My Favorite Mistake

by Beth Kendrick

  “I did?” Did he mean what I thought he meant? Or was I just being delusional in my attempt to get something—anything—positive out of this conversation? “What do you mean, I ‘got you’?”

  “But that’s my own fault,” he continued, as if I hadn’t interrupted. “I believed what I wanted to believe, instead of what was right in front of me.”

  “And what was right in front of you?” I demanded.

  “I’m never going to be able to give you what you want. Just go back to L.A. We don’t need a big, drawn-out scene.”

  “Why do you keep insisting that I’m going back to California?” I demanded. “Why do you insist in making up my mind for me?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “So you’re not going back to L.A.?”

  I heaved the baseball out at the river with all my might. “This isn’t about L.A. This is about you refusing to trust me. Ever. It’s all or nothing with you. It always has been. So that’s what we both have now. Nothing.”

  Through my shame and my sorrow, I thought I could detect a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You’re not going to L.A.?”

  I threw my hands up and surrendered the last of my pride. “Of course not, you dumbass! Don’t you think I’ve learned one single, solitary, goddamn thing in the last decade?”

  He threw me a small, grudging smile. “I do wonder about that sometimes.”

  “Well, for your information, I’ve learned a lot.” I straightened my muddy pajama shirt cuffs. “But it doesn’t matter unless you see it, too. If you can’t trust me for who I am now, then please go right ahead and walk away because you never will be able to give me what I want.” I closed my eyes, but I could still see the glow of the moon through my eyelids.

  He watched the waves ripple out from the baseball’s watery grave. “I want to trust you. But I can’t be your Ford or whatever it is you feel like reducing me to. I’m not just the backup plan. I’m not perfect. And you’ve decided not to need anyone. You’ve built this little fortress for one. What do you need me for?”

  I crossed my arms and peered down at my innumerable shortcomings. The ill-fitting pajamas flapped in the wind, alternating patches of grime and wet with the occasional stray leaf clinging to the seams. “Flynn, of course I need you. And it scares the hell out of me. You were closer to me than my family. Everywhere I went, I carried pieces of you with me. You’re like my own personal Brunelleschi project, which I think I explained to you right before I lost it in Minneapolis, when I also needed you.”

  I went for broke under the huge white moon, praying that he would want to step off this precipice with me.

  “Don’t say these things if you don’t mean them.” His voice matched his face, a sharp contrast of light and dark.

  “How could I not mean them? I’m lost without you. I mean, honestly, look at me. Really look at me.” I leveled my gaze and tied the errant tails on my pajama top around my midriff.

  And then I finally admitted it to myself and to him. “I’m afraid to love you, okay? I admit it. But I’m not a lost cause.”

  He took a few steps closer to me. “I know you’re not a lost cause.”

  “Then don’t give up on us.” My voice was almost as soft as the leaves rustling above us.

  Our bodies were half a foot apart. I took a deep breath and reached out to close the distance. My fingers grazed his cheek, trying to memorize the feel of that face in the damp breeze. My heart beat through my entire body, pulsing out to the ground and the sky.

  We drank each other in under the stars. I was barely touching him, but I felt emphatically, electrically alive.

  “I want to stay here with you,” I said. “And I can say it all day and night, but words don’t mean anything. You’ll have to let me show you.”

  And there it was. The sum total of all I had to offer: a promise I couldn’t back up with anything more substantial than the moonlight.

  “How can I say no to that?” He stroked my cheek. “Especially when you look so good in those pajamas and I can see right through them.”

  You just can’t argue with that kind of logic.

  He brushed his lips across mine. I could feel every inch of him through my seersucker ensemble.

  Then he pointed to the creek and grinned. “Now would you please go get my baseball?”

  This time, I recognized my opening. “Not me. There’s leeches in there.” I batted my eyelashes, the picture of squeamish femininity.

  “But do you know who signed that baseball you so carelessly tossed in? Ryne Sandberg.”

  “Well, I guess poor Ryne’ll have to stay in the briny deep, because no way am I wading into leech territory,” I said. “Old phobias die hard, you know.”

