Twice Shy, Sarah Hogle [100 books to read in a lifetime .txt] 📗

It goes like this:

Wesley carries a crapload of stuff out of the house, and I make him put it in the Inspection Station (it’s the spot near a shrub that’s shaped kind of like a flamingo). I sort out anything salvageable into Keep and Donate piles. A sticker book I saved from the hoard has found new use designating what to do with it all.

Wesley delivers three more boxes to the Inspection Station and braces himself for interaction with a sharp inhale. “Does the yellow sticker mean ‘donate’?”

“It means ‘keep.’”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Be reasonable. You can’t possibly expect me to part with everything.”

“Me be reasonable?” He points to himself. “Me?” Wesley leans across me suddenly, causing me to jerk back, and extracts a sweatshirt from the pile. It’s older than I am, a paisley crime against fashion in brown, orange, and mustard yellow. “What are you going to do with this?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to wear it.” I’m still recovering from almost being touched by him, even though it was accidental and meant nothing. And also didn’t happen.

“Really,” he deadpans.

“It’s vintage.”

“There are, no exaggeration, hundreds of vintage clothes in the house. You’ve got to narrow it down. Be a little more discerning.”

“Says who?” He isn’t my boss. I’ve never seen this much stuff in my life, and I can’t believe it’s all mine. Most of my shirts have the Around the Mountain Resort & Spa logo on them, since I got a discount at the gift shop and gift shop clothes were a trendier, management-approved alternative to the staff uniform (blue pin-striped hat and overalls, which management stressed the importance of wearing while dodging the dress code themselves).

I grab a velour skirt from the box he just put down. It has a few holes, but I could patch them up easily with one of Violet’s (twelve and counting) sewing machines. “Oooh, I want this, too.” I swipe a Sonny & Cher shirt with a (broken) zipper that goes up and down the turtleneck and Wesley pinches the bridge of his nose.

What a Grinch. If anybody’s going about this the wrong way, it is him, ignorer of Wish #1. Violet held on to her belongings for a long time, so I can’t picture her being thrilled with our tossing out too much. If I can find a use for something, then I will. Wesley walks away shaking his head, and even though we don’t know each other and his opinion shouldn’t affect me, I can’t help but feel like I’m failing a test of adulthood.

I was fifteen years old when my mother was thirty, so that number used to feel a lot older to me, practically middle-aged. Watching Julie’s decision-making was a lesson in what not to do. I thought I’d surely be married to my soul mate by thirty, not necessarily with a teenage daughter in tow but definitely a slew of pets, living happily ever after in a cute cul-de-sac Cape Cod. I’d have a walk-in closet with sophisticated pencil skirts and chiffon scarves. A dependable best friend who was always there for me, thick or thin—a fiery, independent businesslady who brought out my sassy side (I hoped to develop such a side one day). We’d drink wine and laugh. Commiserate. She and her husband would double-date with me and mine, a perfect quartet. Perhaps she deserved it, perhaps she didn’t, but I judged my mom back in the day because I compared our lives to these arbitrary markers of success and wondered how she could be so careless. Like she could have had it all, if only she’d wanted it enough.

I’m now at the age my mom was when I thought she was a letdown and it’s terrifying to still be in this stage, bewildered, guessing my way through life on shaky baby-deer legs. No soul mate husband, no down-for-a-good-time best friend. Too many failures to speak of. So much of living is struggling instead of enjoying. And where’s the utopia I thought society would have leveled up to by now? Somebody sold me a bridge.

To prove that I’m capable of parting with material possessions if I want to, I make sure Wesley watches me throw away two whole bags. The bags are actually filled with other bags, but he doesn’t have to know that. When I catch his eye, I get that pang again. That oof right to the chest, when, for a split second, before the scowls and the curt responses, Jack McBride could be real. I miss knowing somebody out there cared if I didn’t text for a couple days. My daydream world floats nearby like a lifeboat, ready and waiting for me to drift away, but I’m a masochist today. I want that pang again. I want to hold his gaze for just a little bit longer and pretend he’s someone who cares. I am a sad, pitiful lady.

“When did she paint the house gray?” I ask.

Wesley frowns (it’s his default expression, but he has the standard I hate everything frown and the deliberate I hate you personally frown that he goes back and forth between). “What do you mean?” Glances at the house. “It’s always been gray.”

He turns around, already moving beyond the conversation. How can he not be as lonely as I am? How can he not be starved for human attention?

“It was pink when I was a kid,” I insist, unwilling to let him go.

The permanent frown doesn’t abate but there’s a subtle shift, agitation crossing into confusion. “How’s that possible? I’ve seen pictures from ten, twenty, thirty, forty years ago—it’s gray in all of them.”

“It was definitely pink when I was ten.”

The corners of his mouth turn down, hardening in place. He doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m off my rocker.

“That one isn’t so bad,” he says, eyes cutting to the pool of red sequined fabric in my hands. I didn’t notice I’d drawn it