My father putters at the other end of the pool, organizing floaties in a big basket. I hoist myself out of the water and reach for the towel I left on the diving board. As I dry off, I inhale the quiet.
It’s six in the morning on a Sunday, and even though the swim and tennis club my dad owns is open right now, the classes don’t start till after nine.
Swimming has always centered me. I suspect my love of yoga started in the pool. They’re different, sure, but also not. Both rely on that mind-body connection, on breath, on finding your own pace.
I wrap the towel around my waist and circle the pool toward the shallow end. The scent of chlorine is thick and familiar—it reminds me of home.
As a kid in Texas, I spent afternoons goofing off in the water when Dad taught classes. Later, the pool was an escape for me when Mom left Dad shortly after we moved to California.
Oh, yeah, my mom out-Draper-ed Don Draper. She banged the assistant of the magazine she ran, then she married him. I should have seen the Silvio situation coming.
Dad smiles at me as I reach him, and maybe that’s the real therapy—talking to him about Mom and Silvio, sure, but also about life and business, his wife, Janice, and their adventures in fishing and golfing. He’ll tell me about the swim classes he’s teaching here. I’ll update him on the corporate clients I’ve taken on. He’ll give me business advice, and I’ll weigh in on what to give Janice for her birthday or anniversary—that lemon pound-cake candle from the wine country vintage shop that actually smells like lemon pound cake, a mug that says Please cancel my subscription to your issues, and a weekend getaway trip to her favorite golf resort.
It’s been therapeutic, and four months post Just Escaped Marriage Day, I feel centered again.
Calm again.
My mind no longer a discombobulated mess.
One of the things that helped the most? Saying my piece. My mom called me several times after taking my honeymoon. She texted me constantly after I unblocked her, and emailed me too. Saying how much she loved Silvio. How she hoped someday I’d be happy for her. Asking if I wouldn’t just accept that this was true love.
At first, I seethed over her notes.
After all, I’d had to return all the gifts to the guests.
That was super fun.
Not.
But it was weirdly cathartic. The practical act of returning presents was like a daily letting go. Breathe in, breathe out, return this blender to the Fishers, give this set of napkin rings back to the Bloombergs.
And in so doing, say goodbye to the double bastards of Mom and Silvio.
Once I returned the last gift, I found final closure.
I sent her a letter, saying simply: Enjoy him.
Then I blocked her number again and her email.
Life is better like this.
I’m happier.
And I’m happy hanging out with my dad after I swim.
“So, what’s next on the yoga empress’s agenda?” Dad asks as we sink down on the bench at the edge of the pool—our chatting bench. “Are you adding a Yoga keeps me out of prison class?”
“Or . . . Yoga, because punching people isn’t cool,” I joke.
He holds up a hand as a stop sign. “Wait, wait. I’ve got it. How about a class called Flexibility for old people who can’t get out of bed without moaning in misery?” he suggests, grabbing his lower back.
Seems like a demonstration if I’ve ever seen one. “Gee, Dad. Why do I feel like that’s spoken from experience?”
“Just wait till you’re sixty.”
“That’s twenty-five years away. I can’t even think about that!”
He snaps his fingers. “‘It’ll be here in a flash.” He sets his palms on his pants, takes a beat. “But seriously, everything is going well? The business is still helping you process all the things?”
That is easy to answer. Business has been a wonderful escape, and a healthy one too, I suspect. I’ve poured my heart even further into our company in the last four months and it’s paid off. “It’s going great. Olive and I hired a new VP of business dev, and Zachary’s been inking deals left and right for corporate classes. All sorts of companies are hiring our teachers.”
“But lots of them want you?” he asks.
I shrug and smile. “It’s good to be the empress.”
He sets a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’m proud of you, Katie. You’ve been focused and determined, but you never seem angry about what happened with your mom.”
I suppose I have yoga and friends and business to thank for that. And my dad. “Life goes on,” I say.
“But seriously, I’m impressed. You seem . . . healthy,” he adds.
“It’s time, right?” I’ve tried to give myself that. In retrospect, everything happened so quickly with Silvio. Perhaps that was the biggest flaw in our relationship. “And honestly, we never seemed completely compatible, but I ignored that, because I was swept up in it.”
“It was a whirlwind romance,” he seconds.
“When I look back at the last year, I think maybe if I just took more time before we planned our wedding, I would have realized it sooner. That’s what I learned. We didn’t quite fit, but I was captivated, and I convinced myself it was meant to be.”
“I think there’s a part of you that wanted to believe in fate,” he muses, stroking his chin.
Huh. That’s an interesting observation. I didn’t realize I was such a fate-centric person. “Why do you say that?” I ask, eager for some insight.
“It’s something I noticed in you when you were a teenager. When your mom and I split—well, like most kids, you wanted us to stay together, but that clearly wasn’t happening, and you wanted to make sense of it. As you tried, you’d say things like how we never seemed right for each other, or how fate had other plans.”
That’s surprising, since I’m not a believer in fate now. But maybe I needed it as a teen to see me through a tough time. “Maybe I just wanted to believe in it.”
Dad nods. “I’d like to believe in it too, but ultimately I think you make your own fate.”
I tilt my head, studying his expression, mulling over his words. “You do?”
He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I do. I believe in hard work, putting in the time, and listening to your instincts. I haven’t always done that, but I sure try to now.”
Those are words to live by.
I vow to keep doing that too—pay attention to what my gut says, rather than my heart.
I’ve taken the last few months to find my balance again, and I’ve spent lots of time with Olive, Emerson, Jillian, and Skyler. We’ve started an ad-hoc axe-throwing club, along with a self-proclaimed Snooty Wine Night.
Girlfriend time is fantastic therapy.
So is football. I’ve watched every Renegades game this season, just as I usually do. Harlan is on fire, and his team is having a great run. They’ve won five games and lost one. By all accounts, he’s killing it on the field, though he did leave the last game earlier in the fourth quarter than usual. That was a little odd, but the team was beating Baltimore by two touchdowns and won, so I suspect they wanted to give their stars a rest.
And maybe it’s time for me to see more of that star.
Maybe I’m ready.