  “I’ll go in with you.” He whispered this offer into the hollow between my ear and my jaw. “And you know what? I don’t think leeches even like Californians. Too smoggy.”

  “You go first, then.” I nudged him toward the riverbank.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Oh, ladies first. I insist.” He caught me by the waist and started purposefully toward the river.

  “Hey! You said you’d come with me,” I protested, digging my heels in, with the result that my sandals lodged in the dark, loamy earth while my feet tripped off toward the river.

  He scooped me up into his arms and strode ankle-deep into the water, unmindful of his scuffed brown Timberlands.

  “Flynn, seriously.” I wriggled around like a worm on a hook, and he wasn’t even out of breath. “Listen to me. If you drop me in there, I will beat you like a rented mule. Do you know how cold it is in there?”

  My bids for freedom resulted in an accidental knee to his ribcage, and we went down, tumbling into the river together. The water was warmer than I’d expected, tepid but fresh like a summer bath. Which was fortunate because we were both drenched, our hair plastered against our necks, our clothes plastered against our skin.

  “Nice work, tiger.” He had cushioned my fall with his body, and I could feel his thighs under mine.

  “Thank you, darling.”

  We kissed and kissed. Things were getting out of hand very quickly. Realizing that we were in danger of drowning at the rate we were going, he pulled me back to the riverbank, where we tossed our wet clothes on the grass and followed them down. This may not sound very romantic, but trust me, what it lacked in hearts and flowers, it made up for in raw, shameless passion.

  Our eyes met in the dark, gleaming and feverish while we moved against each other. My heart raced and I could feel things shattering inside me. It was a regular bull in a china shop in there.

  “We can’t do this unless we’re sure,” I said.

  And then we did, and it was like coming into myself, coming back to myself. Somehow that night, drenched in moonlight and river water, I found a new way home.

  Afterward, we lay tangled up in each other, sprawled out on the hood of my car as we watched the stars shift on the horizon.

  “So you really want to stay here?” He cradled my head against his bare shoulder.

  “I really want to stay here.” I pressed my lips against his chest.

  “Well, it’s about damn time.” He paused. “But don’t stay here just because of me. I refuse to argue for twenty years about how I didn’t value your work and killed your career.”

  “You think we’ll still be together in twenty years?”

  He kissed the top of my head. “Won’t we?”

  I could picture it. Closets stocked with high heels and white T-shirts, the Oxford English Dictionary, and ice-fishing gear. A chi-chi, purebred dog named Wayne Gretzky or Gordie Howe. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. I can still write in Minnesota. And I’m thinking about trying to take some more classes. At the U, whatever. Accounting and management stuff. I seem to have small business in my blood.” I waited for him to mock me.

  He squeezed me tighter. “But won’t your editor be disappointed about the California assignment?”

  “Oh, I’ll do a few snappy pieces on hearty Midwestern
fare and he’ll get over it. Besides. I have a little secret for you: I jet lag practically unto death.” I curled up into his warmth. “I want to stay in one place for a while. With you. Even though you’re so stubborn and bossy.”

  “Aw.” He laughed. “I have to wipe away a tear.”

  “The real question is: Are you willing to bear with me?”

  He smiled up at the stars. “Geary, I am a lifelong Cubs fan. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re in for a lot of trouble,” I said.

  “Hey, they finally made the playoffs last year, right? Hope springs eternal.”

  24

  The crisp September breeze aired out the apartment, wafting away the dust and fresh paint fumes.

  “Hey, Geary.”

  I surveyed the bowls, glasses and wadded-up balls of newspaper strewn all over the kitchen floor, then gave up unpacking in favor of following his voice.

  “Yeah?” I wandered down the hall in bare feet, boxer shorts, and one of his gray T-shirts.

  He was sitting on the floor of the screened-in porch, reading the morning paper amid stacks of unopened brown boxes. “You know what would go great out here? A hammock.”

  I leaned against the doorway and looked out at the lush green lawns and pastel chalk scribblings on the neighbors’ sidewalk. “Shouldn’t you be unpacking?”

  He nodded and filled in a crossword puzzle answer.

  I sat down next to him, stretching out in the early autumn heat. He pulled me into his lap and I relaxed into him. “This place is really great. Unbelievable. How did you find it?”

