Page 70 of The Trouble with Wanting

“I’m going to need to hear all about it,” I say, “and please, be as detailed and as graphic as possible.”

We spend three hours at Dock 7—aka Lucky’s—talking about everything under the sun. Boyd tells me more about what it’s like being a Mitchell in a town founded by his family, crazy stories about town politics, and the intensity of the high school rivalry with another mountain town an hour away.

He talks about his job, the townhouse he lives in a few blocks from Harvard, and the weird things that go on living so close to an Ivy League institution. He asks about my mom and my friends, my job as a massage therapist, and how I got into yoga. We talk about my choice not to go to college, Boyd’s fears about moving away around the same time his dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and what it was like coming home when his dad was fighting through it.

It’s an amazing dinner, an amazing date overall, and not just because the food is delicious, which it is, or because I love the view of the lake, which I do.

It’s because Boyd has managed to be my friend as we sit here and chat. Sure, there’s that same underlying buzz of attraction that just never seems to go away when I’m near him, but at the same time, that’s not the driving force.

Our focus is on each other, on our conversation, on laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

Boyd has managed to, again, demonstrate to me what it could be like to have a deeper relationship with a man, and it is something powerful, that’s for sure.

“The twins decided to light up the fire pit in our yard,” Boyd tells me as we’re walking out to his truck. “And Bellamy said you have to come over for s’mores. Non-negotiable.”

“Well, I can’t let the girl down, now can I?” I reply, grinning and hopping up into Hank with significantly more ease than the first few times.

And that’s how I end up spending my Monday night sitting in a circle around a fire pit in the Mitchell yard, looking out at the lake and listening to Boyd’s family absolutely roast him to death with stories about his childhood.

I don’t think I’ve ever truly realized the solitude in which I live my life back in Boston before. Sure, I have a roommate, though she spends most of her time at her boyfriend’s, and I have my mom. There’s my neighbor Fiona, friends from yoga, and a few girls from high school I still connect with occasionally.

But all in all, I have primarily set up my life to go it alone. I rarely have anyone over or go out with people. My mom is the closest thing I have to a best friend, which—as much as I love her, and I really, really do—is kind of pathetic.

Where is the community? Where is the deepened life experiences from living side by side with loved ones?

I watch Boyd as he jokes about all the memories with his siblings, and I wonder what it would have been like to be able to tease and poke about things like that, to have a larger family, or even a group of friends who know everything about you, inside and out.

It makes me wonder if I’ve been so busy protecting myself from getting hurt that I’ve missed out on some of the amazing things relationships bring to your life.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Patty says as she takes a seat next to me when Boyd heads inside to use the restroom.

I give her a tired smile and shake my head. “Just thinking. I love your family dynamic, how close everyone is, how much you all care about each other.”

She looks at me with something warm in her eyes. “It’s not always perfect,” she jokes, letting out a hearty chuckle. “In fact, it usually isn’t, but there’s definitely something special about my kiddos.”

“Boyd talks about all of you with this look of complete adoration on his face,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man love his family the way Boyd loves you.”

Patty’s expression gets soft and gooey as she looks across the expanse of her yard as her oldest son crosses the deck and heads our way.

“He’s a mama’s boy, that’s for sure,” she says. “I tried for years to get pregnant before we finally conceived. Every single one of my kids is a blessing, without a doubt, but we fought for Boyd. He was my first miracle baby.”

I’ve never been one to think about having a family. I rarely plan more than a few months ahead—if that—and I’ve never seen myself being with a man long-term. I love my mother so much, but she talks about motherhood like it was the most difficult thing she’s ever experienced. Imagining myself with kids? Why would that ever be something I’d want for myself?

The way Patty talks about it, though, makes it sound magical, like it fills a space inside of her chest that is shaped like a baby. I don’t even know if that little hole exists inside of me somewhere because I’ve never taken the time to think about it before.

“What’s got that dreamy expression on your face?”

My eyes flit to Boyd’s where he’s standing above me, and I tilt my head back as he leans down to kiss my forehead.

“Just talking about how you were my miracle baby,” Patty answers. “The first little love of my life.”

Boyd rolls his eyes but leans over to kiss his mother’s cheek.

“You’re gonna need to lay off the miracle baby stuff around the others,” he says, flicking his hand in the direction of his siblings. “Otherwise they’ll know who your true favorite is.”

Patty lets out a cackle I bet all the neighbors can hear, the sound echoing across the lake.

“You know what I always say,” she responds. “You are my favorite—my favorite firstborn.”

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