The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

on something important that everyone else seemed to find without trouble. "I am not sure where I'm going. In my life. At all. I don't know what I'm doing."

Another announcement for my flight rang out but there were plenty of people lined up to board. I had a few more minutes.

After a beat, she said, "I needed to give myself permission to start over. I didn't think I was allowed to do that. I didn't think I could when I was a mother and in my mid-thirties but I realized I had to do it to save myself and save you too. I had to convince myself that starting over didn't mean I'd forgotten your father or that I didn't still love him dearly. It didn't mean the life we'd lived wasn't worth treasuring. It meant it was time for me to go in a new direction and I couldn't persecute myself over that choice. I couldn't hate myself for walking away from things that hurt me."

I didn't know what I was supposed to say. I sniffled. "Mmhmm."

"It's okay to change your life, Jasper. It's okay for it to be messy and it's okay to wonder if you've ruined it all."

"What if I actually have ruined it all?"

"That's just not possible, honey. It's not. You have so much ahead of you. Learn from the past but leave it there while you build a life that brings you joy and peace."

"I don't know how to do that," I snapped, angry for no good reason.

She laughed, gentle and rueful, and said, "Figure out what doesn't make you happy. Start there. Make a list. You've always loved your lists. Then, get rid of all that shit. Or as much as you can without going to prison for tax evasion. You'll figure out soon enough what you want."

"What if I mess that up too? What if I never get it right?"

"Then you live a life filled with new experiences. There's no limit on the number of acts in your play. You get as many as you want. You just have to keep getting on stage."

The final boarding call for my flight gave me a minute to dry my tears and take a breath before responding.

"If you're going to Boston tonight, you need to get on that flight," she said.

"I am," I replied, shuffling toward the gate. "I'm going."

"Call me in the morning. I have two shifts next week but I can visit the week after that, if you want. Or you can come here. I'll fly you out. There's always a place for you here."

"I know, Mom. Thank you."

"You're going to make the choices that are right for you, Jasper. I believe that."

I stepped into the short line of passengers waiting to board. "Why do you believe that? How do you know?"

"Because I know what it sounds like when you're in the middle of a storm and you can't see the hand in front of your face. And I know you're in that storm now. It's different than mine but it's still a god-awful storm. I know it and I know you, and I know you'll make it through."

I drew in a long, shuddering breath and decided I didn't care if I walked onto this plane with tears all over my face. I just didn't care. I was sad and lonely, and lost in a world where I used to know my place, my spot. My feet hurt and I knew I wasn't going to sleep tonight, and I wanted to call Linden and ask him why he didn't ask me to stay but I wouldn't. I couldn't.

"I love you, Mom."

"Love you too, honey. Call me tomorrow?"

"I will." I handed the gate agent my boarding pass and proceeded down the jetway. "Thanks for listening."

"Thanks for talking," she said pointedly.

I sighed. "I know I've been bad about—"

"Let's stop beating ourselves up tonight, okay? You've been doing what you needed to do and you don't owe me an explanation. Go easy on yourself. You deserve it."

"Good night, Mom."

"Good night, Jasper."

When I made my way to my seat, I grabbed a notebook from my bag along with the flannel shirt I'd nabbed from Linden the other day because I was mad at him and wanted him to think of me every time he went looking for it. I draped the shirt over my shoulders like a shawl and flipped to a fresh page in my book.

I stared at it, pen poised over the paper, for a ridiculously long time. Long enough that I had to stow it in the seat-back pocket during takeoff and wait until the plane leveled off to return it to my lap. I stared at it through the beverage service and through half a bag of Cheez-Its, and then I wrote: The Person I Want to Be Now.

30

Linden

There was something about the sun on crisp November mornings. It cut through the clouds at harsh angles and pierced the thick fog in a way that made those lazy billows glow. Mornings like these made me feel quiet yet very much alive.

Maybe it had nothing to do with November or glowy fog but everything to do with a long night spent celebrating the safe arrival of my new nephews. Add in the stress of driving my sister to the hospital in rush hour while she whisper-screamed at her husband to get the hell home as rapidly as he could manage and the past eighteen hours were some of the craziest of my life.

It didn't end at getting her to the hospital—and then collecting Rob from the airport because an hour-long flight bested a nearly four-hour train ride in this situation. It was then, after Rob and Magnolia were reunited but before the babies arrived, that my sister remembered we'd forgotten her Boston terrier back at my parents' house. Since my father was within twenty minutes of the city—he'd been golfing with his phone off and last to hear the news—I volunteered to drive