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“Can you even salsa?”
“I sure can. Jackson and I took ballroom dancing classes for years. We danced competitively, too. Won a few. Lost more.” I laughed, remembering the days without bitterness.
“Speaking of Jackson…”
“Yes?” He seldom brought Jackson up.
“You told me once that when he betrayed you, he broke your heart, that’d he left behind only a small piece of your heart for living and breathing.”
“It was true,” I said quietly. “That’s how I felt.”
“But even with that little piece of your heart with just enough room for living and breathing, you’ve made me feel more loved these last few months than I have in my entire life.”
Friday, October 11, 2019, St. Jude—Today is my birthday. MJ video-called this morning to sing me happy birthday as she always does.
“Thanks, hon,” I said.
“So, any big plans for today?” She and I and Rio are going out to dinner to celebrate tomorrow because she is off on weekends.
“No. Yesterday, Rio took me on a cheese-and-wine train ride to celebrate. The train stopped in a town literally named Paradise before starting the return leg of the trip.”
“How was it?”
“It was great. We were seated in soft, upholstered captain’s chairs that swiveled so we could take in the countryside as it sauntered past. Built in 1911, the parlor car in which we—and a handful of other couples—were seated was resplendent with late-Victorian elegance.”
“That sounds awfully romantic,” MJ said.
“I suppose it was.” And it had been, until we stopped in Paradise and our waiter came over with a new wine for us to sample and remarked, “Y’all are so cute.” I guess we were. Rio had attempted to tame his wild curls with little success. Between his wild mane of hair and his rumpled, slightly snug wool blazer and plaid scarf, he looked charmingly eccentric. I, according to MJ, with my small frame, stellar wardrobe, and poised confidence, look like an undernourished former model.
“I hope me and my boyfriend are still together when we’re your age,” he continued brightly as he poured wine. “How long have y’all been together?”
“We’re not…together,” Rio said.
“Oh,” our waiter said, just as another passenger called out to him, allowing him to skip away from his embarrassment. I stared into the distance over Rio’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said suddenly. “I really blew that, didn’t I?”
I looked at him but said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “In my head, we’re together. But it never occurred to me that other people would look at us and see that we’re together.”
“Wow,” MJ said when I related the story to her. “How can you have a romance with someone who is straight? Rioisstraight, isn’t he?”
I shrugged.Who needs labels?I wondered. Labels are neat, orderly, convenient, but life, love,attractionis messy, disorderly, so what is the point of assigning labels to any of it?
I sighed. “Rio is…actually, I don’t know what Rio is…or what being in a relationship with me makes him. I’m not sure he does either. I’m not sure it even matters.”
“Let me ask you this: are you happy?”
“I am,” I said, “but I’m frustrated too.”
“Why?”
“Rio doesn’tdoanything. He says he wants to write this children’s book—”
“Why does everyone think they can write a children’s book?”
“I know, right? Still, at least it would give him something to do. I bought him a new laptop, thinking that would help because the one he has is so crappy. I seem to make all the decisions for us—”