All the Dangerous Things(80)

It was starting to get easier, motherhood—or at least, more manageable—but still, something was missing.

I often thought of that passion I had as a child: my fingers dancing over that plaque in our yard, my eyes tearing through magazines, drinking up words, as fast as I could. Sometimes, I would dig up old issues of The Grit and flip through the pages, eying my byline, rereading my own words like I was dredging up the last drops of something delicious through a straw before I hit the bone-dry bottom. I could almost hear the frantic slurping of me trying to get one last taste of the person I used to be before it dried up forever.

I decided, before bringing it up, that I would see what was out there first. Besides, maybe I didn’t have it in me anymore. It had been almost a year since I wrote anything, so I scoured through my old contacts, grazed the most recent articles of some of my favorite magazines. I spent Mason’s midnight feedings flipping through social media, my phone alight in the dark, and finally came across an article about a boiled-peanut salesman in North Carolina who had recently lost his entire operation after a propane tank exploded in his backyard. It was covered on some small local news station—he had lost over ten thousand dollars’ worth of equipment—and I could just imagine the piece, something bigger: a feature on his family, who had been in the little-known industry for decades; a behind-the-scenes tour of his backyard business that went up in flames. The history of the food, its overlooked origins, maybe even a fundraiser set up to help him get back on his feet. It would be like the stories I wrote for The Grit, the stories I loved: meaningful and muddy and real.

I pitched the idea to a regional magazine, they loved it, and they offered me three thousand dollars, plus travel, to get it done.

“That’s more than I’ve ever made doing freelance,” I had said after I explained the idea to Ben. I had been sitting on the bed with Mason, bouncing him on my leg, as Ben stripped off his tie after work. “With that kind of money per story, I could make a real career out of this—”

“We don’t need money,” he had said. “You know that.”

“Well, it’s not just the money—”

“How long would you be away?” His expression was blank, unreadable. Mason was getting squirmy, and as if it proved his point, Ben gestured to him. “He’s still so young.”

“A week, tops,” I had said, moving him from one knee to the other. “Maybe only a couple days. I think you can handle it.”

I had smirked, teasing him, but he didn’t smile back.

“Or I could just go every morning and come back at night, but that would be a lot of driving—”

“No,” he said, unbuttoning his collar and flexing his neck. “No, you should do it. If that’s what will make you happy.”

“I am happy,” I said. “I just … I guess I just need something for myself, too. You have the magazine—”

I stopped, felt my cheeks start to burn. We had danced around The Grit just like we had danced around Allison: best to pretend it didn’t exist. Best to believe that I had left of my own volition, even though sometimes, when I thought about Ben still reporting to that big, beautiful office each morning—walking past my old desk, somebody else’s body in my chair and bylines on the wall; sharing coffee with my old coworkers, my friends—I felt an overwhelming twinge of sadness. Like a death I had never fully mourned.

“You should do it,” he repeated, walking over to me. I smiled, stretched out my neck, and gave him my lips to kiss—but instead of greeting them with his own, he grabbed Mason, took him from me, and turned back around, disappearing into the hall. “Like I said. Whatever makes you happy.”





CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR




I pull into a metered spot on River Street and walk the few blocks to The Bean, a hole-in-the-wall coffee spot I know Ben would never visit. It’s too grungy for him, the kind of place where you pour your own creamer when it’s still in the carton, sweating in the corner alongside fossilized packets of sweetener and mismatched spoons. Waylon hadn’t left town yet—he got a hotel room yesterday, after I kicked him out, too shell-shocked from our confrontation to make the drive home—and when I step inside, he’s already there, waiting for me.

“Hey,” I say, dropping my purse onto the empty stool. There’s an awkwardness to our interaction, like reconciling exes, but I try to push through it. “I’m just gonna—”

I gesture to the bar, but he shakes his head, pushing a mug in my direction like a peace offering.

“This one’s for you.”

“Thanks.” I smile, sliding into the seat. I grab the coffee and take a sip.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he says, his fingers bouncing across the table. “Or I guess a more accurate way of stating it is willfully omitting the truth. Either way, it was shitty.”

I smile again, nod my head, and think about the strange little bow he had greeted me with when he first stepped foot into my home. The way his eyes had scanned around the room, looking for traces of Ben, and how he had ducked down low at Framboise, trying to make himself smaller. He must have been terrified, I realize, stepping into those situations and not knowing what he would find. If Ben had been there with me, his cover would be destroyed.

“So,” I say, drumming my fingers against the mug, “where should we start?”