Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“Think we have any margarine containers left to save the leftovers?” I ask.
“I’m sure we do somewhere. Cathy hasn’t tossed a sturdy container since the nineties.”
We rise and clear the table. Hartley packs away the food, and I load the dishwasher. Working shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen with the moonlight streaming through the windows is a level of peace that I didn’t know existed.
I’d like to think that this means our paths are opening to the same forest, and we can travel a new one together—especially because I believe Hartley’s already there waiting on me. And, right now, in this easygoing, relaxed—deliriously happy—space, I want to run into his arms and take the first permanent step toward forever, but something holds me back.
“It’s still odd having so many dishes,” I say, starting the wash cycle. “And towels. And candles. And blankets.”
My apartment in Kentucky was packed up in seven boxes—two of which were books. I felt like I had everything that I needed there, but looking back, I don’t know how that was true.
Life here is so full in ways that I couldn’t have predicted. Each day is filled with people dropping by, texts coming in about things besides work, and lunches with friends. And each night I sleep next to a man who has my heart in the palm of his hand.
How did my life before seem happy? Or was I just that determined not to believe it could be better than it was?
“Can I ask you something?” Hartley asks as he scoops our nightly bowls of ice cream. We’ll take them into the living room, pull a blanket over our laps, and watch our favorite show together.
“Sure.”
He scoops slower. “I know you had a job before we got married. But did you choose to live such a pared-down life, or was it more a necessity from a financial standpoint?” He glances at me. “Just curious.”
I move around the room, each step helping me think.
My breath quickens as I wonder where to begin because the answer isn’t as simple as Hartley thinks. Or maybe he knows it’s not simple. I don’t know.
I slide my hands into my pockets to keep Hartley from seeing them tremble, because I’ve never discussed this out loud with anyone, and I don’t want to do it now. But if we’re going to move forward the way I want us to, he deserves my honesty.
Tears fill my eyes. This shouldn’t be so hard. I’ve avoided this topic for so long and wasn’t prepared to address it tonight. But there’s a push deep inside my body that urges me to get it all out.
“I think,” I say, my mouth dry, “that it wasn’t either. It wasn’t a choice, or because I didn’t have money to buy extra towels. I think it was more out of a survival instinct.”
He sets the ice cream scoop down and faces me. His eyes are full of empathy and concern. I really want to launch myself at him and have him hold me while I change the subject. But that’s not fair—to him or to me.
It’s time.
“I told myself that staying light meant that I could travel easier,” I say. “And that’s technically true, because it’s much easier to move when you have seven boxes rather than fifty.”
Hartley nods but doesn’t comment. He just stands silently by the sink, following me around the room with his eyes.
“But it wasn’t about the stuff,” I admit. “And it wasn’t even about seeing the world or living varied experiences.” It sounds so goofy now. How was I seeing the world being cooped up in a single-bedroom apartment away from my family? It was almost as if not seeing them every day meant I wouldn’t miss them so much when they were gone. Sad, but true. “It was really about not getting too comfortable. Making sure no place, and no person, ever felt essential to my life.”
The words surprise me as they fall past my lips. I’ve never been able to put it so succinctly, even in my head. But this is right. It’s true.
“Why?” Hartley asks as if the question holds the key to the future. But there’s no judgment in his tone, no frustration or indifference. Just curiosity and concern. And love.
“The last time I really felt comfortable, like where I lived felt like my home, was on Cherry Street with my parents.” Tears fill my eyes as I remember that house and how it smelled like pumpkin. “I love Lolly, and I’m so thankful to her and Pop for taking Markie and me in. They treated us like we were their own. Lolly and Pop’s love saved us. But that house … it always felt, to me, like we were creating another life on top of the one that already existed there. Mom’s room still exists over there. Her childhood bike is still hoisted into the rafters of the garage beside mine and Markie’s. It was the house where I lived, but it wasn’t my home.”