Page 82 of This Could Be Us
—bell hooks,All About Love: New Visions
Aday in the life of an influencer dating herself.
That could work as a title for my next post. My followers like seeing the times I carve out to be alone each week. I’m still blown away by how many of them have started their own “dating myself” journeys. I hope these times alone provide them with the same comfort and contemplation they afford me.
Walking through Skyland is a different experience on a Sunday morning at seven than at any other time. Shop windows are shuttered,CLOSEDsigns turned to the street, café tables stowed inside. The only signs of life are in nature, like a choir of birds waking up to sing their Sunday-morning hymns.
It’s nearly two miles from my house to Skyland Square, and I relish every step through the deserted cobbled streets. I pull in a bracing breath, let the cold air go to my head, and clear my jumbled thoughts. I like coming to Sky Park before the hard-core alfresco yoga girlies venture out. There’s a Sunday-morning class that meets here till Christmas, weather permitting. Bundled up and ready to pose and flex, they arrive around nine.
I’ll be long gone by then.
I walk through the high arched gate of Sky Park and find the limestone bench I’ve come to think of as mine. It’s planted in the shadow of a dogwood tree that flowers white for a few glorious weeks in spring and richly green in summer. A layer of autumn’s purple and red leaves blanket the ground, shed from the spindly branches stretching to the sky, naked and shivering in the early-morning chill.
I set my bag on the ground at my feet, sit on the bench, and close my eyes. The first few times I came here, it was hard to silence the voices in my head. The questions I don’t want to consider bombard me as soon as I’m not driving Lottie to gymnastics or taking the girls to school or cooking dinner or volunteering at Harrington. Or… and the list of things I’d rather think about than my mistakes goes on and on.
When conversing with the heart, expect it to talk back, to revisit the pains and disappointments that left the deepest dents and scratches.
Infidelity from a man you thought you knew will have you rethinking everything. Replaying each argument and reliving all the moments you saw one way but that surely had to be another. The voices in your head tell you it was because you took too long losing the weight after that last kid, or maybe it was him being in the delivery room. Some men never see their wives the same after that. You should have given him more blow jobs. Cooked better, cleaned better, anticipated his needs.
He wanted someone more ambitious.
No, more docile.
No, more outspoken.
Because he obviously wanted someone who wasn’t you.
It’s in these quiet moments, in these conversations with my heart, that I realize I can never take responsibility for someone else’s bad character. Edward made a vow and broke it, underestimated forever. He is the past. At this point the only questions I’m interested in are the ones about myself. Shouldn’t I have known? The fundamental question becomes notCan I trust another man again?, butCan I trustmyself?He was a bad man, yes, but was I a bad judge of character? And would I be again? What will I accept in my next relationship? Will therebeanother? What are my boundaries? My desires? My limits?
The answers surface in my heart, often surprising and sometimes frightening. Once I jot my thoughts down in my Sunday-morning journal, I rise, glancing at my watch to make sure I won’t be late for my reservation at Sunny Side. Yasmen, Hendrix, and I love this place, but I’ve started hitting it solo on my way home after the park. It opens at eight, and the first ten customers get the half-price early bird special. Best believe I’m always first in line. I requested a gift card to this place in exchange for meal prep for a busy neighbor. A week of meals in exchange for a Sunny Side gift card. If she’d given me cash, I would have found something for the family to spend it on. This time alone is a discipline I invest in, so each Sunday I use her gift card with its dwindling balance to meet myself here.
As soon as I’m seated at my small table by the window, overlooking the street, the server takes away the other place setting. It’s become my thing to grab a quick shot for the socials of me and my table for one, so I do that and then order my usual stack of buckwheat pancakes, turkey bacon, and two egg whites. There’s something bold about eating alone, enjoying your own company and not waiting fornobody.
I don’t linger today but pay for my cheap meal, gather my bag, and strike out for the short walk home. What a difference an hour makes. By nine, Skyland is buzzing with activity. The mimosa crowd is out and about. Pups walk their owners to the dog park. Strollers line the sidewalks as busy families venture out for a slice of leisure before the week revs up on Monday.
I take it all in, feeling rather zen by the time I reach my house.
“Forgot to check the mail,” I mutter, opening the box and pulling out a few letters. One name above a Boston address stops me in my tracks.
Oneida Barnes.
Dear God, what does my ex-mother-in-law want?
Keeping quiet because the girls sleep in hard on Sundays, I let myself in through the front door and make my way to the kitchen. I set my bag and the other correspondence on the counter. I take a stool and pick up the letter with a sigh. Edward’s mother and I have had very little contact since I “betrayed” him, as she likes to call it, by sharing information with the Feds.
“Maybe she’s finally breaking her silence through snail mail,” I say, sliding a nail under the envelope flap, “to let me know what a deceiving, backstabbing bitch I…”
A check flutters from the envelope and onto the counter.
“Five thousand dollars!” I stare at the check like it fell from space, and it may as well have, considering how little contact I’ve had with Edward’s mother. The memo line on this extraterrestrial check readsTuition for the girls.
There’s no note. The check is simply wrapped in her monogrammed stationery.
Relief and reluctance wrestle in the pit of my stomach. Relief because keeping this house and keeping two girls at Harrington are the banes of my existence. I’ve been tempted to send them to public school. That is not off the table. Lupe loves going to an Atlanta city school, but if I can keep Lottie and Inez where they have friends, love their teachers, and are thriving, I will for as long as I can. This money is right on time, but I hate that it comes from Oneida. I can’t help but wonder what she wants in return.
“Guess I should call to thank her,” I grouse to my empty kitchen, half hoping the cabinets will open and say,That won’t be necessary.
I pull up the contact I haven’t used in nearly a year and dial.