’s really sweet but . . . I don’t want to get married now.” He raised his eyebrows, obviously stunned by this news. I continued. “Look, I know when we were living together, I might have seemed a little obsessed with getting married and having kids. I still want that, one day, but... a lot has changed. I’ve gone through so much recently that... I think I just need some time to process it all. I think I need to learn to be happy by myself, before I worry about being happy with someone else.”
“Oh,” he said, softly, and it was obvious that I had hurt him.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want you in my life, though. And I am really glad that you’re going to therapy and dealing with your commitment issues.”
“So . . . maybe we could take it slow,” he said hopefully, “start spending time together again and see where it goes?”
“Yeah.” I nodded.
A slow smile spread across Colin’s face and he let out a heavy sigh.
I looked at him, my eyes narrowed. “You’re relieved, aren’t you?”
“No!” he said. “I’m disappointed.”
I threw a toast crust at him. “You are relieved, you bastard.”
He leaned toward me and wrapped his arms around me. “I’m just happy,” he said. “I’m just really, really happy.”
And I was feeling pretty happy too. The new job had started off well. My coworkers were a friendly bunch who seemed to enjoy socializing outside of the office. Of course, socializing seemed to consist of vegetarian potluck dinners at one or another of the employees’ dog-filled homes, but it was a start. My first assignment was to interview a retired opera singer whose love for her two beagles had helped her cope with alopecia. It was refreshing to have eight dedicated hours to focus on my writing, leaving me with ample leisure time outside of the office.
Colin and I were spending time together: We’d gone to a movie, for a casual beer and wings, and, on a particularly warm evening, we’d taken a long walk along the waterfront. We hadn’t had sex yet, but I felt I would be ready soon. I knew that a session with Colin would be great—and also highly beneficial to my damaged ego. I’d feel infinitely better about myself as a woman when I knew I could consistently and easily make a man hard.
I was also knitting a lot. In fact, the cream-coloured scarf was finally nearing completion. And it looked really good, if I did say so myself. If there were mistakes in the weave, they were indiscernible to the naked eye . . . at least to my naked eye. The decision had been made not to gift it to any of my family members. I would keep it for myself. When the weather turned cool again, it would be a constant wearable reminder of my painstaking handiwork.
I was feeling happy, even at peace with the current state of my life. In fact, I was so happy and at peace that I could ask about Nicola’s wedding with only the slightest twinge of discomfort. “So,” I began casually, shifting slightly in my seat on Angie’s ottoman. “How was Nicola’s wedding?”
“It was really nice,” Angie said. “It was smaller than originally intended. I guess with everything that went on, they decided to keep it low key.”
“Yeah,” Sophie elaborated, “they booked a smaller room at the hotel, and had the ceremony, followed by cocktails and hors d’oeuvres inste
ad of the big dinner and dancing.”
“That sounds nice,” I said, knitting a stitch on my scarf. “Was Nicola happy with that? Or was she disappointed not to be having the huge wedding she’d originally planned?”
Martin said, “She just seemed happy that she was finally getting married. And Neil . . . well, he’s been aching and yearning for so long that he would have been happy with a drive-thru wedding in Vegas!”
I laughed. “And how was the poem reading?” I looked to Sophie for an answer.
“Oh, I got through it,” she said, picking up her ball of yarn that had rolled off the couch. “I had quite a bit of champagne beforehand, and . . . well, I just knew how much it meant to Nicola.”
I nodded my agreement, suddenly feeling wistful. “I wish I could have been there but, obviously, that would have been way too awkward and . . . icky.”
Angie spoke. “Well, we missed you there.”
“We did,” Martin seconded.
Sophie said, “I think it’s fair to say that I missed your being there the most.”
“I’ll bet,” I replied with a laugh.
“So did you celebrate your new job that night?” Martin asked.
“Sort of...” I said, hesitantly. “Colin popped by.”
“Colin!” Angie cried. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he want?”
“Oh,” I shrugged nonchalantly, “he wanted me to marry him.”
“WHAT?” Angie screeched.
“No way!” Sophie cried.
Martin said, “Are you sure it wasn’t his ready-to-commit twin?”
I didn’t have a chance to answer before Angie shrieked, “What did you say?”
“I said no. I don’t want to get married right now. Over the past few years I’ve spent way too much energy pining away for the life I’ve always dreamed of. After all that’s happened, I just want to be happy with the life I have now. So, we’re going to take it slow,” I concluded with a shrug, “and see how it goes.”
Angie said, “Shit. Are we ever going to be single at the same time?”
“I am single,” I said. “But given recent events, I’ve learned that there aren’t a lot of good guys out there. So when you find one, you should hold on to him.”
“True,” Angie muttered, taking a big drink of white wine.
“I’m a good guy,” Martin said. “How come no one wants to hold on to me?”
“Oh, Martin!” Angie cried passionately, launching herself into his lap. “I’ll hold on to you!” Amidst the girls’ laughter and Martin’s squeals (really, with those high-pitched noises, it was no wonder we’d thought he was gay), I bound off the last stitch of my scarf.
“I’m done,” I said, almost to myself.
Sophie heard me. “You’re done? Let’s see!” I held up my completed scarf.
“Wow,” Angie said, “it’s beautiful!”
