Read Online Why I Love Singlehood: by Elisa Lorello, Sarah Girrell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elisa Lorello, Sarah Girrell
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for filling my head with that image.”
“That’s family life, kiddo.”
Olivia hadn’t called me kiddo since I was, well, a kid.
“Look, I’d love to talk more, but I’m trying to clean up from dinner and get the kids settled with their homework. Everything OK?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. Just before she could say good-bye, I asked if Tyler was OK, being that she mentioned emergency rooms and “him.” Everyone was healthy, she assured me.
“Talk to you later,” I said.
“Sorry,” she said before we exchanged I-love-yous and goodnights. Just as I hung up the phone, I heard a last cry for help from Tara and a final reprimand from my sister.
I sat on my deck, looking out at the horizon, watching the sunset. I couldn’t for the life of me picture being with someone long enough to warrant the kind of complacency with which marriage seemed so filled. Moreover, I wasn’t sure I wanted it. What was the middle ground? I wondered. Was there a middle ground? Was there a place between unrealistic expectation and complacency in a relationship? And if there was, did it have a shelf life?
Maybe Shaun and I had gotten complacent before we got to marriage. Maybe that was what falling out of love was all about. Or, at least, the end of romance.
Summertime didn’t signal a lull in business at The Grounds—in fact, the Originals and some of the Regulars would hang out almost all day, communing in the café when they couldn’t stand the excessive heat or the crowds at the beach, the overflow of tourists, or visitors from the Triangle and Triad looking for a getaway without leaving the state. On mild, sunny days, half the clientele would sit outside the café. Additionally, I started making ice cream with Cookie of the Week pieces in it—we always ran out before three o’clock.
Since the spring semester ended, Shaun stopped by almost daily for an iced coffee. As always, I’d sit at his table and chat with him, talking to him about almost anything but philosophy, the Jeanette, or weddings. Our conversations felt comfortable, just how they had always been when we were together. Many times we wound up laughing, playfully touching each other’s arms as we recalled an anecdote from our respective or collaborative pasts. Or we’d challenge each other to television and film and music trivia (I beat him at The Munsters ; he beat me at The Godfather ). I looked forward to seeing him each time, my heart doing a little jig whenever he came in. Minerva, however, would glare at us from behind her medical books; I knew this because I could feel the lasers from her pupils boring a hole into my spine.
One day after Shaun left, I fetched a giant macaroon for Minerva and accidentally smacked the plate on her table with enough force to make Car Talk Kenny glance up from his reading. (Unbeknownst to Norman and the others, or so I thought, I often gave Minerva at least one free cookie per week.)
“So, you gonna do that every time he comes here?” I asked.
“Do what?” she replied, not looking up from her notes or acknowledging the cookie. Minerva hides her true feelings about as easily as one hides a carton of sour milk in a refrigerator.
“You know what. You’re like a cat ready to pounce. If your eyes threw daggers, there’d be several protruding from Shaun’s chest right now.”
She still didn’t look up.
“It’s not his fault he’s getting married,” I said. “So it didn’t work out for us. It happens. Life goes on. Why hold a grudge?”
Finally, she picked her head up, her horn-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, as if she realized for the first time that I was sitting there.
“That’s not the problem,” she said.
“Then what is?”
“He doesn’t deserve your friendship.”
“Why not?”
She tried to speak softly. “Because you don’t just wanna be his friend. I can see it on your face when you talk to him, Eva. You’re practically begging him to see you, and it’s just
“That’s family life, kiddo.”
Olivia hadn’t called me kiddo since I was, well, a kid.
“Look, I’d love to talk more, but I’m trying to clean up from dinner and get the kids settled with their homework. Everything OK?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. Just before she could say good-bye, I asked if Tyler was OK, being that she mentioned emergency rooms and “him.” Everyone was healthy, she assured me.
“Talk to you later,” I said.
“Sorry,” she said before we exchanged I-love-yous and goodnights. Just as I hung up the phone, I heard a last cry for help from Tara and a final reprimand from my sister.
I sat on my deck, looking out at the horizon, watching the sunset. I couldn’t for the life of me picture being with someone long enough to warrant the kind of complacency with which marriage seemed so filled. Moreover, I wasn’t sure I wanted it. What was the middle ground? I wondered. Was there a middle ground? Was there a place between unrealistic expectation and complacency in a relationship? And if there was, did it have a shelf life?
Maybe Shaun and I had gotten complacent before we got to marriage. Maybe that was what falling out of love was all about. Or, at least, the end of romance.
Summertime didn’t signal a lull in business at The Grounds—in fact, the Originals and some of the Regulars would hang out almost all day, communing in the café when they couldn’t stand the excessive heat or the crowds at the beach, the overflow of tourists, or visitors from the Triangle and Triad looking for a getaway without leaving the state. On mild, sunny days, half the clientele would sit outside the café. Additionally, I started making ice cream with Cookie of the Week pieces in it—we always ran out before three o’clock.
Since the spring semester ended, Shaun stopped by almost daily for an iced coffee. As always, I’d sit at his table and chat with him, talking to him about almost anything but philosophy, the Jeanette, or weddings. Our conversations felt comfortable, just how they had always been when we were together. Many times we wound up laughing, playfully touching each other’s arms as we recalled an anecdote from our respective or collaborative pasts. Or we’d challenge each other to television and film and music trivia (I beat him at The Munsters ; he beat me at The Godfather ). I looked forward to seeing him each time, my heart doing a little jig whenever he came in. Minerva, however, would glare at us from behind her medical books; I knew this because I could feel the lasers from her pupils boring a hole into my spine.
One day after Shaun left, I fetched a giant macaroon for Minerva and accidentally smacked the plate on her table with enough force to make Car Talk Kenny glance up from his reading. (Unbeknownst to Norman and the others, or so I thought, I often gave Minerva at least one free cookie per week.)
“So, you gonna do that every time he comes here?” I asked.
“Do what?” she replied, not looking up from her notes or acknowledging the cookie. Minerva hides her true feelings about as easily as one hides a carton of sour milk in a refrigerator.
“You know what. You’re like a cat ready to pounce. If your eyes threw daggers, there’d be several protruding from Shaun’s chest right now.”
She still didn’t look up.
“It’s not his fault he’s getting married,” I said. “So it didn’t work out for us. It happens. Life goes on. Why hold a grudge?”
Finally, she picked her head up, her horn-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, as if she realized for the first time that I was sitting there.
“That’s not the problem,” she said.
“Then what is?”
“He doesn’t deserve your friendship.”
“Why not?”
She tried to speak softly. “Because you don’t just wanna be his friend. I can see it on your face when you talk to him, Eva. You’re practically begging him to see you, and it’s just
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