“I wanted to tell you that the kids are going to be with their mother this Friday. That means we’re definitely on.”

I hold my breath. I hear the laughter from the party in the next room and I smell the carnation and rose aroma from the flowers next to my bed, which is now piled with everyone’s coats. I know what I should do, what I need to do. One of my lace pillows has fallen to the floor. I pick it up and put it against the headboard and stand staring at the coats strewn on my bed.

“Did you make another date?” He laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh.

“I love you.”

There’s dead silence on the phone.

He hasn’t heard me.

“All I have to do is promise you a date on Friday and you love me?” He jokes to hide the sudden awkwardness. He doesn’t say it back.

I’m too late. I should have told him earlier, back when he first told me. That was months ago. The momentum is lost. Too late. He’s moved away from me, from us. My timing sucks. All I’ve done is make myself vulnerable.

Shit. My heart quickens.

His kids were excuses. His way to keep his distance. He doesn’t want more than we have.

“I told you last Valentine’s Day. Now it’s almost Christmas,” he says tenderly, almost in a whisper. “Since then I’ve been waiting for you. Giving you time in spite of my crazy life.”

I exhale. “I love you.” I say it again, wondering if it’ll feel different the second time. This time my voice is low and each word carefully articulated. I. Love. You. This time I’m standing still, hearing how he said it months ago. Deep, with that hint of gentleness.

“Call me when the party is over, no matter how late. I’ll be waiting. And, Marnie.” He hesitates for a moment. “I love you. I love you, too.”

DATES

Dates are one of my favorite fruits, a treat I give myself at the end of a meal when I’m yearning for something sweet. Sometimes I plunge an almond, pecan, or walnut in the cavity left by the pit.