08

-SEVEN-

Sunday, May 27

I slept deeply, dreamlessly, and awoke still feeling a sense of overwhelming gratitude for Paul. For the way he could make me feel his love.

The house was still quiet, and I was surprised when I looked over at the clock; it was only 6:30 and I felt wide awake and refreshed. (A foreign concept.)

I spent a few minutes taking care of my burns, then quietly made my way to my parents' home office, which doubled as a small library. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I would know it when I found it.

It happened about halfway around the room:

Blue Horses

.

I vividly remembered buying it (there's no smell in the world like a used book store), but couldn't remember the name of the shop. Happily, my dad had instilled in me the habit of writing in every book when and where I acquired it.

I opened this one and saw, in my own hand:

March, 20----

Alabaster Bookshop

New York, N.Y.

I had purchased it the last time I was in the city. Auditioning for ballet programs. The memory felt both ancient and very recent.

I didn't want to wake up my parents by grinding beans, so I made some hot tea and curled up in one of the Adirondack chairs out back. The sun comes up early this time of year, and it was already light out. I marinated in Mary Oliver's poems until I saw a shadow moving through the windows. I came back inside and surprised my dad in the kitchen.

"You're up early," he remarked, starting up the coffee maker.

I walked up and loosely hugged him from the side. "Yeah, I dunno. I slept well; woke up like an hour ago feeling wide awake, so I just got up."

He tilted the book in my hand to read the cover. "New? I don't remember that one."

"New-ish," I replied. "We picked it up when I was auditioning."

"How is it?" he asked. "I know Mom's a big fan."

"Just right."

"Sometimes I think that the right book is better than a great book, if that makes sense?"

"It does."

"Do you want anything?" He gestured to the coffee machine as he lifted his own steaming mug.

"Sure, it's still early," I said after a moment of thought. "Flat white."

When my coffee was ready, Dad and I went back outside.

"How are you feeling about tonight?" He asked.

I shrugged. "Part nervous, part excited. I'm glad you're getting to meet him for real, and that I'm not hiding it from you and Mom."

He pulled on his bottom lip thoughtfully. "He told us a bit at the hospital, but we haven't talked much about how all this came about."

It was classic Dad. He has this way of throwing a sentence out there, and it won't be shaped like a question, but it's definitely a question. I think it's the old college professor in him.

"He gave me that due date extension, and I comped him for the Saturday night show as sort of a thank you. I wish you could've seen it. The whole night was electric, best show I've ever been a part of. But I stumbled into him as I was leaving. Like, literally. I walked into him. And he smells really good?"

At this point Dad's eyebrows approached his slightly receding hairline. "He smells really good."

"Yeah, I can't even describe it. But regardless, you know how I get; I wanted someone to be excited with me after a great show. We were just going to get coffee, but they were closed, so he walked me home. And we talked, like, a lot, and then I just saw him completely differently. I had no idea if he felt anything, but I didn't want to regret not finding out. So, here we are I guess."

"Where might 'here' be exactly?"

"It's a little hard to say. I mean, up until yesterday I didn't know where I was going to end up after graduation. We talked about it a little bit the other day, he said he would rather be with me than stay in town."

"You're not inferring that?"

I shook my head and took a sip of my coffee.

"It did happen quickly," he said, "but that's not always a problem. In my experience, a man who isn't serious doesn't sit calmly while someone like your mother accuses him of a litany of moral crimes and tries to verbally dismantle his ego."

"That bad? How did Mom take it?" I cringed. Paul hadn't told me any of this.

"I think his tranquility bothered her at first, and the way he seemed like he was actually listening to what she was saying, despite the venom. He seemed completely straightforward with us the whole time. She was in rare form, but you have to understand it from her perspective too. You've only really ever brought one boy around. Now you're in the hospital and here's this man. You tell us you love him. You dropped two or three bombs on us all at once."

"I know, Dad. I'm sorry. About everything."

"Shelly, this would be a very different conversation if I thought you were being reckless. I don't pretend to be a perfect judge of character, but Paul doesn't strike me as the kind of person who would enter into any relationship lightly, let alone one like this."

I looked through the windows into the kitchen, and thought about that first morning; the way he looked at me and his tone when I first came downstairs.