“Great work,” Martin added, inspecting it briefly. “Are you giving it to your mom for her birthday?”
“Her birthday was in May. And it’s my sister-in-law’s birthday next month, but it seems kind of wrong to give someone a winter scarf in July.”
“True,” Angie said. “Maybe you should keep it for yourself?”
“Maybe,” I said, lovingly stroking the wool. “Maybe . . .”
But when I got home that night, I knew what I wanted to do with my masterpiece. Kendra kept a stash of gift bags and boxes neatly stacked in the front hall closet. She kindly allowed me to buy one of them for five dollars, plus two dollars for some meticulously ironed tissue paper. Carefully, I nestled the creamy scarf in the delicate lilac tissue, and packaged it securely in the white box. Even Kendra didn’t keep a drawerful of blank greeting cards handy—and even if she did, I was out of money. Instead, I neatly folded a piece of notepaper and began to write.
Dear Nicola,
Congratulations on your recent wedding. I’m so glad you are getting the happiness you deserve.
And I’m so, so sorry about dating your dad. It was all just a terrible mistake. I hope one day you will be able to see that it was not my fault. I am thankful that, at least, we did not have sex. While I was upset about it at the time, your dad’s inability to—
I stopped there and crumpled the note, twisting the paper as if to punish my words. There was no way I could address what happened between Jim and me in this note. The pain was still too fresh, for me and for Nicola. And maybe I would never be able to tell her how sorry I was for what had gone on between me and her dad. Maybe that was one incident that would always be too . . . sickening to discuss. I guessed I would probably never know. Thankfully, my own father was not particularly attractive to women my age.
Grabbing a fresh sheet of paper, I wrote:
Dear Nicola,
Congratulations on your recent wedding. I’m so glad you are getting the happiness you deserve.
And I am truly sorry for everything that happened. Your friendship was a gift—one that I will always regret losing. Sincerely,
Beth
The next day I posted the parcel to Nicola’s Belltown apartment. It was some sort of closure, I guess. It was the only gesture I could think of to show her how much she really meant to me. She probably wouldn’t wear the scarf. It would undoubtedly languish in the back of a closet, or more likely be donated to the Salvation Army where it would, at least, keep a homeless person warm this winter. I just hoped she wouldn’t show up at my apartment and try to strangle me with it.
And so life went on. Colin and I continued to work on our relationship, one day at a time. I poured myself into my career, enjoying the built-in social network of an office job. It was also rather exhilarating interviewing so many interesting people with only an intense love of canines in common. And every other Thursday, I met with the stitch ’n bitch club. I was working on a supposedly simple cotton shell now, which was requiring a lot of input from Martin on increasing and decreasing for the armholes. Frankly, I was afraid I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
Then one day, I came home from work and, as usual, sorted through the pile of mail that Kendra left for me each day in front of the toaster. It was wedged between a pizza flyer (why Kendra thought all takeout menus and coupons for muffler changes constituted my mail, I don’t know) and my Visa bill. It was a small square envelope made of high-quality paper. Instinctively, my pulse quickened as I slit the envelope open with my thumbnail and extracted the card inside.
It was creamy white with a small purple pansy in the centre. I opened it and read the handwritten note.
Beth,
Thank you for the scarf. It is lovely.
Neil and I will be in the Bahamas for two weeks attending an anaesthesiologists’ convention. I thought you might like to attend the stitch ’n bitch club while I am away. Sophie has the dates.
Regards,
Nicola
I closed the card and took a deep breath. While to the outsider’s eye, the note may have seemed a little cool and perfunctory, to me, it was positively . . . gushy. While sending the scarf to Nicola had been the most meaningful gesture I could think of, her inviting me to attend the stitch ’n bitch club in her absence was just as significant. Nicola recognized how lonely and ostracized I’d felt. With this note, she was reaching out to me, welcoming me back into the fold . . . well, almost.
As I sorted through the rest of my mail and threw most of it into the recycling bin, I felt light, breezy, almost giddy. I made my way to my bedroom with a bounce in my step, slipping into a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt in preparation for meeting Angie at our favourite sushi place. It was hope that was causing this upbeat sensation; I knew it was. It was only a glimmer at this stage, but Nicola’s response meant that one day, she just might possibly forgive me. I mean, if she planned to hate me forever, she wouldn’t have bothered sending a note at all now, would she?
As I let myself out of the apartment, a small, irrepressible smile curled my lips. Maybe one day, Nicola would invite
me to attend the knitting circle even when she wasn’t in the Bahamas? And who knew? Perhaps, when enough time had passed, we would even laugh about this whole mess? Okay, that was never going to happen, but still... I had hope. I had hope for a future where Nicola and I could sit, with our circle of friends, and stitch ’n bitch.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the Bayview stitch ’n bitchers: Marg Meikle, Anne O’Sullivan, Stacy Moriarty, Sue Hyslop, Tanya Shklanka, and everyone else involved in the arduous task of teaching me how to knit. I’d also like to thank my editor, Andrea Magyar, as well as Tracy Bordian, Sharon Kirsch, and the rest of the team at Penguin. You’ve all been wonderful to work with.
ROBYN HARDING is the author of The Journal of Mortifying Moments and The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with her husband and two children. She is a novice knitter, and fears she will never get the hang of decreasing for armholes.
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