Page 69 of Lessons in Lemonade

“Really?” She crosses her arms over her chest and pops one eyebrow up. The cold has started to sink into my clothes, but it doesn’t seem to be affecting her at all.

The thing is, no matter how much everyone seems to think we were dating, we weren’t. Did we cross the line a few times, yes, and did we catch feelings, maybe, but the bottom line is that we were never going to be something permanent, and I can’t just waste my days away. Time is precious, and I owe it to myself to keep living life to the fullest. I locked those feelings away; I had to.

“Look, I have to go,” I tell her, not wanting to argue. She won’t understand, no matter how much I try to explain why, even though I don’t need to explain myself to anyone.

“I wish you wouldn’t. You are making a mistake.” Her arms and her shoulders sag.

Am I? Am I making a mistake? I thought moving on was what normal people did. Granted, my perception of normal was altered years ago, but this is how you do this—or at least this is how I do it.

People don’t understand that a cancer survivor’s definition of normal is a bit different than that of someone who has never faced their mortality. That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad, it just takes some time to adjust, and if I’m honest with myself, I’m still adjusting. That said, I’ve given myself parameters for what normal looks like for me, and I’m okay with them. I’ve always owned the promises I’ve made to myself, and although not every day is a good day, I’ve given myself grace to know that the next day will be. It has to be, and I have to keep going.

Yes, I choose to live a life that views the glass as half full, but do I still have moments when I’m by myself where I’m not strong and fearless? Of course I do. That’s part of my normal, my unique version of what defines normal, and although I’ve had to give in to the fact that these moments will happen, I also use them to fuel me from day to day. That’s exactly what I’m doing with the feelings I had about Jack leaving. I worked through them—I’m still working through them—but I also took a long look at what it must have felt like for him, and I’m doing my best to let go. I have to. It’s for the best. For seven years I’ve worked very hard to maintain a sense of stability and a rejection of complacency, and I’m not going to stop now.

We only get one life, and each of us has to choose how we live it.

Letting out a sigh, I know there’s nothing more to say. Not needing to explain myself any more, I push past her and exit the cooler. The staff is quiet as I grab my bag, thank them for the great day, and say good night. I hate that in the span of five minutes, I’ve gone from being excited about meeting someone new to feeling guilty. I’m not doing anything wrong.

Moving through the restaurant, I’m lost in my head as I approach the hostess stand, and then my eyes catch on blond hair, flawless skin, a lean build, and blue eyes. He is quite possibly one of the hottest guys I have ever seen—outside of Jack, that is. Curses! I don’t want to think about Jack.

Jack.

My Jack.

My heart frowns at the inaccuracy of that.

Not my Jack.

That same Jack didn’t look back. That same Jack dropped me like hot cakes. That same Jack is posting pictures of him with Zeus, and him out to dinner and laughing with his friends, and on a boat fishing with his shirt off and a large sun hat on. That same Jack told me he loved me then made moving on look effortless. That same Jack—if I’m being honest with myself—broke my heart.

Moving to stand in front of my six-foot-tall date, I feel his eyes take me in from head to toe. By the time they find their way back to mine, my frowning heart has filled with an uneasiness, and a wrongness settles in.

“Hi. You must be Jack—I mean Jason! Sorry.” I hold my hand out for him to take.

He smiles at me and slides his hand into mine. It’s warm, nice, but alarm bells start going off in my head that it’s the wrong hand and I don’t want him touching me.

Why is this happening to me?

Oh, I know—Taylor and her meddling ways!

“And you must be Meg,” he says, his smile so large and kind. Immediately I notice he doesn’t have dimples. Why am I looking for dimples? If I could slap my hand on my forehead and not look ridiculous, I would.

“Yep.” It’s the only word I can get out as my throat seems to have completely closed and my lips won’t move. I feel like an inadequate idiot.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, so genuinely.

“You too. Are you ready?” I need him out of the restaurant and both of us out from under so many condemning eyes.

“You lead the way.” He steps aside and lets me walk out the door first. I don’t turn around, don’t look at any of my staff’s faces; I just can’t bring myself to do it. I thought this was a good idea, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t understand. Is there some sort of unspoken timeline about these things? Because if not now, when?

The word never floats through my mind, and I cringe.

Jason falls into step next to me. “OBA is a great restaurant. When you said to meet you here, I was kind of hoping we would be staying to eat.”

I’m not sure why I’m surprised by this, but I am. “You’ve eaten at OBA?”

“I have. Do you work there?” he asks, keeping the conversation going.

I want to feel a sense of pride like I normally do, but images of Jack’s face as he came to meet me for a late lunch, hovered over me in the kitchen while I was cooking, painted the ceiling, and worked magic with the magnolias flash through my mind. Pain ricochets through me as my heart trips in my chest.