Page 77 of If Not for My Baby
“You think I love to be heartbroken.”
“No. No, of course not.” How do I phrase this? “What if you go for women who have no interest in anything serious”—I gesture to myself, which doesn’t earn me quite the grin I expect it to—“or who you know are going to use you up and spit you out—your witch-goddess girls—because maybe you take pleasure in that feeling? That longing, like you said. What if you like wading into the depth of human emotion, however painful, so you can write about it?”
“Ah, sure. Look, I wouldn’t say Ilikedoing so. But I’m not afraid of the agony, if that’s what you mean.”
I can’t help my snort. “Tom, you’d toss your heart into an open blender because you know you’ll create something life-changing with whatever splatters out.”
Tom says nothing, bemused. The pretty waitress refills our water and suddenly, basking in the glow of my bluntness, I feel awful.
“Oh, God.” I sigh, head lolling into my hands. “I’m sorry. That was such an overstep and so—”
“Graphic?”
When I peer up he doesn’t seem angry.
“I’m really sorry. I’ve never been good at dates.”
But he only takes my hand from my face and rubs it soothingly. “You’re grand. And very insightful. I’m a big fan of that mind of yours.”
He’s giving me far more grace than I deserve. “I’ve just seen it before, I guess.”
“Your mam?”
My heavy sigh flutters the candle between us. “In some ways I wonder if she’s been re-creating the same relationship that fell apart twenty-four years ago over and over hoping eventually it’ll stick together. It’s the worst kind of pain, watching her suffer like that.”
“It never should have been your duty to pick up all those pieces,” he tells me softly. “Especially not when you were just a girl.”
Before I can respond, another couple is seated in our little enclave. They exchange furtive whispers over the menu beneath the sultry jazz music. It dawns on me for all the talk of Tom’s understanding of heartbreak and love, we’ve never talked about his past relationships. He knows all about Mike. Frankly, more than I’d like him to. And he’s not been shooing me away from the topic. I’ve seen enough of his interviews to know how comfortable he is setting conversational boundaries. I decide to wade into the shallow end. “Did you writeTo the Endabout someone?”
“Parts of it.”
“AndKingfisher?”
“Similar. Bits and pieces.”
As impossible as it feels, I say nothing, allowing him to come to me like a stray dog mistrustful of strangers.
“Those bits across both albums reflect times in my life tied up in all kinds of lowness…” He examines his water glass. “Some love lost, of course, but other challenging and beautiful periods of my life, too…” Tom watches the candle between us suffer and stir. I study it, too, waiting for more. When I find his eyes again, they’re wet. “I’m not sure if it’s sound dinner conversation,” he says in the end.
Where I anticipated jealousy or judgment only compassion blooms. I haven’t truly cried in front of anyone since I was eight. Not even my mom, though the closest I’ve come has actually been with Tom on this tour. It strikes me as immensely honest. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He laughs a bit, sniffing whatever misted his gaze back in. “Not at all. It was a long time ago.” He takes a sip of water. “Who’s bad at dates now?”
Once again, he shifts the topic away from his past. Unease pulls at me, but I remind myself that it doesn’t matter in the long run. It’s not like he’s my boyfriend. Why should I need lengthy information on his mysterious romantic history? We both know this thing between us has an expiration date. Instead of prying, I say, “It’s never easy to open an old wound.”
“This is the easiest it’s been for me, talking to you. Usually I don’t speak about her at all.”
Her.
Now, that hurts. Though not as much as the thought of him suffering in silence. That just about tears me to pieces. I realize I’d gladly bear the weight of his longing for Cara evenif it crushed my shoulder blades, so long as he didn’t have to carry it alone. “You can talk to me about anything.”
“For someone dead set on avoiding pain, you’re quick to take it on for others.”
“I am?”
“Clementine. You don’t think you’re exceptionally empathetic?” While I falter for a response, Tom closes his eyes briefly. “Wishing to aid my sufferin’, or your ex’s or your mam’s…Even Molly’s, for God’s sake. You nearly passed on the duet for a woman you hardly knew.”
I shrug under the heft of his unnecessary praise. “She’s my friend.”
