by Hope Lyda
She gladly leaves me by the punch and the mini poppy seed cakes with pink champagne icing. I hear Beau laughing and congratulating Sadie. He says “What a beautiful ceremony” as if he had not been emailing during the entire service.
I say a quick prayer that I will not chicken out—I will not let festive music and romantic candlelit tables sway me from pursuing a real conversation with my boyfriend.
A Proposal Accepted
When two people are in love, they move on from things. They don’t keep rehashing them.” Beau leans against the porch rail holding a shrimp skewer and pointing a finger at me, the rehasher.
His line sounds like something I told Marcus back in high school, except I was stating the case for friendship. Neither fill-in-the-blank relationship makes the statement entirely true or fair to the person wanting to talk.
“I don’t think couples in love dwell on the negative, but they at least have conversations about important matters.” I am wringing my hands and wishing I was wearing something more breathable for this uncomfortable moment.
“Exactly,” he says.
“So let’s have a conversation…” I plead.
“About important matters,” he finishes the sentence.
“Yes.”
“You mean matters of the heart and forever after?”
I give him a sideways look.
He puts the skewer down and runs his hands through his hair a couple times. Then he scratches his scalp and makes a strange face. I’m thinking of a Jane Goodall special I saw last week on public television when he finally blurts, “I think maybe we should get married.”
I step back, my knees unable to remain strong for me. My hands start shaking. There is complete silence around us. Through the arched windows I watch people dancing to the festive music. On the back lawn wedding-goers are laughing and talking boisterously.
But there is no sound beyond blood pulsing in my ears.
When words come to me, I don’t recognize my voice as I speak boldly. “You think we should get married? Beau, the fact that the words think and maybe are a part of the proposal might be a warning sign.”
“You’re twisting this. Mari, I love you. You love me. We’ve been dating almost a year. Our lives are going well. I’ve asked your folks’ permission—and they were happy. You’re back for good. It’s the logical next step. It’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m tired of logic. I rarely let myself feel what it is I need or want in a moment. I don’t even know if I have ever truly trusted God’s leading in my life because I want reason to rule every move I make.”
“Then forget logic. Let’s focus on love. We have a heart for each other and others. We could build a very good life together. I’m so envious of Carson and Sadie today.” He looks away and shakes his head.
I force myself to step closer to him. “Beau,” I say softly, “I’m a little jealous too. I understand the desire to want these good things in our lives—love, connection, and the whole forever-after scenario. But you think doing the right thing is abiding by a specific timeline. I see doing the right thing as doing right by the other person. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Do you even understand what you are saying?” He bites his upper lip and finally looks at me.
“So there isn’t anything going on in our lives that should be brought out and discussed and resolved before you want to march down the aisle and promise for better or for worse?” I force him to talk about the real life we are sharing and not the fantasy.
He hesitates. “There are some things going on. But work is work. And our relationship is not based on sharing the same business address.”
“I thought it was based on trust and mutual respect. We were so disconnected when you visited Washington. You were selling me on Majestic while I was sharing how deeply I feel about the work at the Urban Center. I wanted you to see that with open eyes and an open heart during your visit, but you had an agenda.”
“Asking your folks for permission to marry you isn’t some awful agenda. A lot of single women would be happy if the guy they’ve been seeing for a year had that agenda. Do you get that?”
“That’s not the agenda I’m talking about. Why do you want me to consider Majestic, Beau?”
He motions for a server to come by with a tray of sweet potato cakes. He places half a dozen of them on his plate
“Those are loaded with spices,” I warn him.
I watch him eat four of them, one right after the other with a defiant look in his eyes. He starts sweating profusely, and not until two glasses of water later is he able to compose himself. His lips are swollen and his eyes are red.
“If you are so big on trust, why don’t you just say what you want to say instead of playing some game with me?” His voice cracks and he coughs.
“You are submitting a report that will eliminate the job I worked so hard to get back last year. You know how much I care about those people.”
“We are submitting a report that shows how to provide better care for more units. That is called progress, Mari.”
“There’s that warm fuzzy word again. Is that how we measure people now, in units?” My mind keeps circling around his use of the word “we,” and I feel dizzy.
“I was referring to facilities. Not to people.” He enunciates this last statement, as if I am a slow learner.
Apparently I am.
“Exactly. You are focused on facilities and not people. Which is amazing because the people love you, respect you, and trust you. What statistics are in your report to show the increase in function, memory, and happiness when residents engage in regular exchanges of friendship and care with permanent staff?”
“You can’t measure happiness, Mari,” he says with the gall to let a laugh slip from his swollen lips.
“Pull the report. You know stats can be used to prove any point, Mr. Businessman. Your grant proposal does not have to turn into a statement about reducing staff, for Pete’s sake.”
“That isn’t fair. We’ve worked hard on this. And it will bring funding to the state and status to the Golden Horizons’ program. I didn’t know what Paige and I would find at the end of this report. Not until the research directed us toward this conclusion.”
