Page 122 of Pick-Up
But I have been down this road before, and a good apology does not equal a good match. Saying sorry is not the same as delivering. It is not a guarantee. I don’t have the space to gamble.
“Ethan,” I say, as carefully as I can. “The trip was amazing. You’re so great. I really… like you. But there is no ‘different here’ for me.”
And I feel like I’m breaking both our hearts—but at least not as badly as they’d be shattered later on.
He tilts his head, like maybe if he changes his visual perspective, I’ll start to make sense. “What do you mean?”
“We can’t actuallydothis. I have kids. And work. And family. And a sad shower that needs to be retiled. And we don’t even get along.”
“We do get along!” he insists.
I raise my eyebrows and he exhales.
“When you’re making sense.”
“I’m making sense now.”
“No.” He leans in. “What you’re doing right now is throwing away something good, something rare with real potential, because change is scary.”
“I’m not afraid of change,” I say. “I just don’t have the luxury of it.”
“Luxury?!”
“You seem frustrated.”
“Iamfrustrated.”
Even in this moment, as we square off in my real-life living room, what I really want to do is kiss him. Ethan, Demon Dad, whatever his name is. His lips are parted, his hair is a mess—in part because I’m driving him bonkers. He is wearing those perfect work boots and an irritated expression.
But I can’t. And yet, part of me whispers…can I?
“What about Kaitlin?”
He sighs. There is true exhaustion in that sound. I get it. I really do. “The Kaitlin factor isn’t ideal,” he says. “I admit that. But you and I aren’t doing anything wrong. If you can handle the scrutiny and gossip from other parents, I think it’s worth it—for a chance to be happy.”
“Happy? Pshh. That’s way too high a bar,” I joke.
But he doesn’t smile.
I am already the subject of gossip. I know I can handle it. And I know it will eventually die down.
I feel myself waver as my conversation with Celeste comes top of mind again. Is it possible that I should also cut Ethan slack? And myself? That giving into what I want isn’t necessarily irresponsible? That he and I deserve to have our own identities beyond parenthood? That we need that or we’ll burn out? That it wasn’t bad that he wanted more time with me? That the opportunity for happiness only comes around so often and, having trashed my chance at a new job, I should at least seize this? Take the win?
I try to wrap my mind around what I just acknowledged: that Ethan may be able to offer me happiness.Long-term.
Is it possible that one woman’s Cliff is another woman’s Jamie? Is it possible that Ethan is right and I’m just scared?
It hits me then: I really,reallylike this guy.
My expression must soften, or at least furrow in contemplation, because he senses me coming over to his side. Takes a step toward me.
I bring a finger to my mouth, tap as I think.
“Sasha.”
My name.
The potential murderer takes another step toward me, sidestepping the football without a downward glance, like a parent pro. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Can we please at least give this a shot? Otherwise, I should probably leave. Because your shirt is see-through and it’s taken a Herculean effort not to look. Especially when you had your arms behind your back by the door.”
