Why I Love Singlehood: (40 page)

After laser tag, we took over two tables at Mia’s Pizza, and from there we went next door to the bowling alley that sported an embarrassingly large bar and “flashback disco bowling” every third Saturday of the month. Beulah and I, the two designated drivers, steered clear of the alcohol selection while the rest got pretty soused. I don’t think any of us—Beulah and myself included—bowled better than a 110.

Several hours later, we all straggled out to the parking lot, giggling profusely and blowing on the kazoos I’d given out as party favors in Spiderman goody bags (other “goodies” included homemade Mallomars, a jar of bubbles, two Matchbox cars, and a handful of Bazooka bubble gum). After a pitifully rendered version of “Safety Dance” on the kazoo by all of us, Beulah piled Scott, Spencer, Tracy, Minerva, and Jay into the church’s youth group minivan while Norman and Jeannie accompanied Kenny and me back to my car, and I dropped them off at Norman’s apartment nearby.

“So,” said Kenny, grinning like a mischievous little boy and ramming a piece of Bazooka into his mouth when we were alone, “I guess the next stop is my place?”

I smiled slyly. “Not exactly.”

His eyes widened. “There’s
more
? I don’t think I can handle another surprise.”

“It’s not really a surprise. You’ll see.”

As we headed off toward the next destination, I asked if he was happy.

“I’m a little drunk,” he said, cracking himself up. “I’m sorry I didn’t invite your other friends and business associates. I don’t really know any of ’em.”

“That’s OK. This was perfect.”

By the time we arrived at the beach—dark and deserted and perfectly undisturbed—Kenny seemed to have sobered up. We walked along the shoreline in silence for about a quarter mile, huddled together in the cold, when he stopped and turned to me.

“You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” he said.

“Yes, I did,” I answered.

“Just had to prove that winter birthdays aren’t all gloom?” he teased.

“Something like that.”

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We sat on the sand in silence for a while, me wrapped tightly in my favorite cardigan and winter coat, him in his hoodie and leather jacket. The salty wind wreaked havoc on my hair so that by the time we got back to the car, I was a frizzed-out, rosy-cheeked mess. And yet, Kenny looked at me like I was a rare treasure.

He touched my chin and kissed me softly. “Best. Birthday. Ever,” he whispered.

I drove him back to his house. Before letting him out, I leaned across him and fished in the glove box for the small package I’d wrapped earlier that day.

“This didn’t make its way into the goody bag,” I said.

With a questioning look, Kenny tore open the kiddie racecar wrapping paper to reveal a packet of forget-me-not seeds.

“They were my favorites back home,” I said softly. “Shortly after our mom was diagnosed with cancer, she planted these for Olivia, my dad, and me, with instructions that we were to think of her whenever we looked at or tended to them. As if we could ever forget her…” My voice trailed off.

He clutched the packet and looked at me.

“Anyway,” I continued, “they turned out to be a nice reminder. And no matter what happens between us, I just don’t want you to forget me, OK?”

For once, Kenny seemed unsure of what to say; his face clouded as he opened his mouth, and then closed it. He studied the seeds and shook them so that they rattled like maracas.

“OK,” he said, his mouth forming a thin line. He nodded. “OK,” he repeated softly before sliding out of the car and closing the door behind him.

40

A State of Mind

TWO DAYS AFTER
Kenny’s birthday, I booked a small suite at a nearby beachfront hotel with a balcony and kitchenette. I’d scheduled time off from The Grounds to prepare for Jenna’s short story class (I wanted her to return from maternity leave to an organized course on track with the syllabus) and decided to do it in style.

Each day was an exercise in solitude; in the mornings I jogged on the beach, followed by a shower and breakfast (chocolate crepes and strawberries for breakfast one morning, caramelized apple French toast the next, granola bars with peanut-butter slathered bananas after that, to name a few). Then, after compiling reading lists and planning workshops and drafting the syllabus, I napped or treated myself to a massage or a mani-pedi at the hotel’s day spa. In the evenings I prepared more delectable meals: mixed green salads with walnuts and dried cranberries and gorgonzola cheese; grilled salmon with orange glaze and crunchy red potatoes; lemon chicken with fresh thyme and rosemary; all the goodies from my New Year’s Eve recipe sorting fest. Finally, I ventured out for a stroll on the beach before snuggling in bed with a cup of chamomile tea and a book.

