Blueberry Scones with Lemon Glaze
I KNEW THINGS were not going to be good the moment I woke up this morning and she wasn’t in the bed next to me. Last night I was certain we were finally turning a corner to exploring a new part of our relationship, but as she stood in the doorway wearing work clothes with a pair of heels dangling from her fingers, it was clear nothing had changed, at least not for her. If anything, I could see things were going to get worse for me.
She didn’t have to go to the restaurant today. She said so last night, she knows she did, but the minute things got too intimate for her, she decided to bolt. I couldn’t look at her, couldn’t watch her walk away after everything I gave of myself last night, so I rolled over and let her leave.
After the first time she made me feel like she was blowing me off, I had a shame-on-you mentality, but now, after the second, I’ve shifted to shame on me.
I’m not sure how long I lay there after she left. I also had no idea when she would be back, but I did know what I had to do next, no matter how hard it was going to be for me.
I have no regrets. I gave her all of me, but in the words of my father, it’s time to either fish or cut bait, and I know I have to cut bait. She isn’t going to change. I’m a nonfactor in the equation of her life, and it just sucks. You can’t make someone want to be with you, no matter how hard you try or wish it to be otherwise.
So with that in mind, I got up, got ready for the day, and headed off to work out with Eddie. I know if I stay busy, I’ll be able to ignore the emotional anxiety this is causing me—until it comes to a head with her later tonight.
Of course, Eddie took one look at me and decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. I hate that others can see my emotions on my sleeve, but this is the longest I’ve gone without saying what’s on my mind, just hoping she would meet me in the middle, and she hasn’t. It’s like the emotions are trying to bleed out of me. I’m used to being honest with people about how I feel, but she’s completely resistant to acknowledging our actions or taking responsibility for this situation we’ve found ourselves in, and I’m at a loss for what to do.
Eddie works me harder than he has before, and I tell myself the sweat pouring out of me is the tears of my heart. It’s purging because I will not cry over her. I just won’t.
By the time I get home, my knee is just as angry at me as I am with myself, and with my decisions solidified, I do what I have to do.
How did I get here?
And why did I let any of this happen to me?
This isn’t me.
Just after three o’clock, Meg walks in and finds me on the couch. She’s a little dirty, and she also looks like she’s worked herself hard. Aside from the worry that lines her eyes, she mostly looks determined, and any hope I had for us fizzles away.
Stopping next to the couch, she puts her hands on her hips and lets out a sigh. “So, we’re back here, are we?”
Back here? We both frown, and I ask her, “What do you mean?”
“This.” She waves her hand at me. “You . . . on the couch.”
“Would you like me to sit somewhere else?”
In this moment, I feel like I have officially worn out my welcome. Could this day get any worse? First she makes it clear that I’m not what she wants, and now she’s made me feel like she doesn’t want me here at all.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Reaching for the remote, I turn off the television and turn to face her more. “No, I don’t. Tell me, Meg, what do you mean?”
She stares at me as if she’s not so sure how much she wants to say. I can see this is hard for her; I mean she’s the queen of deflection. Anything to turn a conversation away from being uncomfortable or confrontational.
“The black cloud is back, the one that hovers around you. It was just starting to go away, and here it is again.” Breaking eye contact, she walks into the kitchen and pulls out leftover chicken, mushroom, and spinach lasagna she made two nights ago. I’m certain she’s not hungry; she’s using the kitchen island as a buffer between us.
I stand so she has to face me and finally get what she’s been thinking off her chest. I cross my arms over mine. “Black cloud?” I ask her.
Her eyes briefly come up to find my face as she pulls two bowls from the dishwasher then goes about scooping some lasagna into them.
“Yes, black cloud,” she says, lowering her head to watch what she’s doing. “The depressed mood, the sulking—it’s been months. It’s time to snap out of it.” She then lifts her eyes once more and again waves her hand at my face then pointedly at my knee.
She thinks my mood is about my knee, and yes, some of it is—that just kind of lingers there constantly—but today . . . hell, the last couple of weeks, it hasn’t been. It makes me sad that she can’t recognize that it’s her. I don’t respond to her—what is there to say?—but she feels the need to continue.
“The Jack I know . . . he’s full of life. He’s enthusiastic, optimistic, and loves adventure. I mean look at your social media feed—it’s like the world is a candy shop for you and you’re all wide-eyed as you experience one great thing after another. How do I help you find that guy again?”
“Help me?” Yes, she’s right—I do love adventure. I’ve always been a happy, carefree, spontaneous, in-the-moment kind of guy, but sometimes I’m this guy, too. My feelings can get hurt just like the next person. It’s okay to slow down, think, process.
“Yes, help you.” She wraps the dish up and puts it back in the refrigerator.
“Last night you told me it was okay for me to just be me. I’m sorry today I’m not who you want me to be.”
My lips pinch together and my arms drop as I look away from her, feeling more defeated than I have in a long time. I guess I can add a third thing to the list: I’m not wanted, she’s tired of me being here, and now I’m getting lectured because she doesn’t like who I currently am—or, apparently, who I’ve been.
