Light My Fire

I am forty years old. A twenty-five-year old girl should not be able to get to me.

But three days after Brooke told us she needed a break, I have finally come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter what my head says… she did anyway. She got to me so much that I’m doing something that I never thought I would do.

As I start the third day without Brooke Wilder, I realize that I do actually want it to be true that she can be someone I fall in love with and someone who loves me back.

Do we make sense? Maybe not entirely.

Was Jackson right when he said that I would never have touched Brooke or gotten close to her if it wasn’t for him and Wyatt getting close to her? Maybe. But that seems less true the more I think about it. If I had spent time with her, no matter the circumstance, I would have seen her light and warmth and I would have wanted it. What I feel for her is more than physical attraction and that allowed her to sneak past my defenses even with her age and with Wyatt and Jackson in the picture. And with my past.

But these past few days have shown me that there is no use in lying to myself. I’m miserable without her. I’m miserable not knowing how she is. I’m miserable not knowing if her internship is going well. I’m miserable not being able to text her things I know will make her smile. I’m miserable not being able to ask her out for a simple dinner.

And I definitely miss holding her, kissing her, being covered in her scent, being a part of making her come undone with pleasure.

It feels like my right to do all of those things and it feels completely wrong to be apart from her.

I want her back. But I know that there’s something I have to do before I can tell her that.

I need to fix my shit so I can move on and be happy.

I’m tired of being miserable. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of assuming I am going to end up in pain.

And yes, I’m forty years old. Which means I’m fucking old enough to know how to fix this.

That’s why I’m walking across the grass toward a play area in a picturesque old Chicago neighborhood.

Marci is sitting on a bench near the slides where several young children laugh and run and play.

She lifts her hand in a little wave, but as I draw closer, I can see the trepidation in her expression.

That’s understandable. I haven’t seen or spoken to my ex-wife in over a decade.

I take the seat next to her on the wooden bench. “Hi,” I say simply.

“Hi.” She gives me a smile.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

“Honestly, I almost said no, but my curiosity got the better of me.”

It had taken me a little work to get her number. My mother still exchanged Christmas cards with Marci’s mom and she was able to get Marci’s cell number from Janet.

To my mother’s credit, she simply asked if everything was okay when I asked for that favor. I had confessed that I met someone special but that I felt I needed some closure with Marci before I could fully commit. The fact that my mother took that at face value and helped me, tells me that my mom agrees I need that closure.

We sit quietly for a couple of minutes, watching the kids play. I know none of these kids are the baby girl I thought was mine. Her name is Audrey, and she is in dance class in the studio across the street from the park. Marci said this was the best time and place for her to meet me because of that dance class. I don’t blame her for wanting it to be a public, neutral space, and for there to be a timeline on our meeting.

I finally look over at her. The ten years that have passed have been good to her. Her long blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, she only has light makeup on, and she’s wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a simple tee with a zippered hoodie over the top. She looks like a very casual mom at the park with her kids.

“Do you have more than one?” I ask her. Obviously, one of the children playing is hers.

She nods. “Two more. Boys. They’re seven and four.”

I’m surprised that I don’t feel anything when she tells me that. I would have expected that to be painful.

“Are you still with Ryan?”

“I am,” she says. “He’s still at the hospital. We’re going to celebrate our anniversary with a trip to Europe next spring.”

I look over to find her watching me. Her expression is difficult to read. She seems curious.

“Are you happy?” I ask. I hadn’t intended to ask her that. I suppose I didn’t think I cared. But now, I realize I hope the answer is yes. Because if she blew everything up the way she did, and we were both miserable, that would be a big fucking waste.

“I am,” she says, her voice soft. “I feel like I should feel bad about that.”

I blow out a breath and meet her gaze. Again, I would have expected looking directly at her to be like a punch in the gut.

It’s not. She’s just a woman that I used to know. A woman I don’t know anymore. She has an entire life that has nothing to do with me. She probably doesn’t think about me more than possibly a handful of times in a year. We were married so I have to think there are dates, or places, that remind her of me. But she has plenty of other things occupying her life. Her mind. Her heart.

“I don’t know why exactly you wanted to see me,” she says after a long moment. “But there is something that I’ve wanted to say to you for a long time.”

I open my mouth to tell her that whatever it is it’s not necessary but she stops me.

“Please let me say it.”

