My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

18.

Everything is spinning, spinning, spinning out of control. I’m strapped into one of those Tilt-A-Whirl rides you see at traveling carnivals. But it’s turning much too fast, and I can’t get it to stop. Charlie is seated directly across from me, but his face is a blur. Then, moments later, he’s standing nearby, hands in his pockets. How did he get out? I’m too dizzy to undo my strap. For a moment, the woman on the ride is not me but Charlie’s late wife Bet, and I’m witnessing an episode of her vertigo. But then the rider is me again, and it’s not only Charlie on the sidelines. Henry has joined him at the perimeter of the ride and watches me, laughing. I try shouting to them for help, but my voice comes out in an incoherent squeak no one can hear. When I awaken from this nightmare, my gut is clenched with anxiety.

I try to shake off the dream and attribute my unease to the Monday morning blues that sometimes descend when I face a challenging work week ahead. But the feeling persists even after my early phone conference. The call is routine, even upbeat. The editorial plans for the next issue are ahead of schedule, advertising revenue is up, and the workload is slackening as we head into summer, when we only publish two issues instead of three.

Clearly, the anxiety has nothing to do with my job.

I decide to take my beach walk right away instead of waiting until late afternoon. The daily walk remains my favorite vehicle for clearing my head and thinking through personal issues, and that needs to take priority right now. Besides, I don’t want to run into Charlie at the club yet. First, I need to figure out why I’m anxious. It’ll be better when I sort myself out. But as I maintain a brisk walking pace along the shore, I concede I’m growing worse, not better. The more I try to identify what’s nagging at me, the more I despair over the indisputable source of my anxiety.

It’s Charlie. Dear, funny, smart, sexy Charlie. Why did he have to go and spoil everything by falling in love with me?

Granted, he didn’t use the “l” word last night, but he might as well have said it. I harken back to those trembling shoulders and the whispered words about what’s happening between us. Maybe I shouldn’t be so rattled by his display of emotion. I guess a guy like Charlie is way more into feelings than the average American male. I once read a study concluding that devotees of literary fiction are more empathetic and attuned to emotions. I reason that a writer of literary fiction should be exponentially more sensitive.

But though Charlie may want to take things to the next level, I can’t go down that path. Not this soon. Not when I’m still settling into my own space after Henry’s departure. Even when Charlie revealed his innermost feelings about his wife’s death, I refused to discuss my own marriage, keeping him at bay with my flippant “sore subject” excuse. Surely that must be a sign that I’m not ready. A serious liaison with Charlie—with anyone—would undercut my well-constructed game plan. I think last night’s dream was a warning that I’m getting in too deep. It’s different for him. He’s had three and a half years to rebuild his life. I haven’t had half that long.

Then I think, the poor man. After what he’s been through with his wife, here I am adding to his pain. Though I’m sorry for Charlie, I’m sorry for myself too. These last weeks with him have been filled with laughter and warmth and the joy of sexual reawakening. It will be wrenching to give all that up, but I don’t see any other way forward. As long as it was fun and games, I could have continued. But this business of something important . . . something worth nurturing goes perilously beyond fun.

I now recognize my big error in judgment. I mistook levity of spirit for levity of feeling.

. . .

With the confusion cleared from my head, it’s time to act before I lose my nerve, or my willpower, or both. I glance at the time on my cellphone. With any luck, Charlie will finish up a yoga class soon. I’ll intercept him at the club and figure out a place where we can talk in private.

About thirty minutes later, I find him on the upper deck, staring out at the cloudy morning sky. The shoreline is shrouded in gray once again, with no end to the June gloom in sight. He wears a pensive expression as if he senses trouble. “Morning,” I say.

“Good morning. Finished with your conference call?”

“Yes, it ended about an hour ago. Did you get any writing done?”

“No. As you can see, I came here instead. Procrastination is my middle name.”

“Charlie. Can you take a little walk around the harbor with me? We need to talk.”

He frowns at me. “Uh-oh. I’ve always regarded ‘we need to talk’ as one of the top entries in the lexicon of unwelcome phrases. I rank it right up there with ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ and ‘I’m referring you to an oncologist.’”

I laugh. Maybe we can keep it light after all. Maybe there’s no need to make a complete break. Charlie and I can become friends with benefits or something along those lines.

But no. I have to go through with this.

He takes my hand in his as we walk, and I don’t draw back from his cool grasp. We glance at the docked sailboats, the seagulls, the gray horizon as I deliver my unhappy speech. We don’t look each other in the eye. I regret to say the theme of my breakup message is “it’s not you, it’s me.” I assure Charlie he’s a terrific guy who has done nothing wrong – in fact, most women would jump at an opportunity to win the affection of a man like him. But bad luck for Charlie, I am not most women. I’m a sorry wreck of an old girl who is still in emotional retreat after a long and unsuccessful marriage. I hope like hell he believes what I say because I mean every word. And I hope it makes my news a little easier for him to swallow.

Finally, he gives me a direct look as he says, “I have to ask. Does your decision have anything to do with—with what took place on the yoga mat? Did I cross a line?”

I say, “Oh no, Charlie, I swear that wasn’t a factor in the least. Honestly, what happened there—it took my breath away.” In my mind, though, he crossed a different line last night – an unmarked boundary between casualness and caring, between detachment and commitment.

“Ah, well. I’m glad I didn’t frighten you off with any excessively kinky moves.” He smiles at me, but his eyes are sad. “As with every cloud, I guess there’s a silver lining.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll be more focused on my writing again. Being in your company has been delightful but also distracting.”

“What’s the new book about?”

“It’s a love story. The beauty of writing about love is that you can mold it into any size and shape and color. It can be rough or smooth, it can be tragic or comic; you get to choose the outcome. But when you experience love in real time, all that control goes out the window.”

So now he is using the “l” word. Charlie starts to turn away, but then he spins around to face me again. “Mar, I have to ask one more thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“What you said before, about it taking your breath away . . .”

“Yes?”

“If it took your breath away, why run from it?”

“Because—because I can’t afford to be breathless right now.” Though I don’t share this with Charlie, what I crave above all is breathing room, not breathlessness. I want controlled yoga breaths that warm and soothe me with a calming rhythm. I want a heart that beats with the cautious tempo of a metronome set at lento, my pulse immune to any sensual shocks that might send it racing. Slow and steady – that’s the pace I’ll maintain, going forward.

Give me liberty and give me breath.