Page 114 of Townshipped
Aiden:I know what you mean.
I don’t know what else to say, so I just text something vague, hoping she’ll hear the invitation beneath my words.
Aiden:Take care of yourself, Em. And keep in touch. You’ll be missed.
It’s an understatement.You’ll be missed.She won’t be missed in some generic and general way. Her absence has derailed me—as though my future and my purpose and my heart just drove away.
I miss her already, which is absurd, considering she only lived here three weeks. But it is what it is. Sometimes love builds slowly and sometimes someone bursts into your perfectly ordered life in a cataclysmic moment and you know nothing will ever be the same.
Em doesn’t answer my text right away. Was telling her she’ll be missed too much? Maybe I should have kept it more open ended.
Em:You’ll be missed too.
I stare at the message. She’ll miss me. Is her missing the same as my missing? Will she feel incomplete, aimless, and hollow? Or will it be the kind of missing like you feel for a friend you made at summer camp—warm memories of the time shared, memories that fade with time as you move on with your real life.
Not asking her feels like being bound and gagged.
Obviously we developed an attachment to one another. And it’s equally obvious watching her with Gabriela that she has a full life in Boston and is well-loved there. I remind myself that Em's free to choose. She knows where to find me if she ever wants to reach out. I send her a smiling emoji and then I turn and walk toward the goat pen to check on the pregnant does.
* * *
It’s beenfour days since Em left. She texted from the airport saying she landed safely. Then she texted a photo of this mansion that is apparently her childhood home. It’s immaculate and grand. It suits her parents to a T, but I can’t quite picture Em there. Maybe Mallory fits there and I don’t know that side of the woman I love.
Our texts are generic and kind.
How are you?
Fine.
How’s Boston?
Good.
Then she’ll ask things like, “How are you?” and I’ll say, “Good,” even though I’m not really. And she’ll ask about Paisley and Ty and I’ll share a brief update. Then one of us says we have to go.
Limbo.
I’m living on a suspension bridge, unable to go forward and unwilling to go back to the life I so easily lived before she came along. I’m hanging over this open space. Bridges weren’t meant to be permanent dwelling places. I’m going to need to make some definitive decisions at some point. But, for now, I’m waiting—dangling between what was and what might be.
The days keep me busy with the new kids, six in total, born to healthy mama goats. And then there are my kids, Paisley and Ty. They are boisterous and full of life. It’s a wonder how a house so full of noise and responsibility can simultaneously echo with complete emptiness.
People are starting to mobilize interventions. As if there’s something that will solve my heartbreak other than getting Em back, which isn’t likely to happen.
My mom showed up unexpectedly, toting a casserole last night. Casseroles are the cure-all of the Midwest. Have surgery? We’ll bring you a casserole. Someone passes away. Hang in there, casseroles are coming. As a matter of fact, you may need to invest in a freezer for your garage to hold all those casseroles. Go through a non-breakup with your not-even-a-girlfriend? There’s a casserole for that.
With the casseroles often come the words of comfort or words of wisdom, or a combination of both. It’s like the casserole is a ticket permitting the bearer of the dish to share their hidden opinions and advice with you.
Want this food? Well, first you need to hear what I think.
So, Mom brought a cheeseburger casserole and then she sat me down and gave me a piece of her mind.
Aiden, we all know what you feel. And, honestly, we thought she was the one. I even gave her my meatloaf recipe. But you can’t allow yourself to wither away like this. You need to move on. Either go after her or start living your life without her in it.
This morning, after Paisley’s on the bus, I’m dropping Ty off at Mom’s. During the casserole intervention, Mom lectured me about not taking on the weight of the world, reminding me I’m surrounded by a willing support system. Duke’s been holding that mirror up to my face for a while now. I need to accept help, to let people share the load.
After Ty is happily playing in Mom’s living room with some toys she set out for him, I take off to meet Duke at the garage.
It’s only when I run a stop sign that I realize how preoccupied I am. Thankfully Jesse’s not around to slap me with a ticket.
