Chapter 23
“But I would like to take you on an actual date sometime.”
I laughed softly.
“Michael, we've traveled across the country together.”
“As friends.”
“Yes.”
“And I respect that.”
He smiled.
“But I'd like to take you to dinner knowing it's a date.”
I looked out at the ocean.
Six months earlier, the thought of being with someone new had frightened me.
I had felt too old.
Too hurt.
Too uncertain.
I wondered whether I would ever be able to trust someone again.
But sitting beside Michael, I realized I didn't have to decide the rest of my life that evening.
I only had to decide whether I wanted to share dinner with a man who made me laugh and treated me with kindness.
“I'd like that,” I said.
His smile widened.
“Really?”
“Really.”
He reached across the table.
Slowly.
Giving me every opportunity to pull away.
I placed my hand in his.
And it felt nothing like the desperate reassurance I had spent years seeking from Daniel.
It felt like a choice.
Mine.
When we returned home, I didn't announce a new relationship to everyone.
I didn't post photographs to make Daniel jealous.
I didn't try to prove that I had won some imaginary competition.
I simply continued living.
Michael and I went on dates.
I took photographs.
I tended my garden.
I spent time with my children.
I joined a weekend hiking group and discovered that I was considerably less athletic than I had imagined.
I laughed about it afterward.
And life grew fuller.
Not suddenly.
Not perfectly.
But steadily.
One afternoon, almost a year after that night at the Hawthorne, Sophie called.
“Mom, I have a question.”
“What's up?”
“Do you remember how Dad reacted when he saw you with Michael at the hotel?”
I smiled.
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed.
“Adam and I were talking about it.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
“No, seriously. Do you think Dad really believed you were having an affair?”
I considered the question.
“I think he believed I was doing something he hadn't given me permission to do.”
Sophie was quiet.
Then she said, “That's pretty sad.”
“It is.”
“Do you think he wanted you back?”
I looked through the window.
Michael was in the garden, examining one of the dahlias with exaggerated seriousness.
He was trying to decide whether the flower looked healthy or whether he'd somehow managed to insult it by watering it incorrectly.