Page 49 of Keeping It Professional

“It’s the depth of the seats.” Mom scooted back so her feet lifted up. “The old chairs, I could lie back and soak in the foot bath. These ones are deeper, so I have to slide down.” She slid back down and planted her feet with a splash. “So, how’s things with Miles? Still swimming along?”

A sweet warmth flooded me at the sound of his name. Things with Miles had been wonderful. Perfect, even. He had his dour side, but he never aimed it at me. On the job, he was patient. On dates, he was fun. And at home, he was loving. Gentle and kind.

“It’s been great,” I said. “Just one thing missing.”

Mom’s brows went up. “What, you mean…?”

“No!” I flapped my hands to clear the air of all mention of sex.

“Don’t be uptight,” said Mom. “How do you think you got here?”

I covered my face with my hands. “I don’t think about that. And it’snotthat, so can we move on?”

“What is it, then?”

I exhaled through my teeth. “Nothing, really. Or, nothing big. It’s just, we haven’t gone public at work. It feels like until we do that, we’re not quite official. Like he’s waiting to do it until we feel real.”

“Don’t you feel real?”

“I do, but…” I bit my lip as the technician shut off my foot bath. She shifted it to one side and dried off my feet.

“What color this week?”

“I don’t know. Pink.”

“Gold for me,” said Mom. “The glittery kind.” She stretched out her hand to pluck at my sleeve. “So, have you talked to him? Asked him what’s up?”

I frowned. “I tried, but he just said ‘soon.’ And then a call came in, so we dropped the subject.”

“Well, don’t.” Mom grimaced. “Men drag their feet. Things get good and they think, this is great. And they’re happy to leave it all just as it is. They don’t understand that we need to see progress. We need to feel like we’re going somewhere, or what’s the point?”

I laughed, but I wasn’t sure that was the problem. Miles didn’t seem complacent, content. He seemed almost… restless. Nervous, even. Sometimes when we were tired and just watching TV, I'd catch him staring through it, his lips a tight line. Or he’d glance at me, then he’d relax — but in a forced way, like he had to make himself do it.

“I get this sense like he’s waiting for some kind of sign. Something to tell him we’re the real thing. But I don’t know how to ask him what that might be. I’m not even sure he knows it, himself.”

“Then, you tell him,” said Mom. “Tell him what you want.”

“I’m afraid if I do, it’ll push him away.”

“If you do, he was never the right one for you.” Mom leaned up in her chair to meet my eye. “You need to be able to say what you want. If you don’t have that, what do you have?”

I knew she was right, but what I wanted was Miles. I wanted him all in and sure of us, and I wanted him to get there on his own. If I pushed, I’d be the one left second-guessing, did he really want this? Or was he humoring me?

“Talk to him,” said Mom.

I lay back in my chair.

We still hadn’t talked a full week later, with spring in the air and the streets damp with snowmelt. Twice, I’d edged up to what I wanted to ask, and twice I’d backed down, not to ruin the moment. Boston was alive with the first blush of spring, buds on the trees, the breeze sweet and mild, and every day felt like a beautiful gift. Maybe the best thing was to live in the moment. Let Miles take his time, and trust he’d get there. We weren’t “work-official,” but we weren’t hiding, out in the day at the farmers market.

“Lychees,” said Miles. “I’m never sure if I like those.”

I scooped a few in a bag. “You don’t? Why not?”

“They have sort of a floral taste. Like eating perfume.” He took one from the sample tray, peeled it, and ate it. “Mm. Yeah. Perfume. But not in a bad way?”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“Is that your mom over there?”

---