3
Delaney
Dear Tyler,
How interesting to see you, too! My, how the years have flown. I’m doing great, thanks for asking. Yes, life is wonderful. So glad you inquired about that, too. I’m also single, but you didn’t ask that. You just assumed. Which makes me think you’re just the same guy you were before. In your note, you went straight for what you want, without thinking of what I might need to hear from you. And isn’t that what you did at the end? You put yourself first. You didn’t even ask what happened to law school. Did I go? Did I win another scholarship? You didn’t care, did you?
The thing is I wouldn’t mind having a drink with you. I used to love chatting with you. I adored our talks that spiraled well past midnight, drifting from politics to history to your beloved Los Angeles Dodgers, to what would make the world become a better place, and even whether ham or bacon was more abhorrent to this vegetarian girl. So, you’re right. There is a lot to say. But how do I know you want to hear it?
Delaney
The next morning, I stare at my phone and the draft of the message on the screen. I read it over for the seven hundred sixty-second time as I swipe on some blush in front of the bathroom mirror.
Fact is, I don’t blame him for my change in career. How could I? Tyler might have stepped on my law school dreams, but I’d made my choice before that final debate. I’ve got another man to thank for the change of heart. Dear old dad.
Just thinking of my father stirs up far too many mixed emotions—the bitter and the sweet. Funny, in an ironic way, how one phone call with him my senior year of college could change the course of my future. But that’s how it goes. Sometimes we just know when it’s time to make a change.
I’m so much happier in my chosen field than I ever would have been as an attorney.
But hell if Tyler knows that. The man didn’t even ask. Not one single question about what I’m doing, and that’s how he behaved the last week we were together. Distant, cold, focused solely on himself. That’s probably why I never even told him the details from that call with my dad, and the things my father said that made me rethink my future.
One little call.
One offhand remark from the man who left my mother, brother, and me. My dad called to congratulate me on being accepted to law school, even though he was wrong about the timing. Letters hadn’t been sent out yet. Then he said, “You’ll be a great lawyer, Delaney.”
“You think so?” I asked eagerly. I couldn’t help myself. I still wanted his support. I hadn’t had it for years.
“Absolutely,” he said, with the kind of certainty only a father can give his daughter.
“Why do you say that?” I was hungry for his praise. So damn desperate.
“You’re just like me. You love to argue. Like I did with your mom.”
I froze, the phone like a brick against my ear. I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want to be the way he was with my mom. I had no interest in that kind of fighting future.
After he hung up, I sank onto my mattress and I contemplated everything about my career choice. I didn’t decide immediately. Instead, I told myself I would do the final debate, and see how I felt in the competition. Would I still enjoy debating? Would I like arguing a point as much as I had before?
Or had my father’s words colored everything I thought I wanted for my future?
The debate would be my final test, and it told me all I needed to know about how to be happy.
Now here I am – happy – but the memory of those moments on the phone with my dad tightens my spine like a high-tension wire as I do my makeup.
Except, I didn’t enter the massage therapy business to let myself be consumed by piss and vinegar. I went into it because I didn’t want to be surrounded by the kind of world I grew up in. I wanted to work in harmony, not discord.
I loosen my pincer grip on the blush brush.
Let the past rest. Let the future unfold. Let the present be a gift.
I can’t send a note to Tyler with that kind of ire attached to it.And it’s been nearly twenty-four hours, so at the very least I should respond to Tyler’s invitation.
A drink with him sounds intoxicating.
But far too dangerous. Given the way he’s invaded my mind for years, I can only imagine what sitting down to have a drink with him would do to my efforts to kick the addiction. Last night, I went on the wagon. I blocked him from my brain. Successfully. I earned my first-day sober chip. And I can’t risk falling back.
I set down the brush, pull my hair into a ponytail, and tap out a new note on my phone.
Dear Tyler,
Thank you. Your niece is lovely! Such a little doll. What a surprise to see you, too. Thank you for the invitation to drinks, but I have a packed schedule. Hope you’re well!
Best,
Delaney
I copy and paste the note into Messenger. My finger hovers on the screen like it’s resisting me. But this is the right approach. I believe that wholeheartedly, even though my stomach nosedives the closer my finger gets to the send button. Nerves swirl like a tempest, trying to trick me into seeing him. Trying to fool me into spending a few minutes with him at a bar.
I won’t give in.
I hit send.
I don’t look at my phone as I head into work. I don’t take a peek the rest of the morning to see if he writes back. Fine, I have back-to-back-to-back clients, and that helps.
Still, progress is progress, and I can beat this desire by focusing all my energy elsewhere.
Like on others.
