Sweet Cheeks(49)

And then, meeting Mitch at a mutual friend’s party seven months later. He was kind, paid attention to me, and took me places I’d never been before. Places that held no memories of my parents when everywhere else I went was flooded with them. Those things combined with the positive feelings he evoked in me slowly overshadowed the grief that had owned me.

Is that why I stayed with Mitch for so long? Because he took the pain away—more like put it on a backburner—and helped me slowly crawl out of the haze of grief? Did a part of me—the non-rational part of me—fear if there was no Mitch, that the pain might return?

Had he ever really known the real me? Was it once I felt more like myself—less meek and agreeable—that things started going downhill?

The thought is ludicrous, and yet it strikes me to the core. Love and obligation are two different things, Saylor. Not one and the same.

“Did I lose you?” Hayes’s voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts.

I shake my head, clear my mind. “I’m sorry. Just thinking about them. What were you saying?”

His smile is cautiously sympathetic while his eyes search mine to make sure I’m okay. “All I said was I can understand your need to actively chase your dreams.”

“No, I don’t think you can. It’s maddening.” It’s an unfair statement to make to him and yet I appreciate the fact he doesn’t argue it. “They were so young and had so much life left to live, and yet I feel like they partly gave up on their dreams and hopes when they married, and I don’t want to do that. Be that. Regret the chances I never took.” I recall my mom’s repeated comments about what she could have done—her dream career as a dancer on Broadway and how marriage and kids derailed that. A good derailment but a jump off the tracks nonetheless. I think of my dad and the baseball draft he missed out on because he thought the best thing to do for his family would be to be home and work a steady nine-to-five.

Missed opportunities. Dreams put on hold. Completely honorable decisions on their part. Ones that I benefitted from. A life still great by any standards lived in their perfect marriage but the theme of what-if always a constant undertone.

“Saylor?”

“What?” When I look up from where I’m playing with the umbrella garnish from my fruity rum punch, I meet his eyes and realize he’s asked me yet another question. I was too engrossed in thoughts of my parents—of the guilt I continually feel over loving them to death but wanting to be nothing like them—to have heard him.

It strikes me how weird this is to be talking about this now. It’s been nearly seven years and yet it feels good to talk to someone who knew them like I did.

“I asked if your parents’ unrealized plans had anything to do with you not marrying Mitch.”

I stare at him long and hard, my gaze impenetrable, my thoughts a whirlwind, and chew the inside of my cheek. But I don’t need to think at all because I know the answer. It’s clear as day now that I’ve had this time away from him.

“Yes.” My voice is quiet, eyes fixated on my drink and the condensation slowly sliding down the side of the glass. I question myself, hate that I almost feel like I’m cheating on Mitch by talking about him to Hayes, but then realize how absolutely absurd that is considering the situation. And I have to hand it to Hayes; he is patient. He sits and waits for me to find the words to express the conflicted emotions I’m certain blanket my face. “Mitch treated me well. I just think that his idea of what a wife should be and mine are two completely different things.”

“I can assume here,” he says as he lifts the bottle of Red Stripe to his lips, “but I’d prefer if you’d explain.”

“Well, for one thing, he hated the bakery. Even before I rented the actual space and applied for my business license, I was running it as a side business out of our house. It drove him crazy. And not just the mess of it, but more the mess on me. He disliked that I was so lost in it that I didn’t care if I had frosting in my hair or if my clothes were smeared with piping. And it wasn’t that I didn’t care but rather I was just so absorbed in whatever I was creating that I didn’t notice the mess. God, he loathed the days I forgot to put on makeup because I had a harebrained idea for a new flavor and had to go do it right then before I forgot it.”

“You always were that way. Spontaneous. Needing to see for yourself. I used to love and admire that about you.”

I preen under his simple praise. Feel stupid that I do but can’t help it considering I’m so used to the opposite opinion.