Lessons in Lemonade

by Andrews, Kathryn

  Not wanting to continue this conversation in front of curious eyes, I drag her into the walk-in cooler.

  With her hands on her hips, she glares at me, her breath coming out in visible puffs. “Please, explain to me why you are going on this date today.”

  “First off, don’t talk to me like that in front of my staff. It undermines my authority, and I don’t like it. Second, I don’t have to explain anything to you. You are really overreacting. And third, why not?”

  Her face falls at my admonishment. I hate that I needed to point that out, but she can’t be yelling at me in front of them, although I do understand her motivation. Outside of Shelby and Lexi, she is my closest girlfriend, and we’ve always been very open and honest with each other.

  It’s been over two weeks since Jack left, and I still haven’t heard from him. Wanting to be the bigger person, I did text him a few days ago to ask how he was, but he never responded. That stung a lot more than I expected it to and reaffirmed that I need to keep going. My grandmother once told me to keep calm and save recipes, and I’ve created a lot of new ones since he left. It’s time to move on.

  “Maybe because you should be a little considerate of Jack’s feelings and at least let the paint dry before getting back out there. He might not mean that much to you, but clearly you did to him.”

  Her words are like arrows, and they hit their target, making my jaw drop. “That’s not true at all. Jack means a lot to me—you know that better than anyone.” Although I would argue that if I had meant that much to him, it wouldn’t have been so easy for him to completely cut me out of his life.

  “Really?” She crosses her arms over her chest and pops one eyebrow up. The cold has started to sink into my clothes, but it doesn’t seem to be affecting her at all.

  The thing is, no matter how much everyone seems to think we were dating, we weren’t. Did we cross the line a few times, yes, and did we catch feelings, maybe, but the bottom line is that we were never going to be something permanent, and I can’t just waste my days away. Time is precious, and I owe it to myself to keep living life to the fullest. I locked those feelings away; I had to.

  “Look, I have to go,” I tell her, not wanting to argue. She won’t understand, no matter how much I try to explain why, even though I don’t need to explain myself to anyone.

  “I wish you wouldn’t. You are making a mistake.” Her arms and her shoulders sag.

  Am I? Am I making a mistake? I thought moving on was what normal people did. Granted, my perception of normal was altered years ago, but this is how you do this—or at least this is how I do it.

  People don’t understand that a cancer survivor’s definition of normal is a bit different than that of someone who has never faced their mortality. That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad, it just takes some time to adjust, and if I’m honest with myself, I’m still adjusting. That said, I’ve given myself parameters for what normal looks like for me, and I’m okay with them. I’ve always owned the promises I’ve made to myself, and although not every day is a good day, I’ve given myself grace to know that the next day will be. It has to be, and I have to keep going.

  Yes, I choose to live a life that views the glass as half full, but do I still have moments when I’m by myself where I’m not strong and fearless? Of course I do. That’s part of my normal, my unique version of what defines normal, and although I’ve had to give in to the fact that these moments will happen, I also use them to fuel me from day to day. That’s exactly what I’m doing with the feelings I had about Jack leaving. I worked through them—I’m still working through them—but I also took a long look at what it must have felt like for him, and I’m doing my best to let go. I have to. It’s for the best. For seven years I’ve worked very hard to maintain a sense of stability and a rejection of complacency, and I’m not going to stop now.

  We only get one life, and each of us has to choose how we live it.

  Letting out a sigh, I know there’s nothing more to say. Not needing to explain myself any more, I push past her and exit the cooler. The staff is quiet as I grab my bag, thank them for the great day, and say good night. I hate that in the span of five minutes, I’ve gone from being excited about meeting someone new to feeling guilty. I’m not doing anything wrong.

  Moving through the restaurant, I’m lost in my head as I approach the hostess stand, and then my eyes catch on blond hair, flawless skin, a lean build, and blue eyes. He is quite possibly one of the hottest guys I have ever seen—outside of Jack, that is. Curses! I don’t want to think about Jack.