With a groan, one of my regular gals flops down on the massage table in the Rainfall Room. Faint sounds of ocean waves lapping the shore drift from the sound system. The scent of lavender wafts through the dimly lit room. Relaxation is always the goal, but for some it’s tougher than others, and Violet needs the full effect.
“I’m addicted to my tablet in bed,” my raven-haired client mutters as she face-plants into the headrest. She says her words like a confession.
As I adjust the sheet on her lower back, I tsk at her gently. “I’ve told you before, Vi. We need to break the nighttime tablet habit. It’s bad for your wing,” I say, then run my fingers lightly over her bare shoulder.
“I know, I know,” she says, guilt in her voice. “My shoulder is killing me. I can’t help myself, though. I lie awake in bed at night, reading the news. I hate the news, but I can’t stop. And then my arm is extended the whole time, which makes my shoulder yelp in pain.”
I reach for the lightly scented oil and drizzle some in my palm. “Can you make bedtime an iPad-free zone? What if you tried it for a week?”
“I don’t know if I can do it.”
“They say the first day is the hardest,” I tell her. “And it’s true. I’m trying to break the habit of thinking about my ex-boyfriend, and I was successful last night. If I can do it, you can do it.”
Her face sinks deeper into the face rest. “I’ll try,” she says, and I can hear a soft smile in her voice. “Was it hard?”
“Like catching a taxi in the rain. But then when you hail one . . .”
“It feels like the biggest victory in the world,” she says, finishing the thought.
“Exactly. And it was completely rewarding. And that’s why I know you can do it. It’s what your body needs. Treat your body like a temple and it’ll treat you with reverence,” I say, then she sighs deeply as I work on her shoulder and the rest of her knotted-up muscles for an hour.
My next two clients keep me equally busy. One is waylaid with regular headaches, so we work on her neck, and the next suffers from sciatic nerve pain. “Sitting is the new smoking,” he grumbles, as I try to give him some relief from the chronic aches that shoot down the back of his leg.
“Then massage is the new ibuprofen,” I say with a cheery smile. “Let’s see if we can get you feeling better.”
Ninety minutes later, he says he feels human again.
And I feel proud that I barely thought about Tyler the entire morning. When I slip out for a quick lunch break at my favorite salad bar around the corner, I check my phone for the first time in hours as I walk down the block.
My shoulders sag.
There’s no reply from him, and I try to fight off a kernel of disappointment that takes root as I go inside.
As I spoon arugula and jicama into a Tupperware dish I brought with me, I tell myself there’s no need to feel the slightest bit empty. I’m not at all bummed over the absence of a response. Since I said no to his offer, why on earth would I even think he’d write back?
Except, I knew him as a man who fought relentlessly for what he wanted, who dug in like a Rottweiler with a bone. His tenacity was limitless. So if a guy like him didn’t reply, then clearly my toned-down rhetoric in my more tactful note was strong enough to ward off even his won’t-back-down approach.
I smile to myself, pleased that I still have it in me to win a battle or two.
I show the cashier my salad, and she weighs it, then subtracts a quarter since I brought my own container, though that’s not why I do it. It’s the same reason I fill my own water bottle from the tap—I don’t want to add more waste to the landfill after every meal.
I grab a table and dive into my salad with gusto, enjoying the crunch of the fresh green beans. As I spear a cherry tomato, I open a new email to send my mom a cute shot of Nicole, Penny, and me from the other day. My mom is my rock, and she loves seeing pictures of my friends and me.
When the phone bleats a second later, I swear it’s not me who nearly knocks her water bottle over in a mad rush to see who’s calling. That’s my evil twin sister sliding open the screen, cheering like a Sweet Valley High teen to see the number is a New York cell.
“Hey, this is Delaney.”
“Hey, you.”
And that damn stomach of mine? It flips like a flapjack in the skillet. “Hey there. I’m eating a salad.”
I’m eating a salad? Why the hell did I just announce my lunch menu? So much for winning at words.
Tyler laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Can I take from that you still won't eat anything with a face?”
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Me and green beans, we’re as tight as we’ve ever been.”
“Excellent. The lady still loves carrots. I’m taking notes. And does bacon still win for the meat you’d least want to eat?”
I shake my head as a bespectacled woman at the table next to mine barks into her phone at a million miles an hour about who’s picking up the laundry. “Ham, actually,” I say, glad my conversation sounds more fun than hers. “It overtook bacon in a long, but well-fought, race.”
“Poor ham,” he says wistfully.
I scoff. “Poor pig.”
“For the record, bacon is way better. Anything wrapped in bacon is pretty much a perfect food,” he says, and I laugh.
