Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“What you just described, this escape hatch,” I say, “that’s not love. Not how I understand it. Not how I want it. This exit plan when things get hard. This get-out-of-jail-free card when you’re manic or depressed.”
I cup her cheek and rub my thumb across the soft skin. “If you were sick, depressed, spiraling, they would have to pry me away from you.”
“I’m not asking for that.” She gulps and her hand trembles in mine, a tear leaking from the corner of her eye. “I just want to continue as we are, but exclusively.”
“And if I find someone who does want a life with me, kids, the whole fairy tale, as you call it, we just stop? And you watch me go make a life with her? No hard feelings?”
I watch her face for any sign that a scenario like that would be hell for her, because it would be agony for me.
“Yeah, sure.” She drops her gaze and presses her lips together tightly. “When you need to go, you can. Can’t we just enjoy being in each other’s lives right now? Caring for each other and having great sex without… thinking about the future? It doesn’t have to be forever.”
She doesn’t realize. There’s no way she could know she’s the only one I’ve ever considered forever with.
“It would be different now,” I say. “You take your medication and you’re stable, right? And wouldn’t you know the signs if something changes?”
“It’s not always that cut and dried. I’m not sure I can ask anyone to take that risk.”
“Or is it that you don’t want to take that risk?”
“Look, we weren’t talking about commitment before you knew, so why should we now? We can just keep on doing what we were doing.”
“Because before, I didn’t know the truth. Didn’t understand what happened in the past. This changes everything.” I search the turbulence in her eyes. “If I had known, it would have changed everything then. We’ve wasted a lot of time.”
She pulls back and my hand falls from her face, hanging limply at my side, but twitching to touch her again when she stands.
“The last twelve years working out my meds, finding the right psychiatrist, the right therapist, learning coping strategies, figuring out my triggers—none of that was wasted time,” she asserts. “And I’m glad I did it without the added pressure of maintaining a romantic relationship. My whole life does not revolve around having a partner, and being single is not some holding pattern until I find love. Against all odds, I’ve built a full, rewarding life with work I love and family and friends I adore. That could never be a waste.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Not wasted, but delayed.”
“We’ve both done amazing things since we broke up. Maybe we needed that time apart and weren’t supposed to be in each other’s lives until now.”
“I can accept that, but now that we are back in each other’s lives, maybe it’s divine timing.”
“Divine?” She laughs a little, lifting a skeptical brow. “I thought you’d left religion behind.”
“Not completely. I believe what I believe. I think, for example, that the universe has a way of guiding us. Pointing us in the direction we should take.” I sit back and link my hands behind my head. “Did you know Thelonious Monk had bipolar?”
“What?” Widened with shock, her eyes snap to mine. “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, I know everything there is to know about that man. I’m not sure at the time they knew what to call it, but now it’s generally believed that’s what it was. He was in and out of hospitals the last years of his life. Erratic behavior onstage. Substance abuse to cope with his mental illness. The whole nine.”
“I like him even more now,” she says, managing a tiny smile.
“There’s this chaos in so much of his music. He didn’t mind discordant notes, allowed odd, extended silences, banged the piano sometimes in ways that feel random. You know you’re watching a genius when you see him play and the mind that music comes from has to be beautiful.”
I want to say what I really mean—that a mind like hers is beautiful, but I’m not sure she would believe me yet. She might not understand that knowing about her diagnosis brings a measure of relief. It assembles all the puzzle pieces I could never fit together. It makes a new kind of sense that liberates the emotion I’ve felt foolish for holding on to. I wasn’t a fool. She wasn’t a cheat, and what we had was real.
“So you were named after a famous musician who had the same diagnosis as I do.” Her laugh is tinny in the stretched silence, like she needs to speak or get lost in the space between us. “That’s quite a coincidence, huh?”
“Coincidence?” I stand and wrap my arms around her waist.