  “I have many hidden talents.”

  “I’m serious. This is about eighteen times bigger than my studio in Santa Monica and it’s like, pennies a day.”

  “Welcome back to the Midwest.”

  He truly had demonstrated considerable prowess as an apartment-hunter, securing us the upper story of a duplex in Minneapolis’ uptown district, close to the university and within walking distance of Lake Calhoun. The empty white rooms and sealed cardboard cartons held endless promise and possibility.

  Currently, our furnishings consisted of what Flynn had brought from his old apartment: a bed, a big-screen TV, a ratty brown armchair, and a coffee table he described as “the Platonic ideal of flat,” which he had made himself with a log, a wood plane and infinite patience.

  “Aren’t you excited to start redecorating?” I asked hopefully.

  He shook his head. “Don’t even talk to me about decorating. I’m still recovering from your outrageous wardrobe demands. All those boxes marked ‘Clothes, misc.’ What the hell is the ‘misc.’? Bricks? Lead?”

  I considered this. “There might have been a few shoes and books in there.”

  “Steel-toed boots? Hardcover encyclopedias? It’s lucky for you I’m so manly and muscle-bound.”

  “I’m high-maintenance, but I’m worth it,” I assured him, rubbing the base of his neck.

  By the time the doorbell rang, we’d gotten ourselves into something of a compromising position. I groaned and started to extricate myself from his arms.

  He tightened his hold on me and murmured into my mouth, “Ignore the barbarians at the gate.”

  I laughed and deepened the kiss before pulling away. “We can’t. They’re very persistent barbarians.”

  Sure enough, we could hear Skye at the other end of the apartment, knocking and yelling, “Hey! Are you home or what?”

  Flynn got to his feet and pulled me up after him. I straightened my shirt, brushed off my shorts, and headed for the front door.

  Life and noise flooded in.

  “I love this place,” Leah said, handing me a tower of bakery boxes and kissing my cheek. “Great neighborhood. And did you see the shoe store down the street?”

  “Hey, guys. Rex spent all morning making you something, so he’s a little excited.” Stan trooped in with the kids, and true to form, Rex was cranked up to eleven.

  “Faith! Flynn! Faith! Flynn! Is this your new house? Do you guys have a bathtub? Does it have claw feet?” Rex tugged on Stan’s hand. “I drew you something for the wall.” He handed me a fingerpainting emblazoned with bold streaks of primary colors and gold glitter.

  Skye breezed in with Lars on one arm and Sally on the other. “…So the whole thing really made me think about life and death and what it all means, you know?”

  “Oh me, too,” Sally agreed. Both of them spared me a glance and a “hi,” then went back to their discussion.

  “I mean, when you hit me with your car, I just started to have some second thoughts about stuff.” My sister lifted one hand to heaven and the other to her heart.

  “Absolutely.” Sally bobbed her head up and down.

  “And I think, when I die, I want my tombstone to say ‘Skye Geary: Often imitated, never duplicated’.” Lars and I locked gazes and nodded a stoic greeting.

  Bringing up the rear was Hans Gruber, with tail wagging and paws clicking on the stairs.

  “We brought the family mascot,” Leah explained. “I hope that’s okay. If you want, we can leave him in the car.”

  “No, he’s fine,” Flynn said. “Maybe he can sniff out the box with all the cooking gear in it.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry this place is such a wreck,” I said, nodding at the chaos on all sides.

  Everyone streamed into the dining room, leaving Flynn and me holding the door and Rex’s painting. He squeezed my hand and grinned at me. “Aren’t you glad we have all this extra room?”

  “Yeah. God, this place is going to be Grand Central Station.” I kissed him again, curling my toes against the smooth cool floor tiles.

  He slung an arm around my shoulder and together we joined the horde gathering in the dining room. Leah handed Rachel to Sally, then sliced the coffee cake and doled out cookies while Hans Gruber sniffed joyfully at all the boxes and crumpled newspaper. Skye, hanging off a blissed-out Lars, debated the merits of pink versus peach blusher with Sally, who was gingerly trying to maintain her grip on Rachel without breaking a nail. Rex spun around in staggering circles while Stan explained how gravity worked.