“You must mean status to you, because there is no program. There won’t be if you don’t cancel this report.”
Beau arches his back and rolls his neck side to side. He is limbering up for the rest of the conversation. “They accepted the proposal, Mari. They loved it, and they want me to personally oversee the changes for the state.” He says it with pride.
My heart breaks.
“When were you going to tell me—the day I got a pink slip?” I ask when I can manage to breathe again. Angelica and Peyton walk by holding hands.
“Mari, I figured it all out.”
“Yes, I know. You got me back on at Majestic without telling me.”
He shakes his head. “After our blowout in Washington, I saw that I was wrong, totally wrong. I fixed all that.”
I stay silent, waiting for the details. Do the right thing, I think over and over, hoping Beau gets the message.
He loosens his tie and leans against a column adorned with bougainvillea. I put my hands on the porch railing, but keep my eyes fixed on his face.
“My follow-up report to the state committee includes a stellar recommendation for you to be the contracted director. It’s a promotion. You would oversee the programs for several facilities. We’d still be working together, but it’d be less awkward because you wouldn’t have to report directly to me but to…the state supervisor…”
The missing word stands out like a caution light. “The state supervisor?” I ask only because I want him to fill in the blank this time.
Do the right thing.
Do the right thing.
He waves away the response as he gives it. “It’d be a new position also established by the grant. But you would have free reign, other than complying with state laws, of cou
rse.” He laughs nervously and undoes the top two buttons of his shirt. He is perspiring, and not from spices this time.
He didn’t protect me.
“Say something, Mari.”
“What should I say? That I’m so happy Paige is going to have a state-level job thanks to your great interpretation of my data, my life’s work? You haven’t done right by me, Beau. Not for some time.”
He opens his mouth but nothing initially comes out. His chance to do the right thing came and went. I feel a bit sad for him. His naive view of this night was that one accepted proposal would lead to another.
As I try to find a different way to explain my feelings, I notice a woman with a blue dress standing behind a potted, flowering cactus. When I step a bit to the left, a manila folder is visible and so is a splash of red hair.
“Is that Paige?” I ask, incredulous.
Beau reluctantly follows the lead of my pointing finger. I can see him gulp like a cartoon character entering a haunted house. A trickle of sweat slides down his face.
“You invited Paige to the wedding reception?”
He turns back to me. “Don’t be crazy. She emailed me during the service and said she had the final papers to be signed before she could fax them to the state commissioner. He’s waiting on them or I wouldn’t have suggested she interrupt the reception. It was an emergency.”
“Then go sign off. We don’t want the state to fall apart just because we are having a vital conversation about our lives.”
He hesitates. Paige peeks around the cactus plant, but when she sees me she recoils back undercover. Beau’s mouth moves but nothing comes out.
“Go sign.” I say grabbing a chicken kabab from a nearby waiter’s tray. My eyes remain fixed on the meat as I nibble.
Beau stays standing. Then his hands go to his pockets and he shifts his weight. “Um, she needs your signature, Mari.” He lowers his head.
I make him wait for a response while I eat the chicken.
“The state needs the plan secured on all levels.”
Nibble. Nibble.
“I’m not signing. Believe me, you’ll be glad I didn’t take this job.” I lick my fingers aggressively.
“I didn’t mean for all of this to happen in one night.”
“Beau, it isn’t the timing. It’s how you handled it and me. There was never a we discussion about this job change. You expected me to play along if it served you best.”
“I’m sorry I let you down, Mari. But clearly, an apology won’t be enough. Our views of this situation are so different. We thought you’d be happy about this.”
Now, there’s the we. “Who are you talking about? Just to clarify,” I inquire.
“The board. Others I’ve talked to,” he says nervously. “Everyone except you, apparently.”
“You talked to everyone except the person you supposedly want to share the rest of your life with…” my voice falters. There is a metallic taste in my mouth—the taste I get when I am about to get sick. The small string of lights above the porch twinkles and casts strange shadows on his face. I cannot recognize the shape of his eyes any more than he or I have been able to recognize the shape of our relationship.
“This is beyond awkward. I thought this was going to be an amazingly special night for us—a beginning, not an…” he can’t finish the statement.
“Ending,” I say quietly, filling in the blank for both of us.
Something Borrowed
Sadie is surrounded by congratulatory people. I rudely step up to the front of the crowd and grab her by the hand. She sees the expression on my face and immediately walks us both over to a secluded corner.
“I’m leaving. Angelica and Caitlin will need rides tonight.” The words tumble out.
“Mari, what’s wrong.”
I want to pretend I’m sick or just overwhelmingly tired, but Sadie looks at me with deep concern. “Beau and I, we’re done. Things haven’t been good for some time and tonight it was just clear—really clear that we want different things out of this relationship.”
She hugs me close, and I can sense my composure is about to crumble. “Tell Caitlin I will…”
“Tell me what?” Caitlin comes up behind me holding an entire tray of hors d’ oeuvres. “These shrimp thingies are divine, Sadie. Mari, what is going on?” She hands the platter to Sadie, who obliges.