"Our first talk about whether it was serious, I got sort of upset. He just sort of looked at me and went: 'I guess this wasn't just a dalliance for you either?' Very matter-of-fact, simple. Other things too, he knows stuff without me telling him.

"He took me to this roadside clam shack--total dive, you would love it. I told him a person would have to be deranged to look at the place and think it was a good date spot, but damn if it isn't the perfect place to bring Shelly on a date. I never even told him about the plastic tablecloth rule. He just figured it out because I made one slightly positive comment about Costello's Pizza."

Dad started chuckling. "Shell, how does he make you feel?"

"Safe," I sighed. "Valued. I never get the sense he has ulterior motives. The only word I can think of is generous, like last night," I felt myself blushing a little. "I called him before I went to bed, and we talked for a while. I got a little emotional, but all he cared about was what did I need. So he read me a book. On the phone. And I fell asleep while he was reading, right?"

"What book?"

"

The Beginning Place

, by Ursula something."

"Le Guin?" Dad suggested.

"Yeah, that's it."

"I don't know that one, but I know her work. She's good."

"So I fall asleep, and you would think most people, at a certain point they just hang up. I wake up three hours later and he's still there. He said he didn't want me to think he had left me alone. That's the kind of thing that I don't feel like I know how to do for him."

"Well, he's had a little more practice than you," Dad replied. "But since it seems like this might be headed somewhere, I'm going to tell you two things; both of them equally important. One: your mother and I wouldn't still be married if we didn't have a healthy dose of grace for ourselves and each other. You do the best you can, and apologize when you mess up. That doesn't mean you forgive absolutely anything, but that brings me to the second point."

He turned to look me in the eyes and got very serious. "Shelly, you can always, always come back home. No matter where you are or how bad something is. If it's your fault or someone else's or nobody's. You call us and we'll be there. I'm here for you. Your mom is here for you."

The earnestness with which he said it startled me. It wasn't something I had ever really thought about, that I might make a mistake or somehow find myself in a situation where I would be too proud or embarrassed to ask for help. I wasn't really sure how to respond, so I just nodded.

"I'm going to go get my day started," Dad said, getting up to go back inside. "But I'm glad you're comfortable talking about Paul. I'm looking forward to meeting him again."

"Thanks Dad."

I spent the rest of the morning in the kitchen with Mom prepping some of the easier dinner stuff and making baklava. "Lunch" mainly consisted of sneaking bites while we were cooking. (OK, so maybe I ate two whole pieces of baklava in addition to a bunch of cheese, olives, pita, and other assorted stuff.)

I hadn't actually taken a real shower since coming home from the hospital, so around 3 o'clock I decided to give it a try. I hadn't started peeling (yet?), and I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Maybe Mom's Korean aloe also contained unicorn tears or something.

The shower was unpleasant, but tolerable. It was drying off that put me over the edge. I sat on the edge of my bed quietly crying to myself for about five minutes.

In my head, I heard Emma Thompson saying:

Get a grip, people hate sissies. No one's ever going to shag you if you cry all the time.

At least I could still make myself laugh.

It was enough for me to pull it together and finish getting ready. I would be treading a very fine line tonight. We were having dinner with my parents, but it was still a date. (Was it?) I also had to navigate the added complication of the burns.

My first choice was a simple white A-line sun dress. It balanced the parents/date equation perfectly, but the narrow straps started chafing my shoulders almost immediately.

The shirts Mom brought home yesterday did fine on the wearability front, I just needed the right bottoms. I picked out a blue shirt and set about building around that. After about 15 minutes, I landed on a long white linen skirt to go with the blue top. It was artfully wrinkled, as linen tends to be, and struck a casual, thrown-together vibe that felt right for the start of summer.

I put my hair into a crown braid, like the one I wore when I asked Mr. Delacourt for the project extension. (What, 1,000 years ago? "Mr. Delacourt." Who was that girl?) My hair hadn't gotten damaged as badly as I initially feared. I think having it braided protected it a little bit from the fire, though it did still smell like I had a three-pack-a-day habit.

The braid also gave me an idea. I finished my makeup and headed downstairs.

