I’m not worthy.
As I turn the card over, staring at the bright blue, red, and yellow of the comic book couple, I know with a cold, stark certainty that I’m definitely not worthy of her.
But so what?
The woman wants me.
The woman loves me.
And I’d be a fool to throw this away.
I’d be an absolute idiot to take any longer to process anything at all in the world.
What kind of man walks away from this kind of love?
A stupid one.
I might be stubborn, I might be tortured now and then, and I am definitely, absolutely pigheaded.
But stupid? I am not.
I fold the card, tuck it into my wallet, and vow to keep it with me always. I don’t know what to say to her, and I still don’t know that I completely feel like this is okay. But at least I don’t feel that guilt. At least now I’m free of that.
I grab my phone and call Lulu.
It goes straight to voice mail.
I do it again.
Same response.
I flop down on the couch, read the note again, letting her words fill me with champagne happiness. Because that’s what this is.
The trouble is, I don’t want to sit here. I need to keep busy while I wait for her to call back. But I don’t want to run, or hit baseballs, or work on furniture.
I have business to tend to. Personal business. There’s someone I need to apologize to.
I find Vivian’s number and call her. She answers immediately, and I ask if I can come see her. She tells me I’m always welcome at her home.
Maybe I always will be, and perhaps that’s simply a good thing, not a thing to feel guilty about. In fact, it’s a great thing that I forged a friendship worthy of admiration and respect from a mother.
I pat my pockets to make sure I have my phone, keys, and wallet, when my gaze catches on that photograph of Tripp and me. I stare at it, seeing it in a new light, remembering that night.
Mesmerized, I step closer, like I’ve turned a flashlight on the faded edges of my memory.
That wasn’t just some night at his restaurant.
That was the night he opened it.
And I’d completely forgotten how special that night was to someone—someone who’s still here.
I grab the picture frame and catch a Lyft across town.
Vivian clutches the photo to her chest. “This I will cherish. This is something I wanted so badly. Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“No. It’s the most. I think of that night fondly. He was the happiest he’d ever been. That’s my memory. That’s what I choose to hold on to. Not the other stuff. Not the terrible things. But this night.” She taps the glass for emphasis.
“How did you get there?”
“Get where?”
“To this place. To your clarity. To embracing only the good.”
She laughs, the wise kind of laugh only a woman who’s been through hell can have. “Sit. I’ll make some tea.” She stage-whispers, “Tea’s the only acceptable drink for a serious conversation.”
She makes some, then we sit and drink and talk about funny moments, the little jokes, the times we all laughed over the years. We debate hellions and hell-raisers, and we decide Tripp was simply both.
It’s cathartic—a catharsis I needed.
“Vivian, I wanted to apologize.”
“Whatever for?”
“For yesterday. For the way the news all came out.”