  Jack.

  My Jack.

  My heart frowns at the inaccuracy of that.

  Not my Jack.

  That same Jack didn’t look back. That same Jack dropped me like hot cakes. That same Jack is posting pictures of him with Zeus, and him out to dinner and laughing with his friends, and on a boat fishing with his shirt off and a large sun hat on. That same Jack told me he loved me then made moving on look effortless. That same Jack—if I’m being honest with myself—broke my heart.

  Moving to stand in front of my six-foot-tall date, I feel his eyes take me in from head to toe. By the time they find their way back to mine, my frowning heart has filled with an uneasiness, and a wrongness settles in.

  “Hi. You must be Jack—I mean Jason! Sorry.” I hold my hand out for him to take.

  He smiles at me and slides his hand into mine. It’s warm, nice, but alarm bells start going off in my head that it’s the wrong hand and I don’t want him touching me.

  Why is this happening to me?

  Oh, I know—Taylor and her meddling ways!

  “And you must be Meg,” he says, his smile so large and kind. Immediately I notice he doesn’t have dimples. Why am I looking for dimples? If I could slap my hand on my forehead and not look ridiculous, I would.

  “Yep.” It’s the only word I can get out as my throat seems to have completely closed and my lips won’t move. I feel like an inadequate idiot.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, so genuinely.

  “You too. Are you ready?” I need him out of the restaurant and both of us out from under so many condemning eyes.

  “You lead the way.” He steps aside and lets me walk out the door first. I don’t turn around, don’t look at any of my staff’s faces; I just can’t bring myself to do it. I thought this was a good idea, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t understand. Is there some sort of unspoken timeline about these things? Because if not now, when?

  The word never floats through my mind, and I cringe.

  Jason falls into step next to me. “OBA is a great restaurant. When you said to meet you here, I was kind of hoping we would be staying to eat.”

  I’m not sure why I’m surprised by this, but I am. “You’ve eaten at OBA?”

  “I have. Do you work there?” he asks, keeping the conversation going.

  I want to feel a sense of pride like I normally do, but images of Jack’s face as he came to meet me for a late lunch, hovered over me in the kitchen while I was cooking, painted the ceiling, and worked magic with the magnolias flash through my mind. Pain ricochets through me as my heart trips in my chest.

  “Yes. Actually, I own it. It’s my restaurant.” The words come out strained, and he hears it. His brows furrow just a little, but then my admission sinks in and his brows reverse and rise in surprise. Heck, I’m surprised, too—I never tell people this. I don’t know why I’m telling him now, but he pauses on the sidewalk to stop and look at me.

  “You’re the owner of OBA?” It sounds like a question, but it’s not; it’s more of a statement.

  A knot forms in my throat, and instead of answering him with words, my lips stay pressed together and I murmur, “Mmmhmm.”

  “Wow. That’s great.”

  We start walking again and he proceeds to talk to fill in the awkward silence I’m creating between us. He tells me where we’re headed to eat, what he does for a living, and how it’s his job that brought him to Charlesto
n. He tells me it was his sister’s idea for him to join a dating site to meet people but says he would kill her if she ever did. No offense to me, but he worries about her safety.

  At that, an unwanted noise escapes me. The guilt that descended upon me at the restaurant now morphs into something so suffocating I feel like I can’t breathe. Jack hated me going on these dates, and although I am free to live my life how I choose, the thought of worrying him or disappointing him even more has me catching my heel in a crack in the sidewalk and stumbling.

  “Whoa. Are you okay?” Jason asks, quickly reaching out to steady me with his hand on my elbow.

  I snatch it away instantly, and he holds his hands up in surrender as he takes a step back.

  “Sorry,” I say softly, turning to face him. “Yes,” I mumble in response to his question, my eyes filling with tears. He sees them and lets out a deep sigh, his hands landing on his hips. That’s when “No” is whispered from somewhere deep in my soul and passes through my lips. I’m realizing my feelings for Jack aren’t as locked away as I thought they were.