"I'm going to take a quick walk," I called to nobody in particular. "Back in a bit."

"What?" Mom replied from the kitchen. "It's 4:30."

"I'll be back before he gets here, promise."

I didn't wait for her to reply before heading out the front door. I turned left at the end of the driveway; the same route I took every weekday. After a couple minutes, I came upon the burned-out house that had been the cause of so much turmoil. There was plywood where the door and windows used to be, warning notices, caution tape.

I stood quietly for a moment with my eyes closed. I wasn't particularly religious. (Even if I was, I don't think I would've been able to articulate my thoughts into a prayer.) I just tried to send out into the universe a feeling of love and deep gratitude for the woman who had made this house her home, and who had always treated me with kindness.

It made me feel small, in sort of a good way. Like I was looking at something far bigger than myself, but also that individual people--like me, like Mrs. Holland--that we mattered as parts of that whole.

After what felt like the right amount of time, I opened my eyes and started searching for something, anything, that hadn't been trampled. I fixated on the crocuses surrounding the lamppost, which must have been enough of an obstacle to protect them from ruin.

The flowers were past their prime blooming time, but still looked healthy. I plucked one and put it in exactly the same spot I had a month earlier. Perfect.

I turned around and headed back home, and as I got close, I saw a figure approaching from the opposite direction. I continued past my own house and into Paul's arms.

"Hey you," I said softly.

"Hi," he replied. I kept holding onto him well past the point where you would call it a hug hello. "Everything OK?"

"Yeah," I backed up to look at him without letting go. "Just feeling a little sentimental."

He touched my hair lightly. "I love this, didn't you wear your hair like this when you asked for that extension?"

I nodded back to him. "That's part of feeling sentimental. It's one of Mrs. Holland's flowers."

He brushed his hand down my cheek and we simply looked at each other. He smiled softly and I drank in his presence.

"Do you--when you think about me," I started, stumbling over my words. I took a deep breath and started over. "I don't know how to say this, but last night, how you stayed on the phone with me after I fell asleep. You do stuff like that, and it's almost overwhelming."

He furrowed his brow a little. "Overwhelming how?"

"How you make me feel valued and loved. I'm worried I can't live up to it and I don't make you feel that way."

"Shelly," he said, kissing my forehead. "I don't think about it like that. What happened this week--it was the scariest, most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Because you were in danger, and because you risked your life for a friend. Without hesitating. Shelly, I'm glad as hell you're alright, but I'm in awe of who you are."

"This is what I mean though," I replied. "You say that and it builds me up, and I don't feel like I'm doing that for you. I want to be as good to you as you are to me. I'm afraid I won't know how."

"I've seen a lot of relationships fall into that trap, so please don't," he paused and appeared to re-frame his thoughts. He gently took my face in both hands. "I'm not keeping score. You are enough. Just as you are."

I inhaled unsteadily. I wasn't on the verge of tears or anything, but I was feeling my emotions pretty hard. I leaned closer and kissed him slowly. I let it linger a moment.

"So do you want to go meet my parents? For real this time."

"Yes," he said, taking my hand and starting to walk toward my house. "Nothing would make me happier."

We strolled back to the house and in the front door.

"Holy shit," Paul said under his breath. "That smells amazing."

"We're back," I called toward the kitchen.

Paul disengaged from me as my parents entered the foyer, shaking hands with my mom and dad, complimenting the house, and just generally being the ideal dinner guest.

He reached into his sport coat and pulled out a slim packet of what appeared to be note cards, handing them to my mom.

"Shelly told me not to bring anything," he said with a sheepish grin. "But I couldn't show up completely empty-handed."

Mom looked down at the cards and started smiling. I moved closer to get a better look, and saw that they were cream-colored note cards, each one with a different seashell in the corner. The first one had writing on it, in green pen no less.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Just a little thank you," Paul said. "I wrote out my Gran's Apple Pull-Apart Bread recipe on the first one."

Did I mention ideal dinner guest? Ideal dinner guest. Mom shot me a look that didn't make me feel any less self-conscious about the conversation Paul and I just had outside.

We all made our way into the kitchen and crowded around the island, where the appetizer spread was laid out. Mom immediately went back to the stove, where we heard some intense sizzling.

