Dolly All the Time(88)

“I hired a management consultant to redefine my role. My dad’s idea, when I asked for help. I hired Busy too. She’s doing great.” He looks down at his hands for a bit and then back at me. “What I’ve come to realize is that I thought that job and being the person in charge, the person who steers the ship, was all I had to offer. It goes back to when Busy was sick and I felt so powerless. I decided I needed that power to keep things under control. And that night at the Starlight Gala, when I knew the job wouldn’t be mine, that I wouldn’t be the one to step into my granddad’s shoes or my dad’s, I had this terrifying feeling like I didn’t know who I was. And that’s what I’m working on, trying to know who I am without all that. Because you were right, I didn’t really want that job. I was just afraid of who I’d be if I didn’t have it.”

“Good for you,” I say. “This is all good.”

“And he’s still a total asshole, but Grant’s actually great as CEO. It kills me to say it, but it’s also sort of a relief. I’m trying to figure out what kind of a role I can have at the firm that feels right.”

I’m happy for him. The next woman should send me flowers.

“How’s Christopher?” he asks after a while.

“Good,” I say, “Really good.”

“Good, good. And Gus seems good.”

I straighten up. “What? What do you mean?”

“We text. He said you said it was okay.” His eyes widen. “Oh no, is it not okay?”

I shake my head. “Sure, it’s okay. You mean about the sailing race. I totally forgot about that. He said he was going to ask you for help, but he never mentioned it again.”

“He did and now we text a few times a week. Is that okay? I thought you knew.”

“Can I see?” There’s a primal fear creeping up, the one where you think you know what your kid’s up to and then find out you totally don’t. We’re only in the first year of high school, and I should probably get used to this.

Stewart takes out his phone, opens the conversation, and scrolls to the top. He hands it to me.

Gus: Hi Stewart. Hope things are good in Boston. I want to apply to do the mini crew race next summer and I need a yacht club member to recommend me. Can you help?

Stewart: Hi! Of course! Can you email me the forms? I’ll do it right away

Gus: Sure, thank you

Two weeks later, Gus: Thanks for your help, I’ve got all the forms in

Stewart: Fingers crossed! You’ll love that race

A week later, Gus texts to say he was accepted, and they go back and forth about the course and how it’s going to be harder this year since they moved it to July. Stewart sends Gus an article about how fiberglass boats are built, and they text about that for a while. A month later Gus texts: Are they kidding with that new shortstop?

Pages of Red Sox chat follow. These conversations go on and on and I scroll through, now not reading but just taking in the volume and frequency of their interactions. So many laughing and thumbs-up emojis. So many exclamation points. It makes me so sad and also so happy. Gus got to keep the gentle man.

I hand his phone back. “You’ve been really kind to him, thank you.”

“When I hear from him, it’s usually the best part of my day.”

I nod. “Me too,” I say.

I don’t know why we’re still sitting here like this. He’s apologized. There are no action items to move us forward, and it’s starting to hurt, having him this close. Dr. Meyers is great at his job, and I’m glad Stewart is doing all this work. But the ache in my heart is telling me that we can never be friends. My feelings run too deep.

“How’s your dad?” he asks.

“Great. Now are we done?”

“No. I don’t want to be done, Dolly. That’s the point.” He takes my hand, and I let him because I am a weak, weak woman. I just want to feel the way we entwine one more time, hands and limbs and sheets. Then I pull my hand away because all that intimacy burns. I was right that it feels too close.

He looks down at his hands and lets out a sigh. “I wanted to call you so many times. But I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t see past where I was to where I wanted to be.”

I’m not going to ask. I refuse to ask. No way. This is a total set up. Okay, fine. “And where do you want to be?”

“With you.”

My heart. It opens all the way back up because it’s weak and has amnesia. But I don’t say anything. So much power in silence.

He goes on. “I want to go back to last summer and tell you that I love you. And that running that company comes second to loving you. I want to tell you that I’d walk away, put the whole thing in Grant’s hands, to have a life with you. I want to leave that stupid party in the same car and make sure you got home okay. I think about it all the time—you walking away in that dress. I know I really hurt you.”

“You did,” I say.

“I know. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

I’m quiet. How can he not know what to do about it? I knew that he loved me. That’s what’s been so confusing. Like if you told me there was no gravity but I could still feel myself heavy on the earth.

I look up at him. “Just say what you want. Be specific. The more specific the better.”