One True Loves(82)

“I know,” he says. “I feel the same way. Go grab the life you made for yourself.”

I kiss him good-bye like you kiss your friends on New Year’s. I don’t have it in me to kiss him any other way.

I gather my things and I put my hand on the car door, not yet ready to pull the handle.

“You were a wonderful person to love,” I say. “It felt so good to love you, to be loved by you.”

“Well, it was the easiest thing I ever did,” he says.

I smile at him and then breathe in, preparing myself for the piercing pain of leaving.

“Will you promise me that you will take care of yourself?” I say. “That you’ll call me if you need anything. That you’ll . . .” I don’t know exactly how to phrase what I mean. He has been through so much and I want him to promise me, promise all of us who care about him, that he will work through it.

Jesse nods and waves me off. “I know what you mean. And I promise.”

“OK,” I say, smiling tenderly. I open the door. I put my feet onto the pavement. I get out of the car and close it behind me.

Jesse waves at me and then puts his car in reverse. I watch him as he does a three-point turn out of the lot. It hurts just as much as I thought it would. The pressure, the ache, the sting.

I wave as he makes a left onto the main road.

And then he’s gone.

I close my eyes for a moment, processing what has just happened. It’s over. Jesse is alive and home and our marriage is over. But then when I open my eyes again, I realize where I am.

My bookstore.

I turn around and walk toward the door.

I’m walking toward books and my family and that one day in spring when the sun feels like it will shine for you forever and the flowers will bloom for months. I am walking toward vegan cheddar grilled cheese and cat GIFs and “Piano Man.”

I am walking toward Sam.

I am walking home.

And just like the day I got my ears pierced, once the pain has come and gone, I’ve grown up.





My mother and father are both in the store. Before I’m even close enough to say hi to them, I hear children crying in the far corner.

“Are the girls here?” I ask the moment I hug my parents hello.

“With Marie in the children’s section,” my mom says.

“How are you? How did everything go?” my dad asks.

I start to answer but there’s so much to explain and I’m not up for getting into the details just yet. “I missed Sam,” I say. Actually, that might just cover all of it. Succinct and painless.

They look at each other and smile, as if they are part of a two-man club that knew this is what I’d do all along.

I hate the idea of being predictable, especially predictable to my parents. But, more than anything, I’m relieved that I seem to have made the right set of decisions. Because, after all, they are my parents. And when you get to be old enough, it’s finally OK to admit that they often do know best.

I can hear Marie trying to calm down Sophie and Ava. I come around the side of the register to get a better view. The two girls are crying, red faced. They are both holding opposite sides of their heads. I look back to my parents.

“Ava ran into Sophie and they hit each other in the head,” my mom says.

My father puts his finger to his ear, as if the sound of their screaming is going to burst his eardrum. “It’s been great for business.”

As the girls’ sobbing dies down, reduced to the far more quiet but equally theatrical gulping for breath and frowning, Marie spots me and comes walking over.

I turn to my parents. “By the way, we have to talk about Tina,” I say.

Neither of my parents look me in the eye directly. “We can talk about it another time,” my dad says. “When things aren’t so . . . dramatic.”

My mother averts her gaze, instantly focusing on straightening things underneath the register. My dad pretends as if he’s deeply engaged in the store calendar sitting on the counter. I have been their daughter for too long to fall for this kind of crap. They are hiding something.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “What are you two not saying?”

“Oh, honey, it’s nothing,” my mom says, and I almost believe her. But then I see the look on my dad’s face, a mixture of “Is she buying this?” and “Oh, God, we should just tell her.”

“We just have some, you know, ideas for the management of the store,” my dad says finally. “But we should talk about it later.”

When Marie makes her way to me and looks like she’s afraid to tell me she borrowed my favorite sweater, I know she’s in on it, too.

“C’mon, everybody, I’m dealing with too much stuff right now to have the patience for whatever this is.”

“It’s nothing,” Marie says. I frown at her to let her know I don’t believe it for a second. She folds like a cheap suit. “Fine. I want the job.”

“What job?” I ask.

“The assistant manager position.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, I want it. Mom and Dad think it’s a great idea, but obviously it’s up to you.”

“You want to work here?” I say, still disbelieving. “With me?”