"There's more?" Paul asked. "Are these just the appetizers? You went to far too much trouble."

After about two minutes, Mom brought the skillet to the island as well.

"Ready?" She asked, handing Paul a lighter.

I started laughing at the look on his face.

"Ready for what?" he asked.

"Just light this," she held up a shot glass of amber liquid, then dumped it into the skillet.

Paul jumped as orange-blue flames shot up from the cheese and the three of us shouted "Opa!"

"What just happened?"

I leaned into him laughing. "Oh you sweet summer child. So much to learn."

My mom dished some of the molten cheese onto a slice of bread and pushed it into Paul's hands. He accepted it without comment and his eyes went wide on the first bite.

"This is amazing, what is it?"

"Saganaki," I answered. "It's what fried mozzarella sticks want to be when they grow up."

Dad pulled the lamb out of the oven to let it rest while we started into the other appetizers. To his credit, Paul ate pretty much everything, even the weird stuff.

"I have to say I'm a little surprised," Dad said. "Most people ask questions before they dig in to unidentified food. It took me a while to warm up to some of this."

Paul grinned sheepishly. "I can't say I've always been like that. But I really loved Anthony Bourdain's travel shows, and I heard an interview with him where he was talking about how he always just ate what anyone gave him. He thought if people put their heart and soul into cooking for him, he owed it to them to eat whatever it was. And even with really off-the-wall stuff, a lot of the time he would be pleasantly surprised. I don't think I'm quite as adventurous as he was, but I try."

This made Dad smile a little. "Lebanon?"

"Where they start getting bombed five minutes into it?" Paul replied.

"One of the best hours of TV I've ever seen."

"Two conversations and they already have their own secret code," Mom said, rolling her eyes. "Honey, why don't you make yourself useful and start getting plates ready?"

Dad did a performative sigh, then started getting down plates and putting food on them. We all sat down at the kitchen table and started eating.

"So Paul," Mom started. "Shelly tells us you grew up in Tennessee?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just outside of Nashville." He had dropped into a syrupy drawl, sounding a little bit like Matthew McConaughey.

I felt my eyes involuntarily bugging out of my face. Paul glanced over at me and started cracking up.

"We've never been," Mom said, "but we've heard good things."

Once he finished laughing at me, Paul nodded. "It's a fun town, great food, obviously a big music scene. Way more than just country though, something for everyone. And speaking of great food, this is all amazing. Everything homemade?"

"Yep, everybody did a little something," I replied. "Maybe we should all take a trip to Nashville this summer. Then you can take us around like a tour guide with your Southern drawl."

"I haven't been back since last year," he said, ignoring my jab. "So I owe my parents a visit anyway. They have a big old house a little bit outside of town, plenty of space."

Oh shit, he was completely serious.

I caught Dad looking over at me with amusement. "Maybe we could talk to your sister?" he said to Mom.

"I'm sure we can work something out," she replied. "They're planning a trip to the beach at the end of July and I said we'd take care of everything back here."

Wait, they were all serious. Were we planning a family trip together? To meet Paul's parents?

"No pressure," Paul said casually, "but let me know and I'll see what my parents are up to."

"Well if we're going to go, we should probably do it sooner rather than later," Dad said. "Things are going to get busy with the big move and everything."

"Oh, are you guys moving?" Paul asked, giving me a questioning look.

"What, didn't Shelly tell you?" Mom said, shooting me a similar look.

Dad didn't say anything, but started laughing a little.

"I, uh..." I took a deep breath. Then looked over at Paul. "Well, you know how I was telling you about waiting to hear back on auditions?"

"I do, yes."

I reached over and squeezed his hand, feeling a little embarrassed. "New York."

"Just like you wanted," he said, smiling broadly and squeezing back. He seemed genuinely, and very simply, happy for me. "That's perfect."

"Joffrey is one of the top programs in the country," Mom added. (Her tone one notch shy of haughtiness.) My ears suddenly felt very warm.

"Since we're on the topic of big news," Paul started, looking back at me with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. I racked my brain for what he could possibly be about to say. "I just put in notice that I won't be returning to teach in the fall."