  “Oh, man,” Jason murmurs, running one hand over the back of his neck and looking at the ground. “The moment I saw you, I knew this was too good to be true.” He shakes his head.

  What do I say? I feel so stupid, but Taylor was right—this is wrong.

  “Okay, this date is officially over.” He stands up straight and frowns.

  “What?” I ask, my eyes flying to his face to meet his while relief takes over and I wonder if I somehow said those words out loud.

  “Yeah, to be honest, I just got out of a long-term relationship, and I wasn’t really ready to put myself back out there in the first place. I just did so to make my sister happy, but still, I’m starving, and I need to eat. This place we’re going to is supposed to have an amazing carbonara dish, and I love hanging out with my friends. So, friend, are you hungry, too?”

  He still wants to have dinner with me, even though I just gave off hot-mess vibes.

  He wants to be friends.

  We can be friends.

  With this thought, the invisible ropes that were squeezing me tighter and tighter with each step loosen. I love making new friends, and as long as he’s figured out that’s all we’ll ever be, nothing more, I can do this.

  Aside from being my friend, the one thing he’ll never be is my best friend.

  Spaghetti Carbonara

  “ALL RIGHT THERE, Jack. Let’s finish today with bending over and letting your arms dangle so your hands can touch your toes. Then roll up to a mountain pose while inhaling through your nose and exhaling at the top.”

  I replay what she just said to me while staring down at the teal mat, and I feel a pulse of irritation thump at the side of my head.

  That’s right. She said . . . fucking . . . toe touches.

  I feel Jeanine move from her mat to stand in front of me to help with balance if I need it, and to make sure I don’t fall, which I won’t—I’d rather die first. After all these years and all this time, I’ve been reduced to this: doing yoga. On top of that, I can’t even hardly stand here with both feet on the floor and both legs locked out straight. Heat flares in my face as even more anger builds inside me.

  Dr. Leffers told me both feet would be flat on the floor after six weeks and I would be able to do toe touches without any problem, and I was. It’s a weight-bearing exercise where you use your body to rebuild strength in the leg. Hell, over the last couple of weeks, Eddie and I moved way past this to running in the hydrotherapy tank and doing both open and closed chain activities. We did seated leg extensions, hamstring curls, calf pumps, squats, deadlifts, lunges, power cleans, and leg presses, but with the swelling not really receding, this is all the trainers are letting me do.

  Fucking yoga.

  I get it; I do. There are plenty of studies out there that show how great this form of exercise is for all kinds of athletes, but I don’t want to be doing this and this alone. I want to be out with my team, sprinting with a parachute, working drills with Bryan, and doing exercises like hop and switch, not a warrior pose. At this point, I want to kill all the warriors along with their downward dogs, and then I want to throw Jeanine off all the different planks to drown in the water.

  I know it’s not her fault. I just want my life back.

  Then again, the sixty-four-million-dollar question is: What life is that?

  When I open my eyes, there she is, just like I knew she would be, and she’s frowning. Now I feel even worse. She’s just trying to help me, and although I’m going through the motions, this really isn’t benefiting me. I don’t feel calm or centered. I don’t feel as if I’ve just had this amazing workout, and I don’t feel like I am progressing at all. Actually, I feel like I’m regressing physically, mentally—just all of the above—and it sucks.

  “Why don’t you hit the showers and I’ll text you later with when we should get together again.” She moves away from me to turn off the supposedly calming music she was playing.

  “Sounds good. Thank you, Jeanine.” I’m trying not to come off as a complete dick, but my voice is rough with frustration, and I know she can hear it.

  “Of course. What medicine are you taking?” She moves to bend down and pick up the mats and blocks we were using. I wrap my towel around my neck and grab my bottle of water.

  “I don’t like medicine, so only naproxen as needed.” I think about the last time I took some and realize I’m due. I need the swelling to be as minimal as possible.

