Page 30 of Letting Go at 40

However, the blame is not all on him. I kissed him in return. Pressing against his body. Clutching his shirt. Digging into his hair. Eventually touching his—

Immediately, I stop myself, willing myself to forget how he felt in my hands, but my fingers have a mind of their own and curl into a fist, feeling the invisible weight, the length, the strength like a ghost in my hand.

Ghost dick. I nearly laugh out loud at the thought and it’s a good distraction, pulling me back to the present.

“Dating isn’t something you need to think about right now,” Jenna states. “You need to work on you first. Just be Anna.”

“Is that just be comma Anna, like an interjection, or a complete statement, like just be Anna, to which I don’t know who that is anymore?” My voice drops with anxiety in not knowing myself.

“You’re a teacher, my friend. We are always learning. Reflective. Progressive. Transformative.”

“You sound like an education manual.” I laugh.

“God, who let me be a teacher, responsible for shaping the young minds of other people’s children?” she jests. She’s a great teacher, equally excellent in instruction and connections with kids.

“MSU did that.” She’d even graduated with honors.

“I should demand a refund,” she jokes.

“I’m sure all the kids you taught, and their parents, are grateful.”

“If only taxpayer dollars reflected that gratitude.” We both laugh, knowing this is a whole other conversation for another time.

“Alright, I gotta go. Rosie is too quiet upstairs which always means trouble.” Jenna’s youngest daughter is smart but a daredevil at the ripe age of two. Her four-year-old, Talia, is more of a worrywart.

“Hug those girls for me,” I say, missing the days where I could easily hug my own crew. The hugs have come often in the past year, but the kids’ rebound is happening faster than mine. They are slipping into routines, social activities, and friendships that don’t involve me. Their growth is also part of my adjustment.

One thing I’m learning is I’m a creature of habit, and I don’t particularly like change.

+ + +

My next-door neighbor, River, and I have developed a friendship, despite Zack having a summer fling with her. When River moved in, I hadn’t had the time to properly meet her. Ben had been diagnosed already. Our move to Lakeside Cottage had been hasty and things went downhill rather quickly after Christmas. We’d always known Ben had roughly a year, but time sped up while being one of the longest years of my life. It wasn’t until after his funeral that I finally introduced myself to my new neighbor.

She’s currently a pediatric oncology nurse, and a woman who lost someone dear to her, so she understands my rollercoaster of emotions. As an outsider to our group, she is a welcomed friend for her objectivity. Every other word out of her mouth wasn’t a reminder of Ben and it left me with the openness to not always discuss him. She listened when I want to talk, but she also distracted me, coaxing me into a variety of activities all intended to do one thing.

Reassess who I am.

One of the activities we partake in is Monday manicures and margaritas. Rudder’s is a bit dark and dim but a bar off the radar of tourists and favored by many locals. And on Mondays, they have margarita specials. Most nights, our time out includes Autumn.

“Have you talked to Mason lately?” Autumn asks while her eyes are closed, and her feet are scrubbed. As a new mom, she loves these nights off while Logan watches baby Ben, which usually includes Lorna and Mila assisting as overeager helpers.

“I haven’t,” I admit sheepishly, not only for kissing him, but for not checking in on him. He’d been part of our lives for over twenty years as one of Ben’s best friends. He’d also given up a year of his life to help Ben and he deserved more than a desperate kiss and then radio silence. Ben would be disappointed in me for a number of reasons. Still, Mason hadn’t reached out to me either.

“Mila told me he calls her or sends her text messages.”

Autumn’s knowledge bothers me. “When did she tell you that?”

She shrugs and opens her eyes to peer over at me from her chair beside mine. “She’s shown me some of the funny memes he sends her.”

He sends my daughter memes? “Are they appropriate?” I unfairly ask, protective of my daughter’s age and Mason’s history of immaturity, but also a bit upset that he hasn’t messaged me.

With a cheerful huff, Autumn says, “As appropriate as you can be as Mason. Most of them are funny images of pop singers or actors with punny sayings. Or quotes to inspire her for school.”

“Is Mila struggling in school?” Why am I asking my sister-in-law? And why does she know something I don’t about my own child? Mason has been in contact with the kids but not me.

The holes in my chest widen with the guilt of acknowledging the disconnect I’ve had from my children’s lives. I’ve been physically present but mentally checked out at times. I’m doing the best I can, struggling to push life forward because I can’t live in the past. The past is dead.

“I don’t think so. Mason is just checking in,” Autumn adds, revealing more of his involvement and commitment to my children.