Page 38 of Changing the Playbook
“You got that look.”
“There’s no look.” I focus intently on my rapidly melting cone. “And there’s definitely no guy.”
“Sophie Pearson. I changed your diapers. I know your lying face.” She stretches against a bench. “You don’t have to tell me, but maybe it’s time to try again.”
Try dating. Try trusting. Try not protecting myself with walls so high even I can’t see over them anymore.
“It’s complicated,” I mutter.
“Simple is boring. And you, my brilliant, anxious, wonderful daughter, are anything but simple. Maybe you need someone who can match you.”
“I don’t need anyone.” The words come out sharper than intended. “Except you, Dad, and Hazel, anyway.”
“No,” she agrees, voice gentle. “But maybe you want someone. There’s a difference.”
The truth of it hits with physical force, a splash of ice water down my spine. I’ve been so focused on need—stability, predictability, control—that I’ve ignored want. And what I want, apparently, is to watch a hockey player butcher poetry while pretending my heart isn’t trying to escape my chest.
“I should head back,” I say. “Hazel has dance at eleven, and then I’ve got classes.”
“Always taking care of everyone else.” She starts jogging back. “I’m officially giving you permission to be selfish, Sophie, just once.”
I follow, though it’s my thoughts racing now. This loop trail carries us right back where we started—safe, controlled, achingly predictable. I’ve been running the same emotional circuit for months.
Maybe it’s time for a different path. Or maybe the mint-chip sugar rush is affecting my judgment. Thursday will tell. If I go. Which I’m definitely not planning to do, despite already knowing exactly which earrings I’ll wear.
“The world won’t end if you go on one date,” Mom says, derailing my spiral.
“I know that.”
“Do you?” Her smile turns knowing. “Because you look afraid of feeling…”
“I feel plenty.”
“Feeling and letting yourself feel? Two different things, OK?”
We pass morning joggers who wave cheerfully, their easy grins a stark contrast to the weight pressing against my ribs. Mom waves back—she’s never met a stranger she can’t connect with—while I manage something that might generously be called a smile.
“What if I’m not ready?” The question escapes before I can swallow it back.
“Ready for what?” She’s being deliberately obtuse now.
“Any of it. Dating. Trusting someone new. Getting my heart stomped on again.”
Mom stops completely, turning to face me. Morning light catches the silver threading through her hair and illuminates the fine lines around her eyes that weren’t there five years ago. In that moment, she looks beautiful and fragile and fierce all at once.
“Oh, honey. Nobody’s ever ready. That’s the whole point.” She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder with hands that have comforted countless terrified parents. “Was I ready for MS? For another baby at forty-two? For any of the curveballs life’s thrown?”
“That’s different?—”
“Is it?” Her thumb rubs gentle circles. “Life happens whether we’re ready or not. The only choice is how we meet it.”
We run in companionable silence for five minutes, our footfalls creating their own rhythm against the packed earth. When we’re almost back to the parking lot, I blurt it out.
“He’s doing a poetry reading,” I say.
“Awhat?”
“Poetry reading.” I can barely believe the words coming out of my mouth.