“I just don’t get it. Why—why are you still so down? You’re better than that, and this is stupid.”
I go back to watching her while I let her words sink in. She covers both bowls with plastic wrap, puts them in the microwave to warm up, and then turns to face me again, leaning forward with her elbows on the counter.
Heat burns under my skin as anger pushes its way to the surface. She just insulted me, and I don’t like the way it tastes as I swallow it down. “Stupid? You think the end of my dream career is stupid?” My voice dips, and her eyes widen as she hears the change in inflection.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She stands back up, almost like she’s challenging me, and stares at me.
Well, bring it on, sweetheart. Two can play this game, and I can guarantee I will win.
“Do I? Because think it, speak it, and you just spoke it. If fact, you’ve spoken a lot lately.” I move around the couch and come to stand directly across the island from her.
“Stop trying to turn this around on me. All I’m saying is that you don’t have to be so negative all the freaking time. It’s depressing, and I don’t want to live a life surrounded by this. I also don’t want that for you.”
“I’m sorry if you think me being depressed over the last couple of months is an inconvenience to you. I didn’t realize Little Miss Perfect-Sunshine-All-The-Time lived a do it my way or no way kind of life.”
Her jaw drops at the sharpness in my tone and then she snaps it shut.
Moving away, I lean over the back of the couch, grab the ice pack I was using, and return it to the freezer. Her gaze follows me as I move into the kitchen, and then she turns, which blocks the way to my room. The microwave dings, but neither of us moves to open it.
She’s directly in front of me, and she’s so small, yet she’s making me feel like I am. I don’t like it, and I don’t understand what I did that was so wrong.
“Jack, I understand—” she starts, and all this does is make me angrier, because now she’s patronizing me
.
“No, you don’t understand. I get it, I do—you experienced something traumatic along the lines of life or death—but is it not in you at all to realize I did too? Traumatic things happen to people in different ways. Tell me, how long did it take you to get over what happened to you?”
“Losing your life and losing a job are two different things.” She tilts her head to look up at me defiantly, and my eyes narrow as I stare down at her.
“You think football was just a job to me?” The muscles across my shoulders twitch at the insinuation.
“Well, it is just a job, and no one said you had to give up football, just that you have to give up playing. There are plenty of other things you can still be doing with the sport. I guess what I just don’t understand is why you’re still making it so tragic. You got to play, and for a long time, might I add. Be grateful and figure out your next move.”
She doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t get me.
And it’s clear she doesn’t want to.
There’s no point in continuing this conversation. I’ve heard enough of what she has to say on the matters of my mood and my career. I expected our conversation this afternoon to come to a head where we were frank with each other, but I didn’t expect this, and my anger transforms back into hurt.
Pushing past her, I move down the hall and head to my room. Honestly, I don’t know which is worse right now: the way she made me feel this morning, or the way she’s making me feel right now.
A startled noise escapes her; she’s followed me and is taking in the changes to my room. I turn to watch her as her eyes trail over the empty closet, the sheets that have been pulled into a pile to be washed, my backpack sitting on the edge of the bed. Earlier, I packed up my room, and the rest of my belongings are in the truck.
“W-what are you doing?” she stammers, a slight hysteria pitching her words.
With my left hand, I rub the back of my neck, trying to find the words to proceed. I never thought I would be here with her, and now that we are, every bit of fight I usually have in me has died and I’m left feeling like an empty shell.
There’s always that one person you’ve had feelings for since the moment you first met them, and for me it was her. It’s always been her. I lived for the moments she would respond to my photos (it’s why I put up so many), and I counted down the days to when I would get to see her, her beautiful face. With my right hand, I grip the handle of my backpack, and I drop my other arm to look her straight in the eyes. It’s now or never.
“I love you, Meg. I needed to tell you that. Just one time.” Relief, terror, and the absolute truth flood through me all at once.
She takes a step closer to me, and I take one back. Her skin pales as she acknowledges the distance I’m putting between us.
“Of course you love me—we’re friends. And I love you, too.” She starts twisting her fingers together in a way I’ve never seen her do, but it’s obvious she has done it before.
“No. I’m in love with you, and I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of it. It’s not just my knee, or football. It’s you too. Every day I want to tell you and show you, but you’ve pushed us into this place where I’m not allowed to, and it makes me feel like shit.”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t think you’re in love with me, Jack. It’s all just circumstantial and you’re confused.” She shakes her head, firmly planting herself in the camp of team denial.
“I am not confused, and it is not circumstantial, so don’t tell me how I feel.” My voice gets a little louder. “I mean, that’s all you’ve done for the last twenty minutes, and I’m over it. Yes, internally I am dealing with the uncertainty of my career, but lately, I have been considering alternatives to playing, and surprisingly I’m okay with it. Although I’ve never been a believer in love at first sight, I’m pretty certain I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you standing in Zach’s house. That was nine months ago. Just because I haven’t shared things with you, that doesn’t mean they are any less real.”
And there it is, the whole truth. I’ve laid it out there, and now she knows.
“But . . . but that’s not who we are.” Her chin trembles and my heart sinks.