I am shaking my head side to side nonstop like someone in a padded room. I need to get out of here, and there are so many people and tables and pleasant smiles to walk through in order to reach the door.
“They broke up and Mari needs to leave, so we’ll find a ride for you and Angelica.”
“Jim would take me home,” she says, tearing up, “but I want to go too. Let’s get to my place. I need to get rested for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Sadie and I say unison.
“Jim and I decided we were too ambitious. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. Come on, Mari. I’ll field people for you.”
Sadie brushes imaginary lint from my psychedelic dress. “I’m so sorry. Carson and I have been praying for you and Beau. You did what you needed to do.” Sadie comforts me with her words. It never occurred to me, in my past naive beliefs, that pain would accompany doing the right thing.
“We’ll need these,” Caitlin retrieves the tray of appetizers and we head out to the parking lot. Two guests try to reach for a cilantro-lime shrimp and Caitlin slaps their hands. “These went bad. Wait for the next tray, please.”
“I want to go home,” I say as soon as we step out into the night air.
“You take the tray, I’ll drive. We’ll be home in no time.”
I stop walking, peel off my heels, and leave them behind on the rock lined driveway. “I mean my home. Washington. I want to go tonight.”
Caitlin looks worried. “You’re already going back later in the week for Thanksgiving and to finish packing, right?” She speaks slowly and with precision.
“I want to go home for good. I ran away from it for almost twelve years. But it is where I need to be right now. That’s all I know.”
“It’s almost ten o’clock—at night. But let’s call and get something scheduled for first thing in the morning. I’ll take you to the airport myself.”
I nod. I’m numb and hungry. I notice my cell phone flashing. I have a missed call from Mom and Dad from a few hours before. They’ll see me soon enough, I think. By the time Caitlin pulls up alongside her overstuffed, parked car in the apartment lot, only orange translucent shrimp tails remain on the tray. “I’m a stress eater,” I say as my explanation for devouring nearly twenty-five shrimp.
I sit with my head in my hands unable to move. Caitlin gets out of the car and comes over to the passenger side to help me out.
“I feel as though I’ve been hit by a truck. The love truck. The breakup truck.” Rambling is not the only side effect of heartbreak. My tongue is thick and my scalp tingles. “The bad luck truck—it zoomed over me tonight.”
She laughs softly and pulls me to my feet, extending her arm around my waist for support.
“I’m really cold,” I eek through chattering teeth.
“You’re in mild shock.” Caitlin props me up against her car while she rummages through her trunk. She emerges with an oversized cashmere cardigan. “Here.”
I crawl up the stairs to her empty apartment. Caitlin quickly gets my air mattress prepped for me while I sit in a corner, wrapped in the dreamy sweater.
“Do you want to change out of your dress?”
“Too tired. Took nylons off in car,” I mumble and lie down. Caitlin covers me with a blanket.
“I’ll call my parents’ travel agent and get you a flight first thing. Should I let anyone else know you’re leaving? I could call certain people…someone…”
Even in my frozen mental state, I know what she is getting at. “Just Angelica. I don’t think communication with him is a good idea. Not yet.”
I drift in and out of consciousness and can hear h
er making phone calls to various people.
“I love this sweater,” I say when she hangs up and turns off the light.
“You should keep it. I’ll like knowing you have it with you in Washington,” she whispers. I hear the sound of slumber parties from days of old—the zipper of a sleeping bag. “Your flight is at eight. Jim and I will drop you off on our way out of town. Angelica will come and get your car. She said don’t be upset if she exchanges it some day for lunch at the Taco Store.”
I laugh. Elmo cuddles up next to my face and starts purring.
“The sun will come out tomorrow,” Caitlin says.
There is silence until I start laughing, “Um, Annie wants her line back.”
A pillow comes sailing toward my head and we both laugh some more.
I’ll take the borrowed sentiment—and the sweater. They both bring me surprising comfort as I stare at the ceiling, keeping an ear close to Elmo’s rumbling. My eyes are heavy with sleep and the weight of loss.
“Thank you, Caitlin,” I say before fading.
“For what?”
“For not asking what I am going to do when I get there.”
Fear of Flying Solo
Leaving a relationship, especially one mid-proposal, is a lot like quitting a job with medical and a pension plan. Once you take the plunge, everyone you bump into is lamenting their own leap from security and offering wisdom that is too little too late.
I discover this phenomenon at every stop along the trip.
The ticket counter: “I thought your license photo was bad, but this is worse,” Clarissa points to my face. “When the heart breaks, it shows in the lines around the mouth. Don’t you lose faith in love, you hear?”
“Too late.” I reach across the tall counter and grab my ticket.
The security gate: “If we searched your emotional baggage today, I suspect we’d find disappointment. Am I right?”
“Geez. What is it with you people?” I put my shoes back on and shake my head with indignation.
And now in row 24 of the 747: “You’ve got the look. She’s got the look, doesn’t she, Sammi?”