How could I have been so wrong about Lawrence?
How could I have so massively misread his intentions?
I bite my bottom lip, willing away the stinging in my eyes. I refuse to cry again. I haven’t cried this much since Gramps’s funeral, and that was a real loss.
But…I guess this is, too. I felt so hopeful last night, so certain that I’d found an amazing guy. Just like the last time I was stupid enough to let Lawrence Beverly into my bed.
But it’s not the same, my inner voice insists. He’s texted five times, Lucy. He clearly wants to talk things over. Call him, see what he has to say for himself. You owe him that much. Hell, you owe yourself that much. Don’t be such a scaredy-cat.
I wrap the blanket more tightly around me. That’s the really awful part about falling in love—it reveals how vulnerable you truly are. I try to be so strong, so capable; the granddaughter my grandparents could depend on as they aged and needed more help, and a person my community can count on to volunteer and give back.
But giving back is easy, really. Giving back always feels good. Even if one of the shelter cats I’m helping socialize takes a swipe at me, or an old man at the free food pantry cusses me out for giving him two helpings of “peas instead of beets, when I clearly said beets, girl,” I don’t get upset.
Because I’m not there for my own benefit. I’m there to make others feel good and to hopefully make their hard lives a little easier to bear. If they’re thankful to me for my time and commitment, that’s great. But if they’re not, that’s fine, too. There are no conditions on love in those situations. It’s just there, spilling out of me.
So why does romantic love have to be so hard? Why does it tie me up in such terrible knots? Maybe I expect too much from men. Things I don’t expect from cranky old men or feral cats.
But I should expect more from a mate than a stranger or an animal. This is a person I’m going to be intimate with in so many ways. Someone who will get close to me, who I will grow to depend on, and who will make me really, really sad when he goes away.
Everyone I love goes away. Mostly, they die—my parents, my grandparents, my sweetest, bestest dog, Sally, who slept in my bed every night until eighth grade. But sometimes they just…leave.
Like Bill and so many of my close friends from high school, who grew up and flew the Mercyville nest and gradually stopped responding to emails or making plans to visit. Sure, they still like my posts on social media, but it’s not the same. And it hurts. Not that I don’t appreciate the likes and comments, but I want to see my friends in person. I want to hear a voice, see a smile, feel arms around me as we hug goodbye.
I’ve been so lonely since my grandparents died, and Bill moved away. They were all the family I had in the world, and now they’re all gone.
And yes, Emma is becoming a good friend, and I have a handful of friends I grab coffee with on a regular basis, but I haven’t let anyone get truly close to me in a long time. It’s too damned scary.
And I guess that’s why a part of me was almost relieved I got that text this morning. That part—the terrified part—is grateful for an excuse not to get any closer to Lawrence, not to take the risk, no matter how great the reward might be.
And that’s the part that’s refused to answer any of Lawrence’s texts.
Gramps would be so disappointed.
He didn’t raise a coward.
Or a miser.
Love isn’t a finite resource. If I fall for Lawrence and it doesn’t work out, I can try again. I can meet someone new and give forever another chance. I’m never going to run out of love, and somewhere out there, the perfect-for-me person is waiting, needing everything I have to give.
But it’s so hard to think about anyone but Lawrence right now. When I close my eyes, it’s his face I see floating in the gray behind my lids, and his voice I hear in my head, whispering that he fancies me as I drift off to sleep in his arms.
Burrowing my hand under the blanket into my coat pocket, I tug out my cell. I’m in the process of pulling Lawrence’s number from my missed calls when Emma shouts from the kitchen, “Lucy! Get in here! Quick!”
The urgency in her voice sends me vaulting from the couch and dashing into the kitchen to find her bouncing in front of a small television on the counter by the microwave. It’s tuned to the local news, and a reporter is saying something about a holiday mystery as the camera pans across a shot of downtown Mercyville.