Dolly All the Time(87)

The Goldbergs are watching Law & Order, and I can hear the faint hum of the theme song. I’m going into the fish house to bake a bunch of pies in the morning, so I reach for my phone to set my alarm. There’s a text from Stewart: Are you home?

I sit straight up in bed. What kind of a random question is that? Me: Yes, why? Is your messenger here again?

Stewart starts typing a reply and then stops. Then starts again, then stops.

Me: Calm down, Shakespeare. I was kidding

Stewart: I’m here, I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t want to ring the bell or scare you by creeping around back

Me: Why are you here?

Stewart: Can I just come back there for a bit? I want to apologize

Nearly a year later. A hand-delivered apology. Me: Fine

I look around for the mess I should stash or the better sweater I should throw on, but I find nothing wrong with this place or me. I’m in my nightgown, obviously short, so it doesn’t bunch up and drive me insane, under a heavy blue cardigan. I stay right where I am on the daybed and wait.

There’s that familiar rustling of shoes on unkempt grass and his hand on the door to the sleeping porch. The wood is all new but they kept the original knob.

“Hi,” he says from the doorway.

I don’t say anything. I just sit there and look at him, hair a bit longer, eyes a bit more rested. He’s in a black sweater and jeans. Of all the ways I’ve seen Stewart, I’ve never seen Stewart in jeans.

“So strange to see you here,” I say, because I can’t believe he’s here in my space.

He smiles a bit and looks around. “It looks great. Can I?” He motions to the spot next to me on the bed. It’s too close, so I motion to the white wicker chair by the sewing machine. He pulls it over by the bed and we’re still too close. My heart has muscle memory and is breaking all over again. I scoot a few inches back so I can’t smell him or feel any heat off his skin.

“Go ahead,” I say. “But no bullshit, okay?” I washed my hair this morning. I wasn’t going to because we had a scallop delivery and there wasn’t time, but then I remembered Gus made pancake batter last night and I did have a few extra minutes. If I were to say a prayer right now, it would be a prayer of thanks for that extra time and this good hair day. I want Stewart to walk out of here filled with regret over his bad choices and my clean hair.

“So I lost the promotion,” he says.

“I know.”

“And it was my fault.” His hands are flat on his thighs like he’s steadying himself. “I lied to my family, everyone, to prove that they were wrong when they were right. I actually can’t do that job and have a normal life. It consumes me with fear.”

“So you’re going to work yourself to death and die lonely. Perfect plan.”

“No, I’m not. No.” He looks at his folded hands and back at me. “I’ve been working hard my whole adult life. Like it’s been my whole life, trying to do my best for my family and feeling terrified that I’d take my eye off the ball and screw it up.”

“I struck you out in Little League,” I say.

He scrunches up his face. “What?”

“Sorry, all that taking-your-eye-off-the-ball talk. It just reminded me. We were kids and I struck you out. It felt good, and I didn’t mention it when we were together because it’s sort of mean. But now, I don’t know. Felt good to say it.” It really did feel good. I smile at my hands and look back up at him. “Was there more to your apology?”

He shakes his head. “What I was going to say is that when I met you, I felt my focus shift, like everything shifted to you. And that job felt so much less important. For a little while, last summer, I was a person again, falling in love for the first time ever.”

That familiar pressure on my heart intensifies. The ache is there because of this man who broke my heart but who is currently saying he fell in love with me, and I want to fold into his arms and run right out of here, in equal parts. But I’m not falling for this again. “I said no bullshit, Stewart. Just apologize.”

He looks up at me. “I’m sorry.” His eyes are so intense on mine, like they have the power to drag me back under his duvet where he whispered to me about forever. “That night at the party, I felt like the world was crashing down on me, like I’d brought all the chaos.”

“Yeah, same,” I say.

“And I knew I was going to lose out on the job, which was a total loss of control. It turns out I have some identity issues.”

“Glad to hear you’re still in therapy,” I say, and he smiles a little.

“I am. I’ve been trying to get my shit together.”

I shake my head. “Come on.”

“It’s true. I told you I’d change the world to be with you,” he says, still looking straight at me. “But I don’t know how to do that. All I can do is change myself. So I’m working on it. I have Dr. Meyers and I’m watching TV. And you were right, Damion looks just like Smithers.”

I try to hide my smile. “I hear you watch rom-coms now.”

“I do. And I like them, but sometimes they make me feel sad and then I have to watch murder shows.”

I nod at him because I know exactly what he means. Happy people are fun to watch until it’s too much.