Chapter 19 - Bring DinnerMy phone buzzed on a Friday afternoon.
Andrew.
Dinner Sunday?
For years my automatic reply would have been:
Of course. What do you want me to cook?
Instead I typed:
Sunday works. Bring dinner.
Three dots appeared.
Deal.
I smiled.
Sunday evening he arrived carrying two bags from an Italian restaurant.
He rang the bell.
I opened the door.
“Lasagna,” he announced.
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything food-related.”
He waited.
I moved aside.
“Come in.”
We ate at my small table beside the sunroom.
He told me about work.
A supervisor he disliked.
A possible promotion he was not sure he wanted.
For once, he did not ask me what he should do.
I did not tell him.
Eventually we talked about Rebecca.
“She apologized,” he said.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
“Did that help?”
“Yes.”
“Did it fix anything?”
“No.”
I nodded.
He looked at me.
“You taught me that.”
“What?”
“That forgiveness and access aren’t the same thing.”
I sat very still.
That lesson had cost all of us something.
After dinner, Andrew washed the dishes.
Without being asked.
I almost laughed.
When he prepared to leave, he took out his wallet.
“I’ve got something.”
Another check.
Smaller this time.
I accepted it.
Then he asked:
“Do you ever wish you’d handled it differently?”
I thought about the question.
“Yes.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“I wish I had stopped supporting you sooner.”
He stared.
Then laughed.
“Fair.”
“I might have spared all of us some trouble.”
“You think I would’ve listened?”
“No.”
We laughed together.
That was healing too.
Not pretending the past had not happened.
Being able to look at it without letting it own the room.
At the door, Andrew hugged me.
Then he stepped outside.
“Next Sunday?”
“We’ll see.”
He smiled.
“Also fair.”
May you like
I closed the door.
And locked it.