  “Do you like my picture?” Rex asked me as he tumbled to the ground in a giggling heap.

  “I do. In fact, I’m going to put it up right now.” I headed to the kitchen and hunted around until I found the tape. The walls in the hallway were empty and white, except for a single framed print we had hung up last night upon arrival. An old sepia photograph of the Piazza del Duomo in Florence, with the belltower and the arched dome patterned with light against the morning sky. Our little joke.

  I taped Rex’s modernist, mixed media piece up next to it. Although perhaps less subtle and classic, the fingerpainting balanced the photograph nicely. The red and blue streaks and the sprinkled glitter offset the muted gray and the careful straight lines. I took a step back and looked at the newest addition to our home.

  And then I went back to my family.

  Up Close & Personal

  with the Author

  WHY DID YOU SET THIS BOOK IN RURAL MINNESOTA?

  A few reasons, I guess. One, I wanted to write a book for all the women out there who love characters like Carrie Bradshaw and Bridget Jones but don’t live in a big city and wear Manolo Blahniks. You can live in Wisconsin and drink Pig’s Ear beer and still be fun and fabulous. It’s all in the attitude! Also, I’m lazy. I went to college in a small town in Minnesota, loved it, and used that town as the inspiration for the fictional setting of Lindbrook. Finally, I needed it for the plot. How else was I going to work in scenes like “Free Beer ’Til Somebody Pees”?

  TEENAGERS IN LOVE: CAN IT REALLY LAST?

  There’s something special about first loves—something pure and intense and kind of obsessive—and maybe that’s why they don’t usually endure into adulthood. First loves embody a kind of innocence that we can’t take into adulthood…and most of us wouldn’t want to! When you’re seventeen, you’re not thinking about whether the hot guy who asked for your phone numb
er has commitment problems, mother issues, or a good credit rating. You’re just starry-eyed and awash in endorphins. And afterward you grow up, smarten up, and get all world-weary and suspicious about dating.

  Though I don’t personally know anyone who married her high school sweetheart, I do know a few couples who broke up, went their separate ways, and then reunited as adults. Isn’t that part of the reason why we attend high school and college reunions? We have to find out what happened to our old flames. Did your evil ex-boyfriend get his just desserts (i.e., a raging case of herpes and a yearly IRS audit)? Is that guy you admired from afar in biology lab still cute? And if he is, is he single?

  BUT, AS YOU SAY, MOST PEOPLE DO EVENTUALLY GET OVER THEIR FIRST LOVES. WHY DIDN’T FAITH AND FLYNN?

  I would agree that most people eventually move on after their first serious relationship. But the idea of reuniting with our first love is a pretty widespread fantasy. Books and movies like The Great Gatsby, Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, Persuasion, and The Big Chill all focus on the desire to track down old loves and resolve emotional issues from the past.

  As to why Faith and Flynn had so much trouble letting go of their relationship and moving on to other partners, the tattoos pretty much sum it up. Those monogrammed hearts are the physical manifestation of the marks they left on each other. Neither had the heart removed—though it’s possible with laser technology—but both of them hid it from view. Sometimes our romantic mistakes push us forward to the next stage in our lives, but sometimes they hold us back. By keeping those tattoos, Faith and Flynn were signaling that they weren’t ready to let go of the past, even though they were angry and hurt. Nothing like a good dose of emotional ambivalence!

  FLYNN AND LARS BOTH QUALIFY AS THE STRONG, SILENT TYPE, WHILE IAN, THE ARTICULATE MAN OF LETTERS, IS A TOTAL JACKASS. CARE TO COMMENT?

  As someone who’s dated her fair share of jackasses, I learned the hard way that actions speak louder than words. It has been my experience that men who are prone to making flowery speeches about how your eyes remind him of the sun rising over the Seine are trouble. Ditto for men who need half an hour every morning to put exactly the right amount of gel in their bangs. I like ’em stoic and sincere. No primping or posturing. As my brother put it, “A good guy only needs seven minutes to buy a pair of pants: one minute to locate them in the store, two minutes to try them on, and four minutes to leave.”