Page 52 of Between Then and Now
If the men I’ve dated have struggled or given up on me when I was trying so hard to be that unwavering light, what would happen if they saw me in my moments of darkness? If they saw the real me—the one who isn’t always bright and cheerful, the one who has doubts and fears? Who’s to say Ryan will accept it all? Who’s to say I will?
As if sensing my internal struggle, my mother reaches for my hand and squeezes it lightly. “Bon, I don’t know what’s going on in your head. And I’m the last person to tell you what you should do, but I know one thing.” She pauses and looks at me. “You deserve to be happy. Completely happy. And if there’s someone who can give you that, take it, especially if it comes from someone who accepts all of you.”
I smile at her, but I’m still at war with myself. And maybe it’s not a battle I have to win yet.
I hug my mom tightly. “Thanks, Mom,” I say as I’m buried in her hair. “And for the record, you don’t have to overcompensate, you know,” I add, motioning to her luggage and the fact that she flew all the way here.
“I will overcompensate, Bon. It’s the least I can do.” She chuckles, and I shake my head as I realize there’s no winning with her.
“And don’t worry aboutKuyaJosh. He’ll come around eventually. Just keep pestering him, you know humor is the way.” I try to reassure her.
Her eyes soften, and she gives me a warm smile. “I hope so. But right now, I’m here for you.” She gives me one last stroke on my cheek, and I say goodbye.
As I walk away, I can't help but think about how much my mom has changed. She’s never been the typical mom who shared gossip and chatted a lot. I was usually at Emily’s house because her mom was always there, while my mom was always at work or somewhere with her friends. Growing up, I often felt like I was missing out on the kind of close, nurturing relationship that my friends had with their mothers. I used to resent her for it, feeling like she cared more about her career and social life than she did about me.
But now, as I reflect on our conversation, I realize how much I’ve underestimated her. My mom may not have been the kind of mother who was always present, but she’s here now, when it really matters. She’s flown all the way here, overcompensating in her own way, to be with me during a difficult time. She’s showing her love and support in the best way she knows how, and I’m finally beginning to appreciate that.
I think about all the sacrifices she made, the hard work she put in to provide for our family, and the strength it must havetaken to balance her career and personal life. I realize that her way of showing love might have been different from what I expected, but it doesn’t make it any less genuine.
Her love was–and is–in the quiet moments, the sacrifices, the strengths she carries daily. It’s in the steadiness of her support, even if it isn’t wrapped in grand gestures or flowery words.
And maybe my mom isn’t the only one who’s like that. Maybe it’s common for people to express their affection in different ways that aren’t immediately obvious—that’s what love languages are for, right?
I still don’t know how I show it, because I’m convinced that all the times I’ve been “in love” were really just me pretending to be someone I’m not. But maybe it’s not too late for me to find out.
I walk out of their hotel room and make my way back to the curb where Ryan’s parked. He’s sitting on the hood of the car, and I’m transported to days ago, when we were sitting there together, tea in hand, practicing for his date. I look at him and think about our unspoken connection. I’m still unsure. Still unsteady. But maybe he feels the same way? Or what if, while everything in me is swirling and turning, nothing much has changed for him? Am I still just his friend who’s helping him get the girl of his dreams? The thought twists my stomach into a tight knot, leaving me feeling adrift and unsettled.
I walk up to him slowly and he doesn’t hear me because he has his phone pressed to his ear. I’m not proud of what I do next, but I linger close enough to listen in.
“I’m just on this thing with Bon. Her parents came to town,” he says in a hushed tone.
“Yeah–I’ll be back tonight–No, I don’t think so. I think we’re leaving soon. Can–Uh–can I see you when I get back?” Ryan says softly as the person on the other line probably replies.
“Sorry again, so last minute,” he says. “Okay–No, yeah, we can definitely meet up wherever you want to.” He stays silent for a while.
“Thanks, Alexa. I just really need to talk to you.” My heart drops. I don’t know why it drops, because it’s not like I heard something unexpected. Ryan likes her. He still does. Of course he’s gonna talk to her. So, I guess my mantra stands:Ryan is my friend and I am helping him date his dream girl. Whatever connection I convinced myself we had, it’s in my own head. See, this is why I avoid overthinking. Everything’s much simpler when I just don’t care.
Because why complicate things by overanalyzing them when I can just live in my little bubble of ignorance? Overthinking is like trying to untangle wired earphones that you left in your pocket–frustrating, time-consuming, and likely to end up in an even more complicated jumble. Caring too much just invites disaster, and I’ve just given it VIP seats. Maybe Disaster wants to invite his friend Betrayal, and we can all dance together in my head.
I think about what my mom said. That the right person will see me, all of me. For a moment, I considered showing Ryan my vulnerability–I visualize it as taking his hand on a rollercoaster ride of complexities that is the complete me. But now, maybe it's just better to stay on solid ground, where everything is safe, predictable, and heartbreak-free.
I take another step forward, and this time, he notices me.
“Hey, how’d it go with your mom?” he asks, his voice warm and concerned.
I force a smile, pushing down the whirlwind of emotions inside me. “It went well. She gave me some good advice.”
Ryan nods, looking relieved. “That’s great. Your mom’s pretty awesome.”
“Yeah, she is,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
When we get in the car, it’s silent. I attempt to scroll through my phone while it can still detect some internet signal, but I notice that it’s only at three percent now. I groan audibly and Ryan glances at me.
“What’s wrong? You okay?” he asks in a tone of urgency. Ever since the accident, he’s been treating me like a child in need of special assistance. I may have misread it as affection, but the call I overheard just reminded me that it’s purely a friendly concern.
“Yeah, my phone’s just dying,” I say. Then Ryan leans over me to reach for something. I lean my head back because of his sudden movement, but his head is still inches away from me, and I get a whiff of his Henry Cavill perfume (or soap, or deodorant, or whatever the hell he puts on). His arm stretches to open the glove compartment, and he pulls out a phone charger. Not just any phone charger, the pink one I got for him weeks ago. I can’t help but chuckle.
“You brought that here?” I ask as I take it and plug it in. I place my phone on the center console.