“Why? Why can’t that be who we are? I’m not blind to the way we are with each other, and I know you aren’t either.”
The ache to pull her into me is so great it’s hard to breathe. I desperately want to bury my face in her hair and have her tell me she loves me too, but I know she won’t. All of this, from the moment she walked into the locker room at the Super Bowl until now—it’s devastating for me.
“We’re friends. You’re my best friend.” She says this as if it’s the answer to everything.
“And you are mine, but friends don’t know how their friends taste, and, Meg, I know every flavor you have.”
“That’s not fair,” she says, just barely over a whisper.
“You’re right, it’s not.”
The air turns heavy between us. This is it, her last chance to change her mind and decide. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t holding my breath and internally pleading for her to pick me, choose me, but as she utters the words, “I can’t,” the last string holding me up breaks and I crash, shattering into a thousand pieces.
“Neither can I.”
Her eyes turn glassy and fill with tears, which slowly drip down her face. It’s a direct punch to the gut and one that tells me it’s time to go. I can’t stand here and watch her cry, and I won’t allow her to see what she’s done to me.
Walking toward her, I pause to bend and kiss her one last time on the forehead. My nostrils flare at the citrus scent of her hair, and for just a split second I squeeze my eyes shut. Her hand reaches for my waist and clutches my shirt, but I pull it free to move past her.
Without another word said between us, I grab my keys from the hook by the front door and leave.
Chicken Mushroom Spinach Lasagna
I HAVEN’T TALKED to Jack in days.
He literally told me he loved me, walked out of my house, and never looked back—not that I blame him.
I followed him to the porch, watched him climb into his truck, and then sat down on the steps as he drove away. I actually laughed at myself at one point, because me in this scene was straight out of a country song, red tail lights in the distance and all, but then that laughter turned to tears. It had been quite some time after he left when I finally went inside.
It’s not that I thought he was coming back, although I had hoped he would. It was more that I needed to stall instead of entering into the reality I had created.
The one where he was gone.
And I was certain he wasn’t coming back.
Of course I know it’s my fault, but I can’t be what he needs me to be, no matter how I might feel about him.
With Jack in the house, it felt smaller, quainter. Now with him gone, it feels large and empty.
Looking around, now I notice things are missing, whereas before they seamlessly blended with my things to become ours. Sports magazines, a blanket he bought for the couch after claiming my throw blanket wasn’t long enough to cover his feet, even the canister of protein powder he kept on the kitchen counter—all of it, gone. He cleaned his bathroom, too, removing any trace of him at all.
And being in his room . . . that’s the worst of all.
Yes, it looks just like it did before he arrived, but now the decorations seem insufficient and the room seems bare. Instead of washing the sheets, I put them back on his bed, climbed under the covers, and cried. They smelled like him, they felt like him, and for the first time in years, I doubted myself and the promises I’d made.
I didn’t expect it to hurt, not like this.
Why does it hurt like this?
I dated my high school boyfriend for two years. When he broke up with me, I remember being sad, but I don’t remember being hurt. This hurts, and in ways I’m not equipped to deal with.
“What are you doing?”
Taylor asks as she slides up next to me, breaking me from my thoughts.
Pulling earbuds from my ears, I do a once-over of the kitchen before turning to face her. The lunch rush has ended, there are a few lingering tables before we close for the day, and the staff is moving around me preparing to shut the kitchen down and prepping for tomorrow morning.
Everyone around me knows something is going on as I’ve been here at the restaurant essentially open to close since he left, but no one has approached me. I’m also sure they’ve noticed that Jack hasn’t stopped by, which was our routine for weeks. I am one hundred percent inclined to avoid conflict, whether it’s with others or even just myself, and by staying task-oriented, my mind redirects to focus on what’s in front of me and not what is around me or inside of me.
Am I hoping these feelings will just fade instead of having to be dealt with? Yes. If the expression time heals all wounds is accurate, I should be well on my way. As for the wounds, I’m not sure which ones are worse: the ones he’s given me, or the ones I gave myself.
“What does it look like? I’m testing this month’s featured dish.” I glance at her before sticking my spoon into the bowl of sauce and bringing it to my mouth to taste. It’s got both the salty and the sweet taste with a slight twinge of tang. It tastes perfect.
“Testing? Sweetheart, you’re doing a lot more than testing. Looks to me like you’re drowning your sorrows in carbs and cheese.” She points toward the four other bowls on the counter. Yes, I know I’m making a simple Southern macaroni and cheese, but there are lots of ways it can be made. For example, one might want to blend in butternut squash to hide a vegetable, or make it gourmet with a medium cheddar and a Gruyere. You can make it white with just a little cheddar and lots of mozzarella and parmesan, and don’t even get me started on fillings and baked crusts on the top.
I think about what she said and again look at my workstation, letting out a sigh. She’s not wrong. It’s been so long since I’ve given in to the feelings of things like disappointment, and I’m not even sure what to do with myself. I’ve tried to tell myself it is what it is and this is for the best, and although my head thinks this, my heart does not match it.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 20