We used to tease each other mercilessly about my devotion to a vegetarian lifestyle and his to a carnivorous one. I don’t believe in eating animals; he prays at the church of the almighty barbecue.
“And does your affection for snack food still remain strong? Pretzels and peanuts for the win?” I ask.
“Always. But only as long as there’s beer,” he says, and I remember he used to joke that beer warded off hiccups, and he was one of those unlucky people who was prone to them.
Wait.
I turn down the volume on the memories. I’m not supposed to be talking, or joking, or laughing with him. This is far too easy. I slipped into old habits with him in a heartbeat, like we were pre-lubed and ready to go.
“Anyway,” I say, resuming my all-business tone as I pick up my fork. “How did you get my cell? It’s not on Facebook.”
“I tracked it down.”
“How? Is that hard to do?”
“It’s not like splitting the atom hard, but when you’re a determined bastard, you get stuff done,” he says, and I hate that I love that he worked for my number.
Almost as much as I abhor that I adore that he remembers I don’t eat anything with a face. I take a quick bite of a garbanzo bean. “So, how are you?”
“I’m great, but I was better before I got your note this morning.”
I sigh. “Tyler . . . I’m busy,” I say because I can’t give in. I clench a fist, trying to hold tight to my advice to Violet a few hours earlier. Completely rewarding. Biggest victory. Catching a taxi in a storm.
“No time to catch up with an old friend?”
I set down the fork. “You’re hardly just a friend,” I say because what’s the point in pretending? We were boyfriend and girlfriend, madly in love, college seniors who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. There was nothing remotely friendly about how he touched me.
“But I have the ability to become friendly,” he says, pressing on. “Did you know I’ve been lauded for my friendship skills?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, what are those?”
“Let me take you out for a drink, and I’ll show you. I’ll show you that I can be an amazing friend.”
My phone buzzes. My alarm. I bolt up out of the chair. “I have a massage in fifteen minutes. I need to go.”
“Think about it,” he says, in a firm but hopeful voice. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
As I gather up my salad remains and pop the plastic top onto the bowl to save for later, I press the phone harder against my ear. “Why? It’s been years since we’ve talked. Why now? I saw you in the park for five seconds, and now you want me to think about a drink?”
“Yes, Delaney,” he says, his voice smooth and certain. “I do want you to think about having a drink with me. I want you to think about it a lot. So much you say yes.”
His persistence reminds me of the man I fell for in college. The guy who was dogged in his pursuit of me then, sending me texts and messages, chatting me up after classes, finding me in Josiah Carberry’s late at night and telling me I was going to fall for him if I’d just give him a chance.
I’d relented, giving him all the chances, and all my heart.
Then he broke it, and derailed my plans, too.
Fine, plans might change, even for the better. But people? I’m not sure they do. Not when he sounds like the same cocky guy. “I’ll think about it,” I say as I leave the salad bar and hang up.
I try hard not to think about the ease of our three-minute conversation as I return to Nirvana and work my way through the afternoon.
That evening I hunker down in the tiny office in the back of the spa and take care of my online banking, then answer some work emails. I hit refresh once more on the inbox before I close out. For a few days I’ve been waiting for a particular email, hoping to hear from a guy I hired to track down information about someone I once loved. I’m eager, even antsy, but as I scan my inbox I’ll have to live with those emotions a little longer. There’s no word yet. I try to put the possibility out of my mind. I shut down my email and pore over bills and invoices, happily paying all of them—because I believe bills should be paid with a smile, since it means I’m fortunate enough to own a business that makes money—until the receptionist raps on my door.
“Hey Jasmine,” I say to the pretty girl who handles the phones. Yoga pants with a butterfly pattern hug her hips, and silver bracelets adorn her wrists. A nose piercing glints in the evening light.
“Look what we have! A gift for you,” she says. Jasmine loves gifts. She loves that working the front desk means she’s the one to sign for flowers and packages, even if they’re intended for others. She simply likes delivering them, like she fancies herself one of Santa’s elves.
She hands me a potted plant, bursting with light purple blooms.
A tiny lilac bush.
She rubs her hands together. “Who’s it from? It smells so good. Someone must know lilacs are your favorite flowers.”
My stomach pirouettes this time, like it’s excited. Like I’m excited. But I’m not. I swear I’m not.
I swallow but don’t answer right away. He does know they’re my favorite. But he was never a big gift-giver before. So these can’t be from him. I can’t get my hopes up.
A notecard hangs on the side of the pot. I flip it open and read: Don’t think. Just say yes.
Two, three, four pirouettes.
I bend my nose to the plant and inhale my favorite scent in the world.
Motherfucker.