Page 56 of Pick-Up
Maybe our children don’t have that luxury. To trust the ground they stand on so entirely. Not like we did.
Not that I was ever carefree.
My own daughter, Ruby, has begun having panic attacks. Nomystery there. So much change. If she understood what worried her, it would help, but instead she projects outward. She worries that a movie will be too scary; that she’ll feel awkward at a birthday party; that her goldfish might die (he will). Even if we’re out, she must say good night to both parents each evening before bed. For the first time in years, she has requested a night-light.
There’s a part of me that wants a night-light too.
But the demons in my darkness are not under my bed. They live in my head (and, apparently, in my underwear drawer on laundry days). They live on my phone. They come in the form of looped memories, of relitigated poor choices I cannot change, of revisited relationships that don’t serve me, of past slights that still feel like indignities, of other people’s self-celebratory posts I scroll through when the insomnia wins. They echo with phrases like,How did I get here?andWhat am I doing wrong?andIs this really me? Is this reallyit?
Ruby will make better choices. I’ve put all of my eggs in that basket.This is just a blip, I tell myself. The world is in a tough place. It simply has to rebound. Right?
But Bart is still small enough to be chipper, jogging to keep up with Nettie and Henry as they run ahead down the sidewalk, stopping now and then to tightrope walk the brick borders around dogwood trees. He reminds me of simpler days. Days that overwhelmed before I knew what that meant.
28 | Oh, ShootSASHA
For some stupid reason, I set my alarm for a 6:30 a.m. run.
Sunrise sounded way more worthwhile the night before. Now, my memory foam pillows are giving the spectacle a run for its money.
I have two children. I never get to sleep in! Why am I voluntarily getting up earlier than I have to now?
But I’m up! And it’s warm out! And when I step outside in my sports bra, loose tank and throwback velour gym shorts, the air is thick and dreamy. The dark is just beginning to lift.
As far as I can tell, there is only one path where I am guaranteed not to get lost and eaten by a giant iguana, a winding dirt thing that weaves its way behind the villas, up the hill through brush, around toward the activity shed (which is less a shed and more a giant lofted barn decked out with pristine bicycles, paddleboards, kayaks and neon life jackets) and back past the restaurant and spa.
As the dark dissipates and light eases its way forward, a dimmer in reverse, everything from the scraggy vegetation to the sporadic palms and jagged rocks are bathed in a diffuse golden luster. Even me.
There is a stillness to this hour, to this place, that is not the stuff of everyday life. It is reserved for these few stolen minutes.I have done something right to wind up in this moment, I tell myself. Not every choice has been wrong.
It’s so quiet that I decide to embrace it and run without music, at least to start. And I’m feeling this new zen me: the rhythm of my breath, the light breeze smelling of algae and sea, the crisscrossed grooves—golf cart tracks—that emerge in the shadows below my feet as darkness lifts. It’s settled: I am transcendent. At one with the universe!
Until, a thumping behind me gets louder and louder—the giant iguana?—and I whip around just in time to see, reallyfeel, Ethan zoom past in a blur. Up the hill ahead, he turns around to face me, puts his hands up to correct my arm position, and then turns and continues on his way.
Just like that, my enlightenment is snuffed. I swear, at that exact moment, the sun blasts out the last hint of dawn, rendering the moment obsolete.
Dammit! Can I not get a moment of peace? More important, can I reasonably denyalmostkissing him last night? Even in my own head?
I turn on my music—a shuffle of Taylor Swift songs about how much boys suck.Word, Taylor. Word.
This path is not long, and so it’s really a matter of time before Ethan laps me again. I resolve to act normal when he does. Smile politely. Nod. I will not make this a thing.
I spend the whole rest of my run tensed for his return, but he never comes. Maybe that lap was his last.
When I finish my three miles—not a step more—and stroll back, sweaty and flushed, Demon Dad is somehow already showered and changed (perfect army-green tee). He is reclining in a lounger by the pool like someGQmodel, reading on his phone and drinking coffee from the fancy machine. Which he of course knows how to work.
He looks up. Like he’s expecting me. Which, of course, he is. “Good run?”
He is completely relaxed—or doing a tour de force performance of it. Like last night is not a thing.
That’s good, I guess. He’s letting it drop. But he could at least have the decency to lust after me.
“Yup,” I say, hands on my hips as I catch my breath fully.
“Did your thing where you stop abruptly before the loop ends?”
“Abruptness is subjective.”
“How long do you run again?”
