Chapter 9
Megan’s daughter was born in the fall.
I heard through Lena that the baby was healthy and that Daniel had been at the hospital. I was glad the child had people there for her.
I did not go.
A month later, Megan sent me a letter.
She had written before, but this was the first letter that did not ask me to understand her fear or remember our friendship. She said plainly that she had wanted to hurt me at Lena’s dinner. She admitted she had used what I told her in confidence to pull Daniel closer. She wrote that she was ashamed.
I read it once.
Then I put it in a drawer.
I believed she was sorry. I also knew I did not want to rebuild the friendship.
One Sunday, Ryan came to the bookstore with a box of books he had found while moving. They belonged to my mother’s old mystery club.
“She lent these to us years ago,” he said. “I should have returned them sooner.”
“She would have charged you a fine.”
“I brought pastries as payment.”
We put the books on the table and sorted them.
He had moved into an apartment of his own. He was taking a photography class, something Megan used to say he would never have time for.
“I like being bad at something without anyone judging me,” he said.
I laughed.
“I’d like to see your pictures.”
“Only when I get better.”
“Then I’ll have to wait a long time.”
He placed a hand over his heart.
“That was cruel.”
It felt good to joke.
We remained friends. Neither of us rushed to make that friendship stand for anything else.
At the bookstore, I started a monthly reading night for teenagers. Jules helped choose books. Tasha brought snacks. Lena showed up even when she had not finished the assigned chapters.
One girl told me she wanted to write but was afraid her family would read everything and laugh.
“You can write for yourself first,” I told her. “No one gets to read it until you decide.”
I heard my own words after I said them.
For so long, other people had tried to decide what my life meant. Megan called my hurt jealousy. Daniel called silence protection. Strangers online picked sides from a photograph of a dinner they had never attended.
I got to name my own experience.
In December, Daniel asked if we could speak by phone. I agreed.
He told me his daughter’s name was Hope. He said he was learning how to change diapers and survive on little sleep.
“I’m glad she’s well,” I said.
“She is.”
He hesitated.
“I wanted to thank you for not making her part of what happened between us.”
“She wasn’t responsible.”
“I know. I wasn’t sure I acted like I knew that at first.”
“You have a chance to be present for her now.”
“I intend to.”
We wished each other well and ended the call.
I sat for a moment afterward. I felt sadness, but it no longer pulled the floor from under me.
On Christmas Eve, Tasha and her family came to my house. Ryan and Lena joined us for dinner. We ate too much, opened books as gifts, and played a game nobody understood.
Tasha stayed behind to help clean.
“Do you miss the old holidays?” she asked.
“Some parts.”
“I do too.”
“I like this one.”
She put the last glass away.
“Me too.”
Later, I stood in the green room. The chair by the window held a stack of new books. Mom’s photograph sat beneath a small lamp.
May you like
I was no longer waiting for that room to become what Daniel and I once imagined. It had become a place where I liked spending time.
I turned out the light and went to bed.
