Page 2 of To Feel Like This Again
In the picture, my son James, and my best friend’s daughter, Emily, stand on either side of us, their arms locked with Alex. And there is Raggy, my Australian shepherd and jogging partner who died two years ago.
I was twenty-three, barely out of college and with a ballooning student loan when I had James. He turned thirty-three on the weekend. James lives in Milan with his beautiful wife, Aurora, and they are expecting their first child, making me a soon-to-benonna (grandma in Italian).Yikes.
James, my pride and joy, the banking executive, with the beautiful home and gorgeous wife (who happens to also kick ass in the banking industry), and soon-to-be-born baby boy.
Emily, thirty-two, lost her mother, Mary, fourteen years ago, the summer before she started Columbia University. On her hospital bed, Mary had gently squeezed my hand, making me promise to “take care of Emily”, knowing her daughter’s estranged father would probably never come around. Those were her last words, before her hand went limp in mine as the ECG flatlined.
After Mary’s passing, Emily had moved into our home. She excelled in school, graduating with a BSc in Computer Science — 4.0 GPA. Shortly after, she aced her master’s degree. Like her mom, Emily wasted no time in climbing the corporate ladder, but her life took a turn for the worse after she wound up in a toxic three-year relationship with Aaron Sullivan, the son of a billionaire and a son of a bitch (in reference to him, not his mother). Actually, also applicable to his mother now that I think about it.
Close to a year ago, she finally worked up the courage to break up with the jerk. By then, she’d already left her role as AVP at a tech giant; quit exercising, slapping on thirty-five pounds on her 5ft 5in slender body; stopped hanging out with her friends; and turned to alcohol for comfort. And when alcohol wasn’t strong enough for her, she had found stronger options which is perhaps the best way to explain it — forcing me into situations I would rather have avoided.
But thankfully, she turned a new leaf with the help of a therapist andmaybethe daily prayers from her adopted grandmother and all the grey-haired ladies in her prayer group. Beverly, a retired elementary school teacher from the prayer group, makes it her duty to remind me about this when I run into her at the farmers’ market on Sundays. Intentionally speaking loud enough for nearby shoppers to hear.
I worry incessantly about Emily… and question myself at times whether I had chosen my career over my loved ones. Maybe Alex is right about this.
I let my best friend down.
I love Emily as I would my own daughter and will do anything to help keep her on this path, reminding her constantly (subtly, I hope) that she can always turn to me for help. And I really mean it… except for maybe one thing: she’s on the wrong side of thirty and itching to get married and start a family. Unfortunately, I’m of little to no help there.
I wondered (and secretly hoped) some time ago if she and James would have hit it off, but some things weren’t meant to be.
Unlocking the phone with my thumb, the screen lighting up the room, I turn off the alarm set for 5:00am and head towards the bathroom. The alarm is a mere precaution in case I oversleep; but I’m always up by 5:00am.
In the bathroom after washing my face, I get dressed and head for the gym while Alex remains fast asleep.
I had met Alex in a public library, it was near midnight on the eve of Thanksgiving and I was studying for an exam. The exam was in the following week but I had nowhere to go, plus the library had always been my refuge.Sad, but true. I was a freshman at Harvard pursuing a degree in accounts and he was a senior, majoring in history at a nearby college. I never had a high school boyfriend — the boys I had a crush on had no interest in me. I had talked myself into thinking it was because I was competitive, too focused on getting good grades, but I knew it was really because I was grossly overweight. So, in a way, Alex was the equivalent of my high school sweetheart — the one I never had.
I was the only person awake in the building that night. The security guard was sprawled out on a hard metal chairby the entrance with his head tilted back and mouth wide open. Drooling. The librarian looked more comfortable. She had placed her head on the front desk and was using her arms as a pillow.
With my eyes glued to a book the size of an encyclopaedia, I sat there overcommitting to the upcoming macroeconomics exam. Alex had stormed into the library, desperate to finish an assignment that had been due for over a week. He had strutted over to my table, “Hi, is it okay if I sit here? There’re no other empty seats.”
Stunned, but playing it cool, I had responded with, “Yea, sure.”
That entire summer I skipped breakfast and began dieting and exercising, and experimenting with the newly released FDA-approved weight loss pills my physician had recommended. Mary, who turned heads everywhere she went, advised that it was best to exercise while playing a sport, because you burn calories while having fun without realizing how many miles you’ve covered or something like that. So, I learned to play volleyball (partly to hang out with her more) and played five times a week. And the combination worked!
I lost twenty-seven pounds and could finally wear a bikini at pool parties. I imagined that one day, maybe, I could wear one on a beach in Jamaica. My parents had spent their honeymoon on the island and their pictures had made me want to visit for a romantic getaway. Of course, first I needed the right guy to look in my direction.
Alex sat down, opened his bag, took out a book and began reading. I shifted on the wooden chair and pretended to read, unconsciously using my fingers to curl the tip of my hair.Something I do when I’m anxious,till this very day.
Iwasnervous. For the first time ever, a cute guy had approached me. What should I do? What should I say? Should I say anything? Should I wait for him to start the conversation? But he had already initiated… Hadn’t he?
I caved and blurted out, “What are you reading?”
He closed the book and with the back of his hand shoved it across the desk, slumped back in the chair, looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m trying to read you… Would you like to get something to eat?”
“Yes, I could eat,” I all but stammered.
And the rest is history… or future.
I miss that confident, charming Alex. It was so short-lived.
Back home at around my usual time, 6:30am, I put on the coffee then go shower. After getting dressed, I head to the kitchen and pour coffee into a thermos before driving off in my SUV.
Of course, I skip breakfast.
Of course, Alex is still sleeping.
I still love Alex, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you exchange vows, right? I just wish he was more driven.
