Page 18 of Lessons in Lemonade
“I know. I should have canceled—my left foot had been hurting since we got back from the race and I had just worked all day in the kitchen—but hearing him talk about this was so far out there, I was humored to sit there for another two hours. Besides, as it was my resolution, I’m not quitting now when I’m so close to the end.”
“Good for you,” Michelle says supportively.
“My left foot is still killing me.” I wince. “Next year, we need to find a pair of heels where we can slide in a built-in arch support.”
“Wait, did you say heels? As in you ran that race you posted about in heels and not tennis shoes?” Jack asks with raised brows.
“Yep! This was our fifth year running it.” Shelby and I lock eyes again across the table, and the love between us shines bright as our dinner guests remain silent, letting us have the moment.
“I think I’m missing something here,” Jack interrupts. “Why in the world would you choose to run a race in high heels? I mean there are so many races out there—that one just seems like torture on top of the torture of running.”
The table falls silent again as all eyes turn toward me. Cue the elephant in the room. It’s not that I mind talking about it—after all, in many ways it defines who I am—but I know the big C word makes a lot of people uncomfortable.
Jack follows the lead of my friends and turns to look at me, too. He lays his fork down and his forehead wrinkles in confusion.
Looking up at him, I’m proud as I tell him, “We run this race because they support me, and it supports ovarian cancer.”
“Oh, did someone in your family have it?” he asks.
I want to look away, but I don’t, not yet. This is my story, and it’s an amazing one. “Sort of—I had it. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer when I was twenty-one. I’m in complete remission, and we do our part to give back, even if it’s just a small part.”
He shifts in his chair and looks at me, like really looks at me. I briefly smile and hold his gaze, but I end up looking back at my plate and resume eating. Everyone follows suit.
Up until now, I really liked the way Jack looked at me, and I don’t want to see the shift. I can’t see the shift. Shelby, bless her, breaks the silence and starts rambling on about the money the winery raised this year and her poor feet.
The thing is, people don’t understand. It’s like once they hear you’ve had cancer, you’ll always have it, despite the fact that they also need to hear the cancer is gone. They need to hear that I’m cancer-free. Otherwise, they aren’t sure how to talk to me, treat me, or really interact with me. It changes things. It’s like I suddenly become fragile, and I don’t want to be fragile. I just want to be normal and live my life as if it’s normal, even if my version of normal is different than others’.
Turkey Brine
CANCER.
As if I wasn’t already in awe of this girl, she just moved herself to up-on-a-pedestal status. I knew she was strong, ambitious, and kind, but this kind of strength and life experience adds to what I already know about her, and I’m kind of speechless.
Of course I have a ton of questions I want to ask her, but considering I am the only one at the table who didn’t know, questions will have to wait—assuming she’ll even want to answer them.
After dinner, we move into the living room, we each find a comfortable place to crash, and we watch football—hours and hours of it. With a full stomach and the sliding glass doors open to let in the cool air, it’s the perfect day, which bleeds into the perfect night.
We all stay up way too late drinking wine, eating dessert, and laughing. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much and felt so content in one place. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a holiday and holidays pull out the sentimentality in us, or if it’s that I’m with her. Either way, there is nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here, with these people.
Shelby decided since it’s just for one night, both of us would be better off in the main house versus down in the cottage, so she’s prepared Meg’s and my rooms in the east wing. It’s where I always stay when I come to visit, so I lead the way when we all decide to call it a night. It still cracks me up to say east wing, but this place is huge.
“I’m happy you enjoyed the dinner today,” she says, looking over at me with her clear smoky gray eyes as she detours for the sitting area.
“Are you kidding? If I could have gotten away with it without being made fun of for the rest of my life, I would have licked the plate and then crawled out of the room. I was so stuffed.”
She smiles, and something in my chest pinches. I like making her smile.
“Just whisk me away with your magic wand. Pun intended . . .”
Her smile grows even more as she releases her hair from the mess it’s in on the top of her head. Dark curls tumble down around her shoulders, and then just as quickly as it’s down, she’s swooped it back up.
“What was your favorite thing?” She takes a seat on the couch, pulls a throw blanket over her lap, and pats the spot next to her. The sitting room isn’t large. There’s a couch, a coffee table, and two chairs on the other side. One wall is a bookshelf filled with all sorts of things, on the other is a fireplace, and the outer wall has windows overlooking the back of the property and French doors to the porch.
“The bread pudding with bourbon sauce,” I answer easily, sitting down and picking up a remote from the table to turn on the fireplace. It flares to life, and warmth immediately spreads throughout the room. I should be heading to bed as I’m one of those who desperately needs sleep and I have an early flight, but who knows when I’ll see her again. I like her company too much to miss out.
“Really? I thought you were a pie guy,” she says, giving me a sly grin. Thoughts of the social media photos where she commented and made fun of me come to mind, and I smile back at her.
“I’m an everything guy, but that bread pudding was something else.” And it was. I also know she made the pudding, not Shelby, and while I’m with her, I’m going to do my damnedest to make her happy. I see I’ve done so as her eyes light up.