I slept soundly every night. I fasted from screens all week—didn’t watch TV, kept off Facebook and away from my iPhone. I refrained from calling Minerva or Olivia or Kenny. I didn’t even call Norman to check in on The Grounds.

On the last evening, I stood on the balcony wrapped in a plush terry bathrobe, sipping a perfectly medium-dry cabernet. The sky was the color of orange sherbet, and it glazed the walls of my room and glinted off the vase of peonies on my nightstand. I poured myself a second glass of wine, filled not even a quarter of the way.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the moment.

This.

This was what singlehood was all about.

It had nothing to do with bubble baths and sit-down dinners, or the ability to go anywhere alone at the last minute without feeling an ounce of shame. It had nothing to do with convenience or even independence.

I got it. And suddenly my fingers practically burned to write. I raced to the desk, opened my notebook (I’d copy it all to my laptop tomorrow, I decided), and scribbled away.

Singlehood Is a State of Mind

It’s not about having the bed to yourself or about sharing bathrooms. It’s not about who you were with yesterday or whether you’ve got a date tomorrow. It’s not about whether you travel the world or stay at home. It’s not about having a ring on your finger or a key to his place.

It’s about being sure of yourself, and living out loud with peace and acceptance. It’s not the road less traveled but the one that appears in front of you, brick by brick, with each step you take.

Singlehood is about finding and committing to the love of your life. I’m talking about the literal love of
your
life. Being in a place of self-sufficiency, strength, independence, comfort, confidence, and happiness is what matters. No relationship, no matter how seemingly perfect and compatible you are, can give you these things. You have to find them within. You have to bring them to your relationship. Because in the end, you don’t have to be alone to be single. And being single doesn’t mean that you are alone.

In other words, singlehood is a state of mind.

This Valentine’s Day, I’m not hoping for a box of chocolates or a secret valentine or a dozen long-stem roses or anything like that. Instead I’m going to court myself. I’m going to make myself a marvelous candlelight dinner because I deserve it. I’m going to read my favorite books and perhaps write a short story. I’m going to go for a walk on the beach. I’m going to do more at home than clean or sleep. I’m going to do all this because that’s what I love, and we all deserve to live with love wherever we find it.

May each and every one of you find the love of your life, whatever that means to you.

Taking my glass of wine, I stepped back out onto the balcony to watch night settle over all of Wilmington, and gazed at the palm trees brushing in the breeze, listened to the surf sing to the stars, and smelled the salty sea. It was as if the world was smiling at me. Or maybe it was just my parents. I held out my wine glass and toasted it all.

41

Valentine’s Day

I DON’T KNOW
if it was because of the 65-degree sunshine, the fact that it was Valentine’s Day, or that I’d just come from a new yoga class, but I felt so energized I’d decided to bike to work. When I entered The Grounds, I was met with the sight of tables covered in deep wine-colored linens and real roses in long, thin vases. Norman had gone all out over the weekend, giving the entire place a robed, classically romantic feeling, avoiding all shades of pink and all things paper and doily. The Originals, clustered at their usual table, greeted me as I passed by them and stopped to tidy the self-service bar, as usual. Tracy rambled to Jan about wedding dresses while Spencer chatted with Minerva and Jay about his applications to doctoral programs. Kenny was already nestled at a table by the window with his laptop, and I could tell he was pretending not to notice me; but the twitching at the corners of his lips gave him away, and my heart did a little flip-flop.

“Hey, Normal,” I called to the kitchen, grabbing my apron from the hook. Simeon brushed past me, giving my shoulders a squeeze along the way. “The place looks fabulous!”

