But what if we did figure it out?
I think of us in the canoe, laughing as easily as ever even though we hadn’t seen each other in a decade. I think of the air crackling with tension when we did a simple craft. I remember the heat leaping between us when we kissed, no part of us having forgotten how good it could be, each of us bringing more life experience to those kisses to make them even better.
Hotter.
Sweeter.
When my mind wanders back to the present, Jane is sitting, still and calm, like she can wait all day. I sigh. “How do I stop running?”
She gives me the biggest grin I’ve seen from her yet. “Nowyou’re asking the right question.”
***
It’s not as easy as just changing my mind, it turns out. Jane gives me several journal prompts along with strict orders not to judge anything I write. I spend days writing, sometimes curled up on my sofa, sometimes on Lookout Hill. Sometimes in my head when I’m strolling the farmer’s market for that day’s kitchen experiments.
The prompts force me to cover ground from “What sacrifices am I willing to make in a relationship?” to “Which relationships in my life do I respect?” But when I get to Jane’s office the following week, the final prompt is unanswered.
“How did it go?” she asks. “Any breakthroughs with the journal?”
I open it to the page with the blank prompt. “It went pretty well, I think. It was harder than I expected not to judge my own thoughts.”
“I agree,” she says. “That’s a pretty common discovery. What surprised you most?”
“I can’t answer this one.” I turn the notebook toward her. “What does being in love mean to you?”
“You found a stuck point.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think you’re stuck there?”
I scowl at the empty lines. “We both know why.”
“Dowe? I have a guess. I’d like to hear yours.”
I know the answer to this. I knew the second I started thinking about what I would write. But I can’t say it out loud for the same reason I couldn’t write it down; it makes it too real.
When I don’t answer after a minute, Jane asks, “Does answering scare you?”
I meet her eyes. “Yes. And I hate it. I’m a functional adult. Even a successful one. Why is that so hard to answer?”
“Why doyouthink?” Jane asks.
“Can I think about it?”
She smiles. “Do you really need to?”
I lean over and rest my elbows on my knees and head in my hands, running them through my hair over and over, not caring that it’s going to wreck it. I know why I don’t want to write or say the answer.
“I’m not ready.” The idea of talking this through makes my chest feel tight and the room too hot.
“Okay. I accept that you believe this is true. But let me ask you this: will avoiding the answer make it less true?”
“Yes.”
Jane suppresses a smile at my quick answer. “Let me rephrase: will answering it improve your life or make it worse?”
I keep my head down for a long time, pressing my fingertips along the lines and curves of my skull, over and over. Finally, I lean back against the sofa cushions. “I don’t know.”
