Page 84 of Tomorrow Belongs to Us
I feel as if I’ve been punched. We hold our gazes, and I wonder if we’re thinking the same things. “This doesn’t bode well, does it?”
“We have now, Lance.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“Now?” It’s too early to think of what we could be, but I want the option of tomorrow. I feel as if I’ve been living my life for other people—not that I would have done things any differently—for Sarah, for Vivian, for Cassie, who is my world. At forty-three, I’ve come to see that time is finite and that I don’t have many chances at grabbing a future that is fulfilling in all parts of my life. I want to find and keep and cherish the things which make me happy.
I’m not content with justnow.
“I’m not free this weekend,” says Megan, setting down the menu and looking as if she’s about to order. “but I am during the week. Are you going to surprise me?”
“Surprise you?”
“You suggested we should date, and I’m still waiting.”
She’s still waiting. She wants this.
I suppress the surge of a smile. A server comes to our table just then and Megan asks me if I want something. I order a hot chocolate before watching her chat to the server who is also a young woman. Megan tells her how much she likes her necklace and they proceed to have a conversation about it, while I look on and wonder what it is I can do for our first date.
Chapter 32
MEGAN
“We’re going to an art exhibition?” I exclaim in surprise when I meet Lance after work.
“You don't like art?”
“I'm not a pretentious person.” I sound like a condescending bitch no less. “I didn't mean to sound so bitchy,” I say, wanting him to like me.
“I didn't want to sit and watch a movie, or a show. I thought we could just walk around, and at least talk, while pretending to admire some art.”
“I like the way you think.”
He's thought it through, and I like that. Being with an older man is different. This date is different. It’s not the type of place I would think to visit, not on a date. For me, it’s the bar, and then bed. But tonight I feel sophisticated and grown up.
Is this what it will be like? Being with an older man? I’ll glide over my age range and slip into his. We’ll have sedate dinners and watch shows and exhibitions. We’ll make polite conversation when we meet his friends, and his family. Oh, my God. His family? What will they think?
What will mine?
He takes a hold of my hand then looks at me to see if I’m okay with him doing this. When I don’t comment he tries to slowly slide his hand away, but I don't let him.
This feelsgood. It feels right. Like now is our time. It helps that my mom decided to only stay over for a few days. I can breathe easy now because she’s in another state right now.
She worries about me and asked me if I’d met anyone nice. Erica is in a steady relationship, and Jensen might as well be married given that he’s been with his girlfriend for a few years now. I’m the one who’s always been in and out of relationships, and most of the time I’ve been single. Being asked my status is the part of my mom’s visit I dread the most, her asking me about my relationship status.
Still holding hands we go make our way to the art exhibition. Once there we walk around a large room staring at the painted offerings on the wall. It's contemporary art created by local artists, Lance tells me. The entire time we’re going around admiring the works, he holds my hand.
I feel happy.
Cherished.
Every now and then I catch myself thinking that I'm with my high school teacher, with Mr. Turner. And then a pain goes through me when I wonder what my family would make of this.
I push the thought aside. I have a third job interview in a town which is about a two-hour drive outside of Boston. I’ll have to move. We have this for now and that’s all, so I should enjoy what I can of it.
“This is stunning.” I stop to admire a painting of a sunset. The peachy blues mingle with the dusky pinks and bright juicy oranges. “It's gorgeous. I could lose myself in this.” I stare in raw admiration and find myself falling deeper into the sunset. This is the type of artwork I admire; paintings of natural beauty. Lance is silent beside me as he squeezes my hand. I dare not look at him.
He has the patience of a saint, and he doesn't talk, or tell me to move on, or ruin the moment. He just lets me be. When I’m done I tug on his hand to move away, so that we can see the next work of art.
“You’re done with this?” he asks, softly. “Don't feel you have to move on so fast just because of me.”