I don’t have to. I don’t owe her anything. But I feel my head nodding. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ve never really said that to you. And I do mean it. What I did was selfish and stupid. And I know you might not believe me, but when I got pregnant, I really hoped she was yours. I made a mistake having the affair, and then I… got caught. And I’d hoped that maybe I’d be able to get out of it. If she was yours, we could’ve just moved on.”

I absorb that. Do I believe her? I think I do. I might not have if she’d told me she was sorry six months after it all happened. Or even a year. But now? She’s had time to think about it, to grow up. So yeah, I accept that.

“I forgive you,” I tell her.

She seems to sigh with relief.

“And it’s worked out, right?”

She sighs again. “Yes. You and I would have too, I’m sure. But I am happy and I can’t regret how it worked out. And I hope that you’re the same way.”

Now I feel the punch to the gut.

But it’s not her fault. I realize that it’s mine.

I don’t feel the same way. I haven’t moved on. I’m not happy. At least, not as happy as she is.

Not as happy as I could be.

I let her take that from me.

I take a deep breath. “I needed to see you because…” Suddenly now sitting next to her, it hits me how ridiculous it is that I haven’t moved on.

What she did to me was awful. Selfish, heartbreaking, painful. I had every right to be angry and hurt at the time. But it’s been ten years, and I have been holding myself back from relationships and happiness because of a choice she made. A mistake that she made. It wasn’t my fault. I had been a good husband to her. I had wanted to give her children, build a future. She knowingly, purposely, slept with someone else and took all of that away from us.

It was her choice to cheat. But it’s been my choice to let it color my life and every relationship for the past ten years.

“I’ve met someone,” I tell her. I’m getting more and more used to saying that out loud. It comes easily this time.

Her eyes widen. “Just now? You’re still single?”

“Yes. Well, no,” I say, thinking about Brooke. “I’m not single now. Because of her. But I was up till very recently. And I realized that I’ve been holding on to a lot of resentment and fear about relationships.”

I can see in Marci‘s eyes that she feels bad about this revelation. “And you’re here to ask me what happened with us?” she asks.

“I was,” I admit. “But I realize now that I’m here that it doesn’t matter. We’re different. She and I are not you and I. And I realize that what happened between us was a choice you made. Not me.”

Rather than getting angry or defensive, Marci nods. “Exactly. It was me. And in all relationships, there are two sides, of course, and I could say that you worked long hours and were gone a lot or something like that. But in our case, it was that I was immature and didn’t fully appreciate you and committed to you before I was really ready.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” I tell her. I feel a huge weight lift off of my shoulders. And my chest. I can take a deep breath and it feels like it’s been years since I could really do that.

“How about your new girl?” she asks. “Does she know what she wants?”

I smile thinking about Brooke. Our angel definitely knows herself. “She does,” I say. “Probably better than I do.”

“And will she be honest with you about what she wants and needs?” Marci asks.

My smile grows. Yeah, I don’t have to worry about that. “She definitely will.”

I know Brooke is feeling overwhelmed with everything, but she’s been honest about what she’s wanted from the very first day we met her. She wanted us to leave her alone and she told us that clearly. When we are all together, she’s very good about telling us how she’s feeling and what she’s thinking.

We just have to be sure to prove to her that we’re listening. She doesn’t have to feel overwhelmed with us. She just has to tell us what she wants and needs from us. We’ll deliver every time.

“Then you definitely need to stop being afraid,” Marci says. “I’m sure she’s not selfish like I was.”

Selfish is the last word I would ever use to describe Brooke Wilder. I shake my head. “No, she’s not.”

“And she won’t take you for granted?”

In fact, I’ve always felt completely appreciated and cared for with Brooke.

I swallow hard. “No.”

Marci gives me a smile. “Don’t let some dumb girl from your past affect your future happiness.”

I study her. She looks a little like the woman I married, but there is a calm and a confidence there that I don’t remember. I’m glad she found that, even if she needed someone else to help her discover it.

“You’re right. Thanks again for meeting me.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “It’s the least I could do. I really do wish you the very best.”

I actually am able to squeeze her hand back and say, with honesty, “I’m glad you’re happy, Marci.”

“I’m glad you’re going to be happy, Luke.”

I take a deep breath and stand. I am really glad I’m going to be happy too.

Now I just need to go find my best friends and figure out what we’re going to do to convince our girl that we are what is going to make her happy.