I’m not jealous that my friend has succeeded in a pursuit I walked away from. I’m not even jealous of her good fortune. My jealously has nothing to do with her at all. If this pang of longing can be called jealousy, it can be blamed on the fact that Porsh found her calling. I haven’t found mine despite years of looking under every random rock.
Porsha is on a path that’s pointing straight ahead. Her face is held high and she marches forward with confidence. Right into the sunset.
I’ve always been more of a veer-left, take-a-sharp-right, plummet-into-a-cave-mouth-hidden-by-a-leaf-pile kind of girl. I thrive on not knowing. On change. On surprises. For the first time in my life, I’m noticing there is a gap between what I love to do and what I’m actually doing.
Have I settled?
“I wrote a recipe today,” I blurt. “Remember those chicken quesadillas I used to make?”
“I miss those.” She lets out a sound that’s almost orgasmic—and trust me, I know of what I speak.
“I made them for Dax and he asked if he could buy the recipe from me. He owns a couple of bars and is working on revamping the menus.”
“How cool!”
“Yeah, it is kind of cool.” A ribbon of pride to threads through each of my ribs. “I’m going to test it again, to make sure my measurements are right on the spices.”
“Sounds like you have a fun little side project along with the other fun side project you guys are working on.” Her voice takes on a feisty lilt. “Seriously, Bec, you have all the luck.” An uncharacteristic note of sadness leaks into her words.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Porsh?”
“I am, it’s just...the city is expensive.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. Within a few months of living in Manhattan, I was as sick of the cramped quarters as I was of the outrageous rent.
“But you love it, right? The city?”
“Oh, totally! I wish living here didn’t come at the expense of seeing my husband. That’s all. Tae works nearly eighty hours a week, and I picked up an extra class teaching ballet to second graders.” She sighs, then adds optimistically, “It’s only temporary. Once things are rolling and he gets a raise and my studio gains popularity, we’ll be off and running!”
Is it me, or did the perkiness in Porsha’s voice sound forced? I bite down on the side of my cheek and think of the times I’ve answered that I’m doing “great” when I was less than satisfied with where I was or what I was doing.
Who are we trying to impress with our false bravado? At the very least we should be able to share with our close friends that we’re unhappy... that is, if we’re aware that we are.
Am I unhappy?
“Bec?”
“Yes! Here. Sorry, hon. My mind wandered.”
“Back to that hunk of man sharing your cabin?”
“Totally,” I lie. Then, because I love her and I want her to be happy, I add, “You’re right. This’ll all shake out and then you and Tae will forget how hard you worked for years to get yourselves settled.”
That part, I pray, isn’t a lie. If anyone deserves happiness and a long, blessed life together, it’s Porsha and Tae.
I thank her for taking the time to chat, and then she’s off to her studio and I’m pulling on pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. It’s bedtime. Ish.
Anyway, I promised Dax I’d test the quesadilla recipe again.
A zing of excitement jets through me at the idea of cooking for him. Cooking for anyone who enjoys it. I remember Porsha begging for my pancakes every Sunday morning when we lived together. She didn’t have to beg—I made them for her because she loved them.
Funny, I never thought of myself as having a singular passion—only a plethora of interests. But each of those interests came and went. Fading before flickering out.
Could cooking be different?
I exit my bedroom and find Dax, beer bottle in hand, pajama bottoms hanging on his lean hips, T-shirt stretching over his thick chest. Relationships are another category where I’ve never had lasting interest.
Could Dax be different?
Not that we’re breaking any records. We’ve spent all of two days together.
Keep your pants on, Bec.
I mean that figuratively speaking.
“I see you had the same idea that I did.” I gesture to my bedtime attire.
“I was gonna stay naked, but that takes the fun out of getting naked.”
“Getting naked is pretty fun.” I walk to him, hands linked behind my back. My tee is white and I’m going braless. He blatantly checks out my chest. Totally my intention. Tempting him is way, way too fun.
I swipe his beer, take a swig. When I hand it back, he does the same, then palms my lower back. I rise to my toes and we kiss. Bubbly, beer-flavored kisses from Dax are my new favorite.
“You’re yummy,” I mutter when he sets me back on my heels.
“So are you, Princess.” His lips are slightly hitched, his eyes warm.
Mmm.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Starving.”
The way he said that suggests he’s hungry for not quesadillas. “I mean for food.”
“Right. I knew that.” He feigns confusion before dazzling me with a grin.
“Lucky for your stomach, I’m your girl.” I sidestep him, go to the fridge, and pull out ingredients. As I sneak a peek at him settling onto one of the barstools, hand wrapped around his beer bottle, I allow the idea of being “his girl” to take root.
Just for a few days.
Like every other preoccupation in my life, Dax will vanish when I lose interest. He’ll go back to Ohio. Back to the bar. I’ll move on to my next flight of fancy....
I grab the box grater for the cheese and try not to feel sad about that. There’s nothing but good vibes happening here. Instead I imagine him adding one of my recipes to his new menu.
I’ll make a mark on McGreevy’s that’ll last forever. Even when Dax and I don’t.
Chapter 10
SUNDAY NIGHT
Dax
Grief is heavy. Has a weight to it. My mom and I haven’t been the best company since Dad’s diagnosis over a year ago. Fast-forward to a few months ago, after the funeral and the initial delivery of casseroles to her front door, and we were even poorer company than before. We tended to the unfortunate but necessary business of disassembling Dad’s life.
Getting rid of his clothes. Cleaning out his tool shed. Arranging for someone to take care of the chores he used to do. Chores I’d temporarily inherited (like yard mowing) but abandoned once I resumed my life.
When I did resume my life, I found I’d inherited something else: a roomie at a time I wanted to be alone so badly, I could taste it. Not Barrett’s fault. I was the one who told him he could stay at my place, even though I’d bet my left nut the breakup with his girlfriend was mostly his fault. He’s kind of an ass. Has been since we played ball together. He was good enough to go pro and earned the “Bad Boy of the NFL” title, whereas I petered out in college.
After taking care of Mom and Barrett and making sure my bars would run smoothly without me (they do—my managers are incredible, especially Grace), I hightailed it out of Columbus in search of much-needed solitude. After so much company I was drowning in it, I didn’t want anyone by my side on this trip. I wanted to hide in the deep, dark woods with only the sounds of nature as a backdrop.