The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(72)

Because I know.

I knew, and I was afraid that knowledge would paint itself up and down my face if I had to share space with them both. I was afraid I'd overcorrect for that knowledge and make everything more confusing in the process. Right now, the only option for me was watching from a distance.

I didn't want it this way. I didn't want it to be like this anymore. I wanted to walk up to the man I was falling for and let him fold me into his arms without also worrying about the one I wasn't falling for. Worry—that was such a huge part of this. I worried all the fucking time.

I wanted to stop worrying, stop hiding, stop agonizing over a choice I'd made—when was it?—forever ago. But the tricky thing about me and decisions was that I didn't trust myself. Not all the way, not yet. I couldn't. Not after thirty-odd years of fucking everything up.

Perhaps the toughest peak to climb in finally being okay with myself was realizing I hadn't spent thirty-odd years fucking everything up. I'd spent those years learning to listen to my instincts and unlearning the societal garbage about how I was supposed to think, act, dress, eat, talk, be. Shedding the layers of skin I'd grown in frantic attempts to be a thousand different iterations of the person I thought I was supposed to be. Hating myself for everything. For no good reason. Even if it never looked like thorough and proper hate, it was. You couldn't love yourself when the list of things you wanted to change was longer than your arm. Never knowing how to love myself just as I was and working hard at repackaging myself until I was right and good and—and loveable.

Years ago, I read an account of climbing Mount Everest, and one of the random bits of information that stuck with me was how climbers often abandoned their things along the route to the summit. They realized they had to drop the things they'd believed necessary or were told they required in order to keep going. In order to survive the climb.

I'd made mistakes, sure. I was profoundly, irrevocably human and I didn't have to hold on to those mistakes anymore. I didn't have to apologize for them again.

And I didn't need any of that shit to survive the climb.





Chapter Thirty-One





Sam nudged my arm and asked, "Are we good?"

I bobbed my head in agreement, still staring at Ben and Rob through the boxwood. I'd have to go out there eventually. I'd have to see them and talk to them and be…normal. Whichever version of normal I passed off as my own.

It wasn't that I meant to avoid them. I enjoyed both of them in separate and distinct ways, and if I was required to choose between Sam Walsh and either of my boys, well…Sam wasn't winning. To be fair, I didn't dislike Sam. I wasn't angry at him. I wasn't holding on to a grudge. I lived with a bit of contempt and a slightly larger bit of resentment. Maybe those were the primary ingredients in a grudge and I couldn't be bothered to read the recipe. Regardless, I'd allowed myself to believe that was behind me.

But I did resent him. That was the bare bones truth of it. I was a terrible train wreck of a flirt and there was no way in hell he'd mistaken my advances for anything but. He was a smart guy and he let me embarrass myself. So, yeah. I resented him for never, ever, not even once mentioning that he was in a relationship. For never making an offhand remark about his girlfriend to tip me off. To save us both from the events that followed.

I didn't let that resentment rule me and I didn't lead with it either. How could I? My best friends were Sam's sister-in-law and his younger brother and I worked with his firm on a daily basis and I was here, helping his brother move into a new house. I adored his entire family—his wife included—but there was bad blood in the water. It was always there, lingering in the background like the memory of Ruby Sharpe's announcement to our entire sixth grade class that I was going to be a gorilla for Halloween on account of my as-of-then unshaven legs.

And the contempt, that came later. It stewed in the weeks and months that followed my spectacular crash-and-burn demonstration with Sam. It boiled over but then I pushed it to the back burner, left it there to simmer. It cooled every time Riley or Andy or Tiel—or anyone in Sam's orbit—worked at bringing me in and making things right. Every time someone else stepped in to patch the tear. I was certain Sam had a good reason for steering clear of that conversation until just now when we found ourselves wedged between a hedgerow and the house.

Underneath all the rubble, Sam was a good guy. I knew it because I'd known him. Ages and ages ago, I'd known him. We'd been such good friends. We'd talked shop like there was nothing else in the world worth discussing and he'd connected me with clients who turned into my biggest, most important jobs.

He'd thought he was doing the right thing then and now—finally—with both of us plunked down in the dirt, he was.

"Yeah. I'm booked up for the remainder of the summer," I said. "But let's get something on the calendar. Shoot me a message later in the week. I'm sure we can sit down and look at your project horizon."

Just like that, the resentment and contempt I'd been clutching for years started to loosen. Letting go was strange. Not especially pleasant. For the same reason I kept jeans that didn't fit comfortably, I wanted to take back the hard, worn leather of that emotional armor.

Because I might need it again.

"I'll call you. There's a project coming up that's perfect for you. Even better, it has a huge landscape budget."