Norman came out of the kitchen with a stack of napkins in his hands. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s gonna cost a fortune to clean the linens, but what the hell. Happy Valentine’s Day.” He kissed me on the cheek. “How was class yesterday?” he asked.

“Great,” I answered, opting not to tell him about the new short story I’d started, or that I had a feeling it was going to turn into a novel.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “We’re out of chocolate chip muffins, by the way.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” I said with a salute and retreated to the kitchen. Once the jumbo muffins were in the oven, I took last night’s cookies out of the fridge and transferred them to the display case.

As I slid the display door closed, Minerva approached the counter. “Hey, Eva. I—” She stopped mid breath as her eyes fixed on the display case. “Are those…” She didn’t even get the words out, just stood there looking like a kid who just found her lost puppy—eyes all bright and sparkly with a bit of a grin tugging at her slack jaw. “Half-moon cookies?”

“What did you call them?” I asked.

“Half-moon cookies. Why, what do you call them?”

“Black and Whites.” I selected one and plated it, and she carried her prize with both hands to her table, setting it down as if it were as fragile as a Faberge egg.

“Guess someone has a thing for Half-moons,” said Norman as he swept around the empty tables.

“They’re called ‘Black and Whites,’” I said defiantly.

Norman had stopped sweeping and now leaned against the counter beside me, chiming in. “Oh, that’s right. You’re from
Lawn Guyland
—they have all kinds of silly names there. Really, Eva. Don’t you think ‘Half-moon’ is easier to say?”

“And more suitable?” Simeon added.

“Anyone with a little bit of class calls it a ‘Black and White,’” I argued.

“Take a poll here and you’ll beg to differ,” said Norman.

We couldn’t help but stare as Minerva began to eat the cookie in a meticulous ritual that I had never seen before: First a bite of chocolate frosting, then a bite of vanilla. Next, a bit of both. Repeat. Chocolate, vanilla, a bite of both, heavier on the vanilla. Again. Chocolate, vanilla, bit of both, a few millimeters less vanilla. It was a science. And she ate the whole thing with that silly, found-my-puppy grin on her face until the very last presumably perfectly balanced choco-vanilla bite.

As Minerva became aware of her surroundings, and the pairs of eyes watching her, she blushed.

“What?” she asked, dropping her crumpled napkin on the barren plate. She hadn’t even left a crumb.

“You could use a fork and knife next time, if you’d like,” Norman said in his classic matter-of-fact tone. “Or buy one to frame and one to eat if it really gets you going that much.”

She fiddled with the corner of her discarded napkin, at a loss.

I started to laugh. “Really? Not the Chocolate Orgasms? The oatmeal spice drops? The toffee chips? Your favorite is
Black and White cookies
?”

She giggled.
Giggled
.

“I had you pegged as a Chocolate Orgasm Girl,” said Norman. “Woulda bet money on it.”

She shrugged. “Guess I’m outed.”

Simeon frowned. “They’re not even that interesting. They’re just—”

“Don’t!” she warned. “They’re not
just
anything! These are
Half-moons
,” she said with reverence. Minerva leaned back. “The first time I ever had one was on my thirteenth birthday. We’d been in the car for
hours
, driving all day to see my mom’s cousin’s something-or-other, and got in late. Late, late. And I was sure I’d be sent straight to bed on what was officially the worst birthday ever, but then she brought out these cookies on a plate and insisted that I have one before bed as a birthday treat.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” said Simeon in a syrupy voice.

Minerva ignored his teasing. “I would kill for this recipe. Where’d you get it, Eva?”

Before I could answer her, Tracy piped up. “You should publish a book of recipes! Why didn’t we ever think of it before?”

“And Kenny’s new press could publish it,” said Minerva.

Kenny crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in consideration. “It’s not a bad idea, really,” he said, scrutinizing me as one might a potential investment. I flushed under his piercing eyes.

“Of course!” said Norman. “We could add it to the other Grounds merchandise. I bet it’d be just as big a hit.”

“Especially if it had
this
recipe in it,” said Minerva, lovingly looking at her empty plate. “With
pictures
!”