The tension in the car on our way home stretches. The almost kiss in the helicopter shook me up. I forgot myself. And I can’t afford to. I told Dean our story this morning when he invited me to his fancy barber shop. He warned me in no uncertain terms that I would regret it monumentally if I let things with her get out of hand.
But, I don’t know how else to be with her. She seems to be struggling, too. I wonder if she’s having second thoughts about this whole friendship thing, too. In the veil the dark interior of the car offers, I ask her.
“In that letter your wrote me. You said, you hoped that one day, we’d find a way to be in each other’s lives. But that you weren’t ready. Are you ready now?”
She shifts in her seat, clears her throat. “I started therapy. Group therapy. And all of the things I hadn’t dealt with when I wrote that letter, I have or at least am in the process of. I have new…perspective on things. So, yes.” she says with a shrug.
“That’s great. I should probably do the same. I’ve been avoiding it because I didn’t want to move on,” I admit.
Her chuckle is hollow, forced. “Oh, I haven’t moved on. I’ve just gained an acceptance that there are some things I won’t be able to control. And I’ve found an outlet for my grief,” she says and her voice cracks. I have to stay my hand when it reaches for her, instinctively.
“I guess I haven’t really tried all that hard. I was hoping for miracle. Looking for cases where things like this, people like us… worked out.”
“Oh,” she breathes, surprise in her voice.
“Yeah, I became a little obsessed with it after I left.”
“What did you find?”
I sigh. “In the grand scheme of things, we were lucky finding out when we did. Some of them didn’t find out they were related until they were married, and had kids. At least, we didn’t do something that couldn’t be undone. You know?”
She reaches up and presses the button to turn on the overhead light.
When I see her face, I can tell that I’ve said something monumentally wrong. Her eyes are haunted and bleak.
She takes a deep breath, and takes my hand, squeezing it tight. “Thank you for tonight. Thank you for being part of my life. I’m glad you’re happy. And I’m so proud of you. I think…we can do this, friendship. I hope we can anyway, because I’ve never in my whole life had another friend like you.
My throat goes dry, my gut clenches with effort of acceptance. I nod. “I’d like that very much.”
She stays in my lap, her head next to my heart. “Have you been in touch with my…our father?” She asks after a few minutes of silence.
My psyche’s reaction to her question visceral and immediate. “He’s not my father. Never will be. I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“I understand.”
“Are you in touch?” I ask.
She shakes her head no and even as I’m glad she’s away from him, I’m sorry that she’s so alone.
We ride in silence, both adrift in our own thoughts. When we pull up outside her building, she’s asleep.
I wake her, because I don’t trust myself to walk up to her apartment. I’ll want to crawl into bed with her. Hold her until she doesn’t hurt anymore. But I can’t do that.
I can’t do anything.
Except, watch her walk away.
53
Beth
Truth or dare
“I don’t understand how this tradition, out of the many beautiful ones you could have chosen, is the one you went with,” Dina moans as our car pulls away from the curb of our building.
“Stop complaining, girl. I’m a nearly seventy year old man wearing the same thing as you two knuckleheads, and you don’t hear me talking shit.”
I spear Joe with a knowing look. This morning when I’d taken his sweater down to him, he’d taken one look at it and said, “I’m not wearing that shit.”
That shit is one of those tacky holiday sweaters, complete with a light up turkey on it. It’s ugly as hell, but considered acceptable because it’s the holidays.
“You’re both ruining my fun,” I complain.
“I shouldn’t have let you watch Bridget Jones’ Diary so many times,” Dina says and I roll my eyes, but don’t hold back my laugh. Because it was that movie that gave me the idea.
“See? It’s an international holiday tradition. This