ways, but what are you doing for you, Rita? Where’s that stud you demanded over a year ago?”
My mouth falls open, but Scarlett raises the hand she’s been stroking over Harley’s head to stop me from speaking.
“I know you’re all independent woman and a man doesn’t define you, but . . . don’t you miss love, Rita? Don’t you miss sex? And before you say Ian was your stud, think again. He was a wonderful man, dedicated to teenagers and higher education, and he was good to you, but he’s gone, and you’re still here. You’re alive, Rita. You need to live.”
“I have been living,” I remind her. I don’t feel dead inside or even numb, but when I consider what Scarlett’s trying to say to me, I realize the truth. I’ve been content, like a steady stream instead of rolling rivers and crashing oceans. I’ve been moving forward at a trickling pace when I really want to rumble, tumble, and refresh. I want to be happy.
“You know what I mean, Rita, but I’ll spell it out just in case. You have before you a second chance to love.”
“I can’t love Jake,” I snap, more defensive than I need to be.
“You can if you want to.”
I shake my head and turn my gaze up toward the ceiling, toward the beams painted in chalkboard paint. Little quotes and inspirational sayings are written on the beams, and I stare blindly at the words at first while my thoughts race.
Could I love Jake? Despite his past, could I see around all that’s happened to him and how he connects with me? In Alcoholics Anonymous, one of our key philosophies is accepting our responsibility in our addiction. We are powerless to the pull and must accept ourselves as we are. But there’s also an underlying acceptance of others. No judgments. No prejudges. Accept that others have made mistakes, paid for them, and now must move forward.
When I think about Jake and how dedicated he’s been to his work at Building Buddies, I can’t help but give him the benefit of the doubt that he is trying to move on. He’s been rather accepting of his circumstance. He was convicted of a crime he claims he didn’t commit, but he served the time and can’t get it back. He could easily be bitter. He could have blamed his nephew or faulted his department, but he didn’t do either of those things. He came to terms with his fate.
My eyes narrow in on the beams above me, and I slowly stand, lifting Harley in my arms, to focus on a line of scribble facing the plush peach couch.
“Rita?” Scarlett questions, but I step around the low table before us as if I can see better what’s written over my head. Scarlett stands as well, following my gaze, and then her breath hitches.
“It says what I think, right?” I don’t take my eyes from the chalk writing.
“It does.” A smile fills Scarlett’s voice as she turns her attention back to me. I, however, cannot take my eyes off the beam.
“Is it a sign?” Scarlett whispers as I stare at the scrawled letters.
“It’s a sign,” I quietly echo.
Don’t lose faith in me, sweet.
On Monday, I’m headed to the office when another gift sits on my front porch along with another Busy Bean coffee cup. The new piece looks again like a person, a man perhaps, whose midsection is an old metal lantern. Another abstract head is attached with tubing for arms and legs, complete with feet and fingers. The lantern isn’t large, and the bulb inside is the size of a dining room chandelier. The inscription on the bottom of this one reads: You light me up. When the light is on, a faint heart illuminates to the upper left portion of the bulb. I can’t help but smile at the arrangement and the title.
Setting the lamp on a table just inside my front door, I want to leave the light on as a greeting when I return home later but decide against it.
Sitting at my desk, I’m deep in thought, clacking away with knitting needles in hand. The subtle tap of needles along with the steady stitching settles my mind. I’m wearing a summer dress, and the material is tucked between my knees to prevent all the goods from showing as my feet are propped up on the corner of my desk. I’m also wearing an old pair of Converse instead of my hiking boots as the