Page 61 of Lessons in Lemonade

Fuck my life.

I have a sinking feeling this isn’t going to end well for me, but I can’t stop the direction I’m heading. It’s too late. After tonight, after this, there’s no going back. She’s either mine or she isn’t; there’s no in between—not for me, not anymore—and I can’t pretend there is.

I’m all in with this girl. I just hope she’s all in with me.

Hushpuppies

WHITE: THE COLOR that stares down at me as I lie in Jack’s bed looking at the ceiling. Yes, I know ninety-five percent of ceilings are white, but it’s this whiteness that has my thoughts racing from one thing to the next. The ceiling fan is on medium speed, and as the blades blur into a circle, I realize here in the early morning light that although I wanted things to go back to normal, now I’m certain they never will. I find I’m mourning what we used to have, not dreaming about what might be.

I told myself just once, but now that’s turned into twice. Even I am logical enough to know there’s not really such a thing as friends with benefits, so why I crossed the line again, I just don’t know. I allowed myself to get swept up in the moment, in the reprieve of the emotional distress we’d been skirting for days, but I know this is going to do more damage than good. No matter how great it felt, no matter how wonderful he feels, no matter how much I’m beginning to wish things could be different.

Turning my head, I continue to lie completely still. Jack is sleeping, and I don’t want to disturb him. His face is so relaxed and his features are so familiar to me that I could get lost in them, but I won’t. I can’t. I also don’t want him to wake and see the emotions I know are present on my face. Regret. Longing. Admiration. Fear.

Fear, like the white ceiling, spurs on a memory, one I do my best not to think of daily.

It’s funny how different moments alter and shape people’s lives, and it’s also funny how some moments shine clear and bright while others fade. I remember when my high school boyfriend broke up with me after we left for college, I remember the moment my parents told me they were moving to Florida, leaving this life behind, and I remember my acceptance email to culinary school. These are just a few, but with each of them, I don’t remember very much else. The time of day, what I was wearing or ate that day, or even what style my hair was in—I went through phases of highlights, purple strands, and even an attempted keratin treatment to smooth it out and make it straight.

However, I do remember just about everything from when I was told I had cancer.

First of all, I had gone to see the doctor at the student health complex. That’s where we went for flu shots, gynecological exams for birth control, whatever. It was after I explained my symptoms and she did a routine exam—you know, where they have you lie back on the table and they push around on your stomach—that she recommended I see an actual gynecologist. The staff scheduled the appointment for me. I was to have blood work taken first thing in the morning, stop by imaging for an ultrasound, and then see this new doctor afterward.

It was at this appointment I was told there was a mass on my left ovary and they needed to do a laparotomy to see what was going on. I didn’t ask the question I should have and they didn’t mention what I suddenly feared, so I blocked it out of my head and went about making plans for the surgery.

Three days later, my aunt came with me, and she was the one holding my hand when the doctor came in and said cancer. I think I was expecting bad news, but I didn’t think it would be cancer. Cancer is one of those things you know happens and affects people, but you never think it’ll happen to you. Did you know only two percent of ovarian cancer sufferers are under the age of thirty?

The room was bland and beige with a dark green chair. There was a generic sailboat picture on the wall, and I was wearing a red shirt. I remember as my aunt started asking questions about what happens next, a blanket of realization came over me: I’m going to die.

Having actually verbalized the words, the doctor assured us that since we had caught it early, survival rates were high. Apparently, the type of ovarian cancer someone in their twenties gets is likely to be one of the more uncommon but more treatable types. While they stared at me, waiting for me to ask more questions, the only other one I wondered was, Does this mean I won’t be able to have children?

Children.

It’s not normal to think about having children at twenty-one—if anything the goal is prevention, to not have them—and now there I was, being forced to talk about my potential future, one I wasn’t sure of, one I now didn’t have any control over.

With my world spinning, I felt out of control, and I desperately needed something to hang on to. So, that night, while lying in bed, I decided I would determine how I reacted to this, to life, to my life, and how I pushed through. Several times over the next couple of months, I made heartfelt promises to myself, and so far, years later, I haven’t broken any of them.

For breakfast, my aunt made my favorite blueberry scones with lemon glaze. I’ve never worn a red shirt again, my hair was too long so I kept it braided, and the ceiling was white just like this one now.

Closing my eyes, I run my hand over my face to block out the whiteness and the memories, and I breathe him in. His room smells so male, like dryer sheets, a sporty body wash, and sandalwood. I love this smell, and as for him, my heart aches for the conversations I know we’re going to have later today.

Slipping quietly out of the bed, I head upstairs to my room and then into the shower. The warm water eases the soreness of my muscles, and with my forehead resting on the wall and the steam surrounding me, I allow myself to replay images of the night.

Large warm hands, which he whispered he couldn’t keep off of me, sweeping the length of me, gripping when needed and tender when not. Embraces so tight and so intimate I’m certain I could hear his heart whispering to mine. Ownership as we each handed over our most exposed selves, knowing the vulnerability in this was met with complete trust.

In a different world, if I were a different person, it would be so easy to let myself fall. But I haven’t and I won’t, because we’re just not written in the stars. I’ve had to make hard decisions before, and I can do it again. He’ll see reason, if he hasn’t already, and I’m not going to waver. We can only be just friends.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I dry off and dress to go to work. Distance this morning will be good for us, and it’ll give him time to clear his head. I’m prepared to deal with the fallout later, but what I’m not prepared for is having to answer questions now. A look of betrayal from him and what I’m certain will be a wounded heart is not something I can handle.

A need to see him one more time before I head out rises inside me, and although I shouldn’t, I tiptoe down the hallway to peek into his room. What I find is him awake, facing my side of the bed, with his arm stretched out where I was not too long ago. Dark tired eyes stare at me as I stand in the doorway, and as he processes what I’m wearing, his brows pull down and his forehead wrinkles.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his voice deep and rumbly with sleep.

“I need to run over to the restaurant for a little while.” It’s a lie—I don’t really need to go in—but the space will be good for both of us.

“Now?” He doesn’t need to look at a clock to know it’s still very early in the morning.

“Yeah. I was awake, so I figured why not.” I shift my weight from one foot to another; the floor is cold.

There’s a long pause as he considers what I’ve said. He’s replaying in his mind how I told him last night at dinner that I wasn’t needed at the restaurant today as it’s a slower day and I was certain Taylor would have it covered.