Page 78 of Lighting the Lamp
The weight of those five words lands between us like a dropped stone—sinking fast, impossible to take back. Neither of them speaks, looking everywhere around the rink but at me.
“I mean it,” I say again, more to myself this time. “I needed to know if he really wanted me and not just someone to hold on to because everything else is falling apart.”
The unyielding silence stretches between us as Michele places her hand on my knee and Ramona wraps her arm around my shoulder, pulling me into her side. Neither of them rushes to fill the space with words or tries to comfort me as I slowly spiral.
I grip Michele’s hand like a lifeline, keeping my eye focused on the ice as a lump in my throat builds. “You disagree?”
“I think you did what you thought you had to do,” Ramona says gently. “But I also think you keep repeating it like you’re hoping it’ll finally feel true.”
I gasp audibly as my chest tightens. There’s something about hearing it out loud that catches me off guard. It’s like she’s picked the lock on a door I didn’t even realize I’d shut.
“I couldn’t be what he needed.”
“You didn’t even let him tell you what that was.”
“I was trying to protect him.”
“You’re allowed to be scared, Alise. But don’t confuse fear with sacrifice. You shut the door on someone who’s always left it open for you, and I think deep down, you know that.” Michele sighs, and it’s soft but heavy.
I stare into the lid of the cup, watching the faint curls of steam rise and fade. Searching for answers in the swirl.
“I know you knock PSLs, but to me, they’re like comfort in a cup. It was one of the first things I bought for myself when I got the job here because I wanted it. We were barely scraping by with Momma’s disability, and I needed this job.”
Neither of them interrupts me; they just let me get it all out. Not that I’m making any sense at all. What does my first PSL have to do with whatever is going on between me and Beau? I don’t have a clue, but the story pours out of me now.
“I was in leggings with a hole in the thigh, sneakers falling apart, and six dollars to my name. I spent almost all of that on this drink because I felt like I’d won something. I didn’t even like pumpkin then, but it was warm, sweet, and… safe. For ten whole minutes, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.”
I blink hard, trying to keep the tears from slipping over. A lump forms in my throat, thick and bitter. I wrap my hands tighter around the drink like I can absorb some of that old warmth, that fleeting safety.
“I think that’s what I wanted to be for him. That feeling. The soft place to land when everything else feels too loud or too much, but what if that’s all I am?”
My voice trembles as I let out a shaky breath and glance between them, raw and exposed.
“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s all I am to Beau—the pumpkin spice latte version of a person—comforting and familiar. A little basic, but good enough when things feel hard. What happens when he doesn’t need that anymore? When life isn’t heavy and everything hurts less?”
“Okay, well, now I feel like an asshole.” Ramona drops her head onto mine, her voice uncharacteristically gentle.
“You are an asshole,” I mutter. “But you’re my asshole.”
“You should’ve opened with that instead of letting me roast your nostalgic latte.”
“I have a feeling that’s why Beau wanted me to pick it up for you. You didn’t ask, but he knew you needed it.” Michele gives me a small knowing grin.
I did, even more than I realized and way more than I wanted to admit. The cup in my hands isn’t just coffee; it’s comfort. A small, unspoken kindness in a world that suddenly feels too loud and uncertain.
“I thought if I let him all the way in, I’d lose myself,” I whisper, the words clawing their way out as if they were waiting for someone to ask the right question.
Michele doesn’t look away. Her eyes don’t widen in shock or pity. She just sees me, and somehow that makes it harder to keep it together.
“And now?” she asks, so softly it barely stirs the air between us.
I stare into the swirl of foam on the surface of my drink like it holds answers I’m too scared to say aloud. Right now, I don’t know who I am without him. I miss the version of me that onlyexisted when he was around, and I’m scared I pushed away the one person who saw me and stayed.
“I think…” My voice catches slightly, but I clear my throat and try again. “I think I mistook safety for solitude and solitude for strength.”
Michele reaches over and squeezes my hand, no judgment or advice, just another comforting presence as I try to work through all the emotions swirling through my mind.
“And I don’t know how to fix it.”
