Why I Love Singlehood: (36 page)

I lay perfectly still, listening to the rhythm and volume of my breathing and trying to piece together the inky shapes and grizzly shadows of my suddenly unfamiliar room. I would’ve given anything just to have Olivia to rub my back like when we were kids.

The darkness felt like it could choke me. Once again I scrolled through my mental Rolodex.

Perhaps I should call Shaun and tell him to come back. We could spend the night, just this once. He wanted to—I knew he wanted to.

No. I couldn’t do that to Jeanette. To me.

Or maybe I should call Scott. He’d want to be there for me. He’d been there for me the last time I was down and needed someone.

No. I couldn’t use him like that again. Besides, he never really saved me from my loneliness so as much as diverted my attention from it.

What about Kenny?

No. Kenny deserved more from me. Much, much more. And I couldn’t just jump into bed with someone at the first sign of discomfort any more than I could work until I was too exhausted to notice that I was lonely.

Norman? Minerva? Olivia? Beulah?

No.

Breathe.

I wasn’t fourteen years old anymore. Bad things happened. Things beyond my control. I didn’t need to run into the first pair of open arms. Didn’t need to climb under the security blanket of someone’s protective hug, even if just in a phone call.

Slowly my muscles began to unclench, and bit by bit my body relaxed into the mattress beneath me. People got hurt or left for no good reason sometimes, and no amount of work or food or sex could distract you forever. There weren’t enough lemon tortes in the world to make it all nice, not enough cookies to give away so that you’d be loved. There weren’t enough customers to nurture to make up for the mother who left when you needed her guidance and advice, and not enough men in the world to make up for the dad who was simply incapable of being the anchor you needed. There weren’t enough blogs or books or countertops or kitchens to hide behind. Life was unpredictable and untamed.

And then I got it: The thing I both feared and craved was
unpredictability
. It was the key to life. The key to romance.

And suddenly it didn’t seem so bad.

Why had it been so scary? I cast my memory backwards and almost immediately thought of my mom. No one saw her cancer diagnosis coming, least of all her. She possessed none of the typical symptoms; she wasn’t a smoker or drinker, had no genetic markers, maintained a fairly healthy diet and exercise regimen. If anything, life had become predictable for her. She had almost left my father because of it. Breast cancer seemed a cosmically cruel way to turn things upside down, however. She once told me that it saved her marriage. I thought the meds were making her talk crazy. I wondered if my father agreed, and his own cancer was the result of his guilt and stagnation.

Hadn’t The Grounds become predictable? Hadn’t my routine with Scott—and Shaun—been predictable? As long as he was
there
, as long as he didn’t abandon me, all was well, regardless of whether we were happy or not.

And wasn’t Kenny’s unpredictability the very thing that attracted me to him?

The epiphany seemed to be brightening the room. Sure, I’d had a few tough breaks in life. But I’d survived them. More than that, even. I created something meaningful, made a difference in people’s lives, be it in the classroom or behind the counter. When it came right down to it, hadn’t I been OK all along?

Tonight I had to spend the night with no one but myself, I decided. And I thought about the advice Kenny’s dad had given to his frightened little boy long ago. I had a choice. I could be alone. But I didn’t have to be lonely. And I certainly didn’t have to be afraid of it.

It was well after eleven o’clock the next morning when I opened my eyes, squinting in the sunlight forcing its beams past the window shade.

I’d made it through the night alone, without shedding a tear, without someone to hold, without running away.

I’d made it through. And I was hungry.

34

Good Things

I THINK SPENCER
had been planning it for a while, and I was thrilled that he chose to do it at The Grounds with all of us to witness it. It was cute, actually; he had conspired with me to make a mini red velvet cake, and we carefully wedged the ring on top, like a candle. I served it to him and Tracy nonchalantly and crept away. We all held our breath as Spencer popped the question, Tracy squealing before saying yes, and then we erupted into applause. I could feel my eyes stinging until I saw Tracy lick the cream cheese frosting from the ring, which just cracked me up.

I had no doubt that the dorm fire spurred Spencer’s timing. So many of us were connected to NCLA in one form or another (not to mention how much we all loved Susanna). And even though it could have been so much worse, we all walked around in a haze for the first couple of days afterward, saying little, feeling that vulnerability that one feels after a confrontation with mortality. Even for those who hadn’t been anywhere near the building, the fire had reminded them of what
could
happen, of how old (or young) they really were, and how much they cared about who they knew and where they lived.

