Five Months Later
It doesn’t happen overnight, but I’m slowly learning who I am and how I fit into my new normal. Though I hadn’t planned on going to a therapist, one day not long after Harris came by, I found myself in line to purchase whiskey at one in the morning. Unable to sleep because of thoughts of Mike, and haunted by thoughts of Vicki, I came to the conclusion I could sort everything out if I just had a drink. Or maybe enough to numb my brain so I didn’t feel anymore.
Before I made it to the front of the line, I clued into what I was doing, and I left the store without the bottle. The next morning, I called the first therapist on the list Harris gave me. He was right about her, of course; she’d worked with women in my position before, and with her help, I started on my way to rediscover myself.
Within a few weeks, I started work at a local pet store and rented a small apartment on the other side of town from where I lived before. But I still jumped at loud noises, and sleep continued to be an issue.
Harris keeps in contact, but it’s not like it was when we were at his house. I tell myself that those were stressful days for both of us, and our emotions were running high. That it was to be expected, shoved together the way we were.
And yet, my stomach still does flip-flops whenever he comes to the pet store.
About five months into my new start, he comes into the store unexpectedly on a Thursday. I’ve learned his routine, and he rarely deviates from it. Saturdays are when he buys cat food for Munchkin. He buys cans, which is funny because I remember a bag of dry food when I stayed with him.
“Hey,” I say to him, and then raise my eyebrow because not only is it Thursday, he’s not stopping by the cat food aisle. For a minute, I think he’s heard about Mike or Vicki, but he’s smiling and too relaxed to be bringing me such news. He reaches the counter.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask.
“I came to ask you a question,” he says.
“Go for it.”
“Will you go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”
The leash I’m holding falls to the counter. “What?”
“Will you go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“A date?”
“Yes,” he answers.
I’ve done a lot of new things since I’ve been on my own, and I’ve had some new experiences, but I’ve done nothing resembling a date.
“Uh...I’m ... I should be.... I think....”
“Athena, it’s just dinner. I promise.”
I’m free the next night. I’m free most nights. And I’ve never been on a date.
“I’d really like to go on a date with you.” My words come out in a rush, and I’m a bit embarrassed, but Harris doesn't act like he notices.
“I’ll pick you up at your apartment at five?”
I’m going on a date.
My brain is still processing that information.
“Athena?”
“Yes. Five.”
He smiles and says he’ll see me then.
***
I’m a complete wreck the next day. Because I’m working the weekend, I have the day off. It really would have been better if I didn’t have the day off. By noon, all my clothes are on top of my bed, and by two, I’ve vetoed every outfit I own. At three, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and give myself a good talking to.
It doesn’t work.
Nothing can erase the fact that I’m twenty-six and I’ve never been on a date. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been with a lot of men. Not one of them stood before me and asked me to dinner. Not one of them wanted to spend the evening with me just because I’m me and not because I’d be naked at some point.
I walk back into my bedroom and shuffle through my clothes once more. It’s another reason to hate Mike. The fact that I missed so much. For me, there had been no prom, no graduation, no first date. Nothing. But it’s a conscious decision I make not to let that anger rule my life. To do so is to give him even more power over me, and I refuse to do that anymore.
When Harris rings the doorbell at five, I’m wearing jeans and a green silk top. It’s not too casual and not too dressy. I open the door, and he’s standing there, smiling and holding flowers.
Flowers.
“Hi,” he says.
Flowers.
“These are for you.” He holds them out. It’s a combination of blue and white violets and they’re the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen.
I tentatively take hold of them, supporting the glass vase they came in with one hand. “Thank you. I’ve... I’ve never gotten flowers before.”
I can’t stop looking at them.
“The white means ‘take a chance on happiness,’ and the blue means ‘watchfulness.’”
“Appropriate,” I say, catching his gaze and smiling. I step out of the way. “Would you like to come in while I put these down?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll stay out here.”
He’s being respectful, and I appreciate that. However, I can’t help but remember the way he kissed me and his promise after. My fingers remember the heat of his skin, and my body wants his hands on me again.
I place the flowers in the middle of my two-person kitchen table and hurry back outside. He’s waiting with his hands in his pockets, and when he looks at me, there’s a heat in his eyes I know I’m not making up.
“Ready?” He holds out a hand.
I nod and place my hand in his, and as our fingers entwine, I’m shaken once more because I can’t remember the last time I simply held someone’s hand. He squeezes his fingers briefly around mine as if he knows what I’m thinking.
“I made us reservations,” he says.
We drive to a new restaurant not far from my apartment. It’s an intimate bistro, and nothing like anything I went to when I was working for Mike.
In the last five months, I’ve gradually gotten over the fear that everyone who looks at me knows what I once did for a living. I remind myself I’m not the same person I was then and starting over means starting over.
Hardest to take are the looks men give me, though those are different now as well. Harris pulls out my chair when we’re shown to our table, and I sit down with a sigh.
He raises an eyebrow as he takes his own seat. “Are you okay?”
I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Yes, first date jitters.”
“We’ve had a few meals together. This one just happens to be out in public.”
“Not just first date with you. First date ever.” I frown. “Well, if you don’t count Mike, and I don’t.”
His eyes dim a bit at the mention of Mike, and I could slap myself for bringing his name up. I try to think of something — anything — to say to move the conversation in a different direction, but Harris beats me to it.
“Green is definitely your color. You look lovely tonight.”
I feel my cheeks heat, and I dip my head. Holy shit. I just blushed. And I’m lovely. He thinks I’m lovely. I wouldn’t have had the same reaction if he’d called me beautiful. Lots of men have called me beautiful, but he’s the first to say I’m lovely.
“And the flush on your cheeks is charming,” he says.
I look up. “Thank you.”
The conversation could have gotten very uncomfortable after that, but he picks up the menu. “I have no idea what I want. What are you in the mood for?”
Living on my own and doing work I want to do has completely changed my outlook on things. I no longer fear sharing my opinion or speaking up about what I want. And as I’ve moved further and further away from the me of years past, I’ve learned I like the me I’m becoming.
I pick up my menu and scan it. “Know what I’d really like?”
“What?”
“A huge burger with lots of cheese and pickles and mayo. French fries. And any soda that’s not diet.”
He laughs, and I forgot how his laugh made my insides warm. “I think that might be last thing I expected you to eat.”
“How about you? What’s your favorite thing to eat?”
He looks back over the menu. “Club sandwich. Extra bacon, cooked to where it’s almost burnt. Honey mustard to dip it in. French fries with pepper and a beer.”