Page 87 of I'm Not Yours
I spelled these words: “sexy,” “loon,” “songs.”
I had a slice of the seven-layer chocolate cake that Reece had brought me the other day. Okay, two slices. I hoped I wouldn’t eat the entire thing.
Over the next weeks I worked on high-speed fluster, spending maniacal hours in the studio, as did Estelle and Leoni.
I saw Reece, too, how could I resist? He was a magnetic pull yanking at me, and every single time I was with him, his strength and gentleness, his humor and wit, and his inherent goodness and honesty worked its way further into my soul. Not to mention that the barely restrained physical attraction I had for him about knocked me on my head.
He strummed his guitar and penned songs in my studio, I threw in words and phrases while I sewed at my machines or sewed by hand. We listened to classical, country, and hard rock music. We laughed as we jumped over waves, we built a sand castle, we buried each other in the sand and took photos. We walked hand in hand for miles along the shoreline and flew kites shaped like parrots.
We went searching for whole black butterfly shells, those green eyes smiling into mine like liquid emeralds.
He said, with all seriousness, “You are the most beautiful person I have ever met.”
And, “June, I’ve never been happier. All my songs are happy . . . I’m supposed to write songs about broken hearts.” He winked at me. “Can’t seem to do it right now.”
And, “I love watching you sew. I think I could watch that for the rest of my life.”
And, “When your divorce is final, June, we will have our first official date. I can’t wait. You’ll definitely be getting a kiss good night. Hopefully you’ll be getting a good morning kiss, too. This has been torturous for me, waiting, trying to be patient, saintly. You know that, right?”
It’d been torture for me, too. I was so happy when I was with him,he felt right,we felt right, but I also felt skittish and totally unnerved. Worried, unsettled, a mite lost, as if I was being carried along on a frothing wave and had no control.
I told Estelle how I was feeling.
“That’s because, June,” she said, her voice more gentle than I’d ever heard it, “you don’t knowyouyet. You don’t trust yourself. You don’t trust your own decisions. You’ve been hurt and battered about and you’re still legally attached to someone else.” She patted my shoulder. “Sometimes the only person we need to be with is ourselves. We need to be alone because that’s the only time we can hear that teeny-tiny voice inside us talking.”
“I can hear a teeny-tiny voice in my head, but I can’t hear her loud enough. I lost June during all my years of incessant work chasing stupid stuff, and then she completely ran out the door when I was married and I haven’t put the pieces back together yet. I’m unsteady, that’s the word for it. I’m off-kilter. I’m not confident, not strong in myself. I feel like I’m half me, floundering about and scared and insecure.”
Estelle tapped me with a ruler on the shoulder. “Be in your quiet, June. Think, but don’t overthink. Don’t be afraid of love. But remember that you can’t be a healthy couple until you’re emotionally healthy. He’s not going to make you happy,youhave to make yourself happy and whole. After that is when you can be a whole couple.”
She is a ragingly smart lady. I gave her a hug.
“Fine then, we’ll get mushy for a second if we must.” Estelle kissed my cheek. “Lovey-dovey. Huggy-wuggy. Now get your butt back to work, June, we are crushed for time.”
On a Thursday morning, at 6:00, not having slept at all, I packed my truck with August’s wedding dress, the bridesmaids’ dresses for September and me, and three flower girl dresses. Leoni had spent the night, along with Morgan. She and Estelle and I finished at three in the morning. August’s dress had one stitch still not done, as was Scottish tradition. On her wedding morning, she’d sew it up.
I threw my suitcase into the truck with assorted other things I needed/August needed/my mom needed. I left a map taped to Reece’s door, giving him directions to my parents’ house in Eugene.
I stood at his door for long seconds, imagining him sleeping, that long body stretched out, eyes closed, blond hair over his forehead, vulnerable and soft, warm and cozy and strong.
I teared up, then turned to leave.
I waved to the beach as I passed.
I would miss it.
9
My parents still have a VW bus. In fact, they have two. Neither is the one we puttered about in as kids wearing flowers and feathers in our hair and shark tooth necklaces, the sides painted with peace signs and flowers. No, these are newer.
Both VWs were painted by a friend of theirs, a professional, well-known artist. Across the “flower power” flowers on both sides, are the words “Hippie Chick.”
They have a huge, Craftsman-style home in the country, along a river, outside Eugene, a liberal college town. The home has wraparound decks, an outdoor pool, and a hot tub.
None of us, August, September, March, nor I saw this placid domesticity coming.
“This world was made for existential experiences and a spiritual connection with nature,” my mom had always said.
“To adventures I bow,” my father vowed.