Susanna had been released the day after the fire and stayed with her mother at a nearby Comfort Inn. Her dorm room, along with the entire floor, had been completely destroyed, while the upper and lower floors sandwiching it had been badly damaged. The entire building’s residents were relocated to the same Comfort Inn. And yet, many students—residents and commuters alike—gathered outside the burned building to survey its damage, collect eyewitness accounts, and offer support to its displaced residents. At Norman’s suggestion, The Grounds made and sold special five-dollar cookies: giant shortbread stars smothered in white or dark chocolate ganache. All proceeds went to the displaced students, and Minerva transformed the tip jar into a collection for donations. Additionally, we set up a box under the Christmas tree in the reading room for linens, backpacks, school supplies, and other college essentials.

When I wasn’t at The Grounds, I was on campus grading and conferencing with my students so that they could finish the term—they’d had only a week left in the semester anyway, and many professors exempted students who were somehow connected to the fire from final exams. Minerva and Norman filled in for me, as did the new full-timer, Simeon: a chunky, twenty-five-year-old Starbucks defector who won a latte-serving contest. By the end of the week, he knew all the Originals and Regulars (and their orders) and had confessed to being a follower of WILS since breaking up with his college sweetheart. He had close-cropped dreads and mocha skin that perfectly offset his red-framed glasses. Sporting tattoos on his arms and neck, he only wore T-shirts—even in winter—each one bearing some sort of quote, expression, or decal, and still managed to look well-dressed. Oh yeah. He fit right in.

Since the fire, I’d spent days rehearsing exactly what I was going to say to Minerva when the moment presented itself; I could recite it in my sleep. So on an unsuspecting Monday, when she parked herself at her usual table and was about to unload the contents of her messenger bag, I marched over armed with the Cookie of the Week. Setting the plate down, I remained standing, hands on my hips.

“Now listen here, Minerva Brunswick,” I lectured. “You are never going to be able to have absolute control over what happens to a mother as she’s giving birth, and FTTs are going to happen whether you like it or not. But your
not
being a midwife won’t stop it, either. Dammit, Min, you’re a healer. You’re not a hairdresser, and you’re certainly not a coffee-server.”

She opened her mouth and had barely uttered, “Eva, I…” when I held up my hand to block any more words she might dare attempt.

“You heard me. Not to say that you’re bad at it or anything. But it’s not what you’re supposed to be doing. You’re going to be the best damn midwife Wilmington has ever seen. I am hereby firing you, and if you don’t get your ass back in med school, then I’m going to pick you up, carry you into your lab, and tether you to the table. So there. That’s it. Even though you were never technically hired, you’re fired. It’s for your own good.”

As the last words lingered in the air, I looked down to see that Minerva had pulled the neon green binder she reserved for boards notes out of her messenger bag, accompanied by her highlighter.

I sheepishly pointed to the binder. “Is that…”

She nodded in slow motion, silent.

“So, you’re…”

She nodded again, pausing several beats before resuming speaking.

“I go back in January, when the next tri starts. Just thought I’d catch up.”

I stood still, hapless and stupid.

She studied her highlighter before looking back up at me.

“Sometimes I’m just consumed by this overwhelming desire to be part of something beautiful in the world,” she said. “Something so good that it touches people, really changes them.” She put her highlighter down and nailed me with one of her classic, piercing Minerva looks. “And it’s not because I want to be known as That Person who did That Thing. It’s because I want to know that somewhere someone is smiling, and even if I never see them or never know it, I was a part of that.”

I stood quietly for a minute, honoring and absorbing her words.

“You could be a florist for that, you know.”

“Yeah,” she said, “or a hairdresser. But I’m going to be a midwife.”

I fidgeted with the plate on her table, swerving it in different directions.

“So, my little speech just now was totally useless,” I said.

“I wouldn’t say totally.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll let you get to your studying.”

“Oh, and Eva?” she called as I was about to walk away. “I quit.”

My smile widened. “Fine,” I replied, feigning annoyance. “Oh, and Min?” I said after a beat. “You’re forbidden behind the counter now that you’re a customer again.”

“Right. Like that ever stopped me.”

“I love you, Min. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’ve gotta study.”

My heart lightened at the sight of her head hidden behind that bulky green binder again. And it was from my peripheral vision that I saw her eyes peeking from behind her horn-rimmed glasses as she called out, “Love you too.”

When Susanna returned to The Grounds, she found a Welcome Back sign in the front window, visible from the farthest corner of the parking lot. So as not to exert her arm (which was still healing), she worked the register and wiped down tables. I would’ve pressed her to stay home and take it easy, but she seemed to
need
to work. I learned quickly to stay out of her way.

Susanna’s return coincided with the first launch party of Kenny’s new small press, Andiamo Books: a curious choice for a company name without a single Italian in it (not that it mattered; I think I’d been exiled from my own Italian heritage when, as a kid, I confessed to liking Ragu spaghetti sauce). Kenny seemed to read my thoughts and explained the origin. “I love how that word became a theme in your book,” he confessed. “Amedo’s voice gave the story this rhythm that kept everything going. I liked that. One word with all that momentum.”