Page 70 of Beautifully Messy
No. I want more than survival.
I want a life thatmovesme.
Jules once said the universe sometimes hands you a truth so obvious it splits you wide open. So clear you can’t hide from it anymore. And Vera’s truth is screaming at me, impossible to ignore.
Twenty-One
Iwakebeforethesun, pulled out of sleep by a restlessness I can’t shake.
The world is hushed, bathed in the soft hues of pre-dawn with shades of blue and lavender bleeding into each other. Cold air sharpens my senses as I run, each footfall crunching against the snow-packed road.
The family is planning to ski today. Anna and I are on our own, unless a certain green-eyed man decides not to go.
Can I let myself have a day with him if he stays behind? The thought of uninterrupted hours—after the sunroom, the sketchbook, and Vera’s conversation—makes my heart race with more anticipation than fear.
What happens without the buffer of family?
As I near the driveway, a shrill voice slices through the stillness, stopping me in my tracks. I slip toward the edge of the woods, not wanting to interrupt.
“What do you mean you’re not coming skiing?” Ivy’s voice is sharp with disbelief.
James, ever calm but firm, replies, “I don’t enjoy skiing. I’ve mentioned this before. You’re welcome to go. I’ll hang here and read.”
“But…” She cuts herself off, unable to say what’s on her mind. She knows I’m not going. “Okay, love. You can make it up to me and sleep in my room tonight.” Her hands slide up to his face as she pulls him down. “No more sleeping in the guest room, it’s silly. We're engaged.”
Instead of looking away, I watch her rise on her toes and kiss him. His hands stay at his sides, letting the quick press of lips pass.
“Have fun,” he says, and starts up the porch stairs.
“James,” she calls out. When he stops, mid-step, she hesitates. Almost like she regrets calling after him. Then she says, “Is everything okay?”
“Can we enjoy the holiday and talk about all of this stuff later?” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to tame the mess, the guilt.
“Sure.” Her back is to me, but I imagine her face matches the resigned tone to her voice. “I’ll see you tonight.” She drops her head and drags her boots through the snow, kicking at it as she walks toward the back.
He stands there staring off into the distance without moving a muscle. It’s too far for me to see his face, but I can imagine the tight set of his jaw, guilt warring in his chest. His clipped tone and closed-off demeanor I just witnessed are so far from the man he is with me.
Conversations and relationships take two people, and Ivy has played her part. It takes two people to build a relationship on half-truths. And I get it. I really do. Sometimes not knowing feels easier than facing what it might mean.
Guilt gnaws my insides as I slink back, leaning against a tree. I’ve known Ivy since she was eighteen. But I can’t keep twisting myself around her choices.
Maybe all these splinters, all these fissures, come from the fact that we’re living double lives: the one in our heads, full of desires and dreams, and the one we're living out loud. For me, it’s always been this way.
What would happen if those lives aligned?
If my actual life reflected what I have only dared to imagine?
Today might give me a glimpse, because he’s staying. The cold air can’t compete with the heat growing in my chest.
I move through the rhythm of our morning routine: diaper, clothes, milk, each step familiar and grounding. A soft contrast to the buzz of anticipation thrumming beneath my skin.
Mason offers a curt good morning, his eyes briefly darting to my bare neck before he disappears for his beloved day of skiing. He leaves without a glance back, still nursing his wounded pride.
With the house empty, I take my time getting dressed. I want to feel like myself. Not a tired mom, but the confident Sydney who at twenty-five would walk into a dark pool den and challenge any guy to a game. The woman who survived her teenage years in France.
Sans peur. Without fear.
I pull on jeans, the soft denim hugging my curves. An oversized sweater, the color of a winter sky at dusk, slips off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of skin. It’s not a drastic departure from my usual look, but it’s also a quiet declaration. I’m not dressed for a day of toddler play.