  “Perfect. Once you’re showered, have them hook up the TENS unit for thirty minutes, too.”

  A TENS unit is a device that sends electrical impulses to a desired area to help manage pain. Although the pain is minimal at this point, it’s more of an irritation because of the swelling that bothers me.

  “Will do.” I give her a brief smile then walk out of the activity room and into the weight room.

  Noises I once loved assault my ears, and I cringe internally. The clanging of the weights, the loud thumping music blaring from the speakers, the laughter from guys scattered across the room . . . Of course as I pass them by I get head nods and a few brief greetings, but it’s like now that I’ve been removed from this, the family atmosphere I once felt it was doesn’t feel that way anymore. It feels tiring and monotonous, like I had been sucked into a vortex and now that I’ve been let out, it’s not the same. There’s so much more to life outside of football.

  On top of that, since I’ve been back, more than ever I have noticed the age difference between the incoming guys and me. Since the draft last week, the rookies have descended, and to me it feels glaringly obvious that I am old as dirt standing next to them. When we are in our twenties, we all feel the same, but I’m thirty-two and they are twenty-one and twenty-two. I may have time and experience on my side, but they have significantly less aches and pains and a hunger for the sport that I just don’t think I feel anymore. I want to feel that, but maybe I’m immune to it after all this time, or maybe it’s a sign that it’s time for me to move on. I just don’t know.

  Plus, they look like babies. I mean, the one dude I passed coming in today still has acne.

  Acne.

  Quickly making my way to the locker room, I shower, get dressed, and head to the training room. It’s here that Reid finds me, having just showered himself. I’m hooked up to the TENS unit and staring at photos of Meg on my phone.

  “You look like shit,” he says, not sugarcoating anything.

  “Ah, thanks, man. Love you, too,” I say sarcastically. Looking him over, I see he actually looks great, but then again, why shouldn’t he? He’s in great health, and he has the girl.

  He pops the spout on his water bottle, squirts some into his mouth, and then his gaze flits to my phone. Spotting the image, he asks, “You talk to her yet?” His New York accent is sounding more pronounced these days than it used to, or maybe it’s just that I’ve become accustomed to hearing a sweet Southern one.

  “No.” I look down at
the screen and run my finger over her face. The photo is one I took of her in the back yard at her house. She’s wearing little shorts, a tank top, and these large rubber boots she keeps just inside the back door. She’s got the hose on, she’s watering her plants, and she’s smiling at me.

  She’s so beautiful my heart constricts in my chest.

  “Why not?” he asks, propping his hip against the end of the therapy bench I’m sitting on.

  I look back up at him and shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  It’s been over two weeks, nineteen days to be exact, and every day feels longer than the last. She made the first move. She texted me, and I didn’t text back. I know I’m being an asshole to her, but my feelings are hurt and I’m still licking my wounds.

  “You know you’re an idiot, right?” He frowns at me.

  “Probably, but what am I supposed to do? She doesn’t want me, and you know that.” At least she doesn’t want me like I want her.

  “Then change her mind,” he says, as if it is that simple.

  Have we talked about Meg since I returned to Tampa? Yes. Most of the guys were curious at first because I had been gone, but once word spread that it had ended, they stopped asking, which I am grateful for. There’s nothing like sitting at the dinner table with a bunch of dudes and having them ask you about your broken heart. No, thanks.

  “Seriously, though, I have never known you to throw in the towel when it’s something you want. From beating one of your previous records to raising money for a charity, you go above and beyond for everything—why not her?” He tilts his head to the side to try to get a better read on me.

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head.

  He’s right. I’ve always done everything to the max. It brings me joy and excitement to know I’ve put a hundred and ten percent into everything I do, so why did I bail on her, on us, so quickly?

  I know why: because she wasn’t changing her mind. At least not then, not at that moment, and I refused to stand there and let her see me cry. Now, though, after a little time apart, she might think differently.