Page 119 of Maybe in Another Life

So I took him up on it. It’s early still, I’ve only been working there a few weeks, but it’s confirming what I already know: I’m headed in the right direction.

I told my parents that I wasn’t moving to London, and they were sad but seemed to take it well. “OK,” my mom said, “we get it. But in that case, we need to talk about a good time for us to visit.”

And then my dad pulled the phone away from her and said he was coming in July, whether I liked it or not. “I don’t want to wait until Christmas to see you again, and to be honest, I’m starting to miss Fourth of July barbecues.”

A few weeks later, my mom called to say they were considering buying a condo in Los Angeles. “You know, just a place where we could stay when we come to visit from now on,” she said. “That is, if you’re staying in Los Angeles...”

I told her I was. I said I wasn’t going anywhere. I said I was here to stay. I didn’t even think twice about it. I just said it.

Because it was true.

Ethan has started dating a really nice woman named Ella. She’s a high school teacher and a pretty intense cyclist. He bought a bike last month, and now they are on some three-day trek raising money for cancer research. He seems incredibly happy. The other day, he told me that he can’t believe he’s gone so many years living in Los Angeles without seeing it from a bike. He has bike shorts now. Hilariously tight little bike shorts that he wears with a bike shirt and a helmet. We had dinner the other night, and he biked there from his place, a thirty-minute drive away. The smile on his face when he walked in the door rivaled the sun.

And he’s been great to me. He texts me whenever he sees a place with a cinnamon roll that I haven’t tried. When I could walk upstairs on my own, he came over and helped Gabby and me move my stuff back up to the second floor. Even he and Gabby have become close in their own right. The point is, Ethan is a great friend. And I’m glad I didn’t ruin it by thinking we had anything left between us. We are better this way.

I’d be lying if I said I never think about the child I might have if I hadn’t been hit. Occasionally, I’ll be doing something completely arbitrary, like taking a shower or driving home, and I’ll think about it, the baby. The only way I can make any peace with it is to know that I wasn’t ready to be a mother then. But one day, I will be. And I try not to busy my mind with too many thoughts about the past or what could have been.

I wake up most mornings feeling refreshed and well rested, with an excitement about the day. And as long as you can say that, I think you’re doing OK.

I woke up early this morning, so I figured I’d get into the car and head to Primo’s. It’s a habit I’ve started for myself, a small treat when I find the time. I often call my dad while I’m there. It’s not the same as when he would take me as a child, but it’s close. And I’m finding that, at least with my parents, the more we talk on the phone, the better I feel.

I call him now as I’m driving, but he doesn’t pick up. I leave a message. I tell him I’m on my way to Primo’s and I’m thinking of him.

I pull into the crowded Primo’s parking lot and park the car. I grab my cane from the backseat and walk around to the front of the store. I stand in line and order a cinnamon roll and a buttermilk doughnut for Gabby.

I pay, and I’m handed an already-greasy bag.

And then I hear a familiar voice speak to the cashier. “A cinnamon roll, please.”

I turn and look. For a moment, I don’t recognize him. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I’ve only seen him in navy-blue scrubs.

I look down at his arm, to make sure I’m not crazy, to confirm that I’m not seeing things.

Isabella.

“Henry?” I say. But of course it’s him. And I’m surprised just how familiar he looks, how natural it seems that he would be standing in front of me.

Henry.

“Hello,” I say to him. “Hello, hello. Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, smiling. “I thought I might see you here one of these days.”

The man behind the counter gives Henry his cinnamon roll, and Henry hands over some cash.

“All the cinnamon roll joints in all the world, and you had to walk into mine,” I say.

He laughs. “By design, actually,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I figured if I was ever gonna meet you again, run into you, and start a conversation like two normal people, I knew my best bet was a place with good cinnamon rolls.”

I blush. I know I’m blushing, because I can feel the warmth on my cheeks.

“Can we talk outside?” he says. The two of us are holding up the line.

I nod and follow him out. He sits down at one of the metal tables. I put down my food. Both of us pull out our cinnamon rolls. Henry takes a bite of his first.

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