Chapter 11
Michael leaned back.
“Missing someone and being willing to love them properly aren't the same thing.”
I looked at him.
There it was again.
The simple honesty that had always been Michael's greatest gift.
He never told me what I wanted to hear.
He told me what he believed was true.
The bartender brought my tea.
I wrapped my hands around the warm cup.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Sophie.
“Dad just called again. Apparently he's having some kind of emotional crisis. Are you okay?”
I smiled and typed back.
“I'm fine, sweetheart. Having tea with Michael.”
Three dots appeared.
Then:
“GOOD. Also, Adam wants to know if this is the same Michael who pushed you into the lake.”
I laughed.
Michael leaned closer.
“What?”
I showed him.
He looked offended.
“I did not push you.”
“You absolutely did.”
“You were standing on a rotten board.”
“You dared me to walk backward.”
“And you accepted. That's on you.”
I sent Sophie a laughing emoji.
Then another message arrived.
“Mom, seriously. I'm proud of you.”
I stared at those words for a long moment.
Something tightened in my throat.
For years, I had been the parent who remembered birthdays, organized holiday meals, handled emergencies, and kept everyone connected.
I was proud of my children.
But I hadn't expected one of them to tell me she was proud of me simply for having a pleasant evening without her father.
I sent back three words.
“I love you.”
Then I put my phone away.
Michael lifted his glass.
“To Buckeye Lake.”
I raised my tea.
“To terrible docks and questionable friendships.”
He grinned.
“Questionable? I've been an excellent friend.”
“You disappeared for fifteen years.”
“I moved to Seattle.”
“Exactly.”
He laughed.
We talked until the lounge began to empty.
About his architecture firm.
About his divorce eight years earlier.
About his daughter, who had just started graduate school.
About the strange experience of reaching our fifties and discovering that the lives we'd carefully constructed didn't always turn out the way we'd planned.
Michael didn't flirt.
He didn't ask me to forget Daniel.
He didn't try to turn my vulnerability into an opportunity.
He simply listened.
And for the first time in months, I found myself talking about something other than my failed marriage.
I told him I wanted to travel.
I'd always wanted to visit the Oregon coast.
I wanted to take a photography class.