{"id":3982,"date":"2018-03-26T18:23:10","date_gmt":"2018-03-26T18:23:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/christinalaurenbooks.com\/Clo2\/?p=3982"},"modified":"2018-03-26T18:32:45","modified_gmt":"2018-03-26T18:32:45","slug":"love-and-other-words-chapter-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/christinalaurenbooks.com\/Clo2\/2018\/03\/love-and-other-words-chapter-1\/","title":{"rendered":"LOVE AND OTHER WORDS – Chapter 1"},"content":{"rendered":"
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We’re back with Chapter 1, and two weeks to go. If you didn’t catch the prologue, you can find it here.<\/a> Don’t forget to find us on\u00a0twitter,<\/a>\u00a0Instagram<\/a>\u00a0or\u00a0FB<\/a>\u00a0and tell us what you think, and of course, to preorder!<\/a>\u00a0Seriously, it’s like a surprise party for your kindle. Everyone ready? Happy reading!!<\/strong><\/p>\n

If you drew a straight line from my apartment in San Francisco to Berkeley, it would only be ten and a half miles, but even in the best commuting window it takes more than an hour without a car.<\/p>\n

\u201cI caught a bus at six this morning,\u201d I say. \u201cTwo BART lines, and another bus.\u201d I look down at my watch. \u201cSeven thirty. Not too bad.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sabrina wipes a smudge of foamy milk from her upper lip. As much as she understands my avoidance of cars, I know there\u2019s a part of her that thinks I should just power through it and get a Prius or Subaru, like any other respecting Bay Area resident. \u201cDon\u2019t let anyone tell you you\u2019re not a saint.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI really am. You made me leave my bubble.\u201d But I say it with a smile, and look down at her tiny daughter on my lap. I\u2019ve only ever seen the princess Vivienne twice, and she seems to have doubled in size. \u201cGood thing you\u2019re worth it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hold babies every day, but it never feels like this. Sabrina and I used to live across a dorm room from each other at Tufts. Then we moved into an apartment off campus before quasi-upgrading to a crumbling house during our respective graduate programs. By some magic we both ended up on the West Coast, in the Bay Area, and now Sabrina has a baby. That we are old enough now to be doing this\u2014birthing children, breeding\u2014is the weirdest feeling ever.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was up at eleven last night with this one,\u201d Sabrina says, looking at us fondly. Her smile turns wry at the edges. \u201cAnd two. And four. And six\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, you win. But to be fair, she smells better than most of the people on the bus.\u201d I plant a small kiss on Viv\u2019s head and tuck her more securely into the crook of my arm before carefully reaching for my coffee.<\/p>\n

The cup feels strange in my hand. It\u2019s ceramic, not a paper throwaway or the enormous stainless steel travel mug Sean fills to the brim for me each morning, assuming\u2014 not incorrectly\u2014that it takes a hulking dose of caffeine to get me ready to tackle the day. It\u2019s been forever since I had time to sit down with an actual mug and sip anything.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou already look like a mama,\u201d Sabrina says, watching us from across the small caf\u00e9 table.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe benefit of working with babies all day.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sabrina is quiet for a breath, and I realize my mistake. Ground rule number one: never reference my job around mothers, especially new mothers. I can practically hear her heart stutter across the table from me.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know how you do it,\u201d she whispers. The sentence is a repeating chorus to my life right now. It seems to boggle my friends over and over again that I made the decision to go into pediatrics at UCSF\u2014in the critical-care track. Without fail, I catch a flash of suspicion that maybe I\u2019m missing an important, tender bone, some maternal brake that should prevent me from being able to routinely witness the suffering of sick kids.<\/p>\n

I give Sabrina my usual refrain of \u201cSomeone needs to,\u201d then add, \u201cAnd I\u2019m good at it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI bet you are.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNow pediatric neuro? That I couldn\u2019t do,\u201d I say, and then pull my lips between my teeth, physically restraining myself from saying more.<\/p>\n

Shut up, Macy. Shut your crazy babble mouth.<\/em><\/p>\n

Sabrina offers a small nod, staring at her baby. Viv smiles up at me and kicks her legs excitedly.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot all the stories are sad.\u201d I tickle her tummy. \u201cTiny miracles happen every day, don\u2019t they, cutie?\u201d<\/p>\n

The subject change rolls out of Sabrina, loud enough to be a little jarring: \u201cHow\u2019s wedding planning coming?\u201d<\/p>\n

I groan, pressing my face into the sweet baby smell of Viv\u2019s neck.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat good, huh?\u201d Laughing, Sabrina reaches for her daughter, as if she\u2019s unable to share her any longer. I can\u2019t blame her. She\u2019s such a warm and shapable little bundle in my arms.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s perfect, honey,\u201d I say quietly, handing her over. \u201cSuch a solid little girl.\u201d<\/p>\n

And, as if everything I do is somehow hardwired to my memories of them\u2014the raucous life next door, the giant, chaotic family I never had\u2014I am hit with nostalgia, of the last non-work-related baby I spent any real time with. It\u2019s a memory of me as a teenager, staring down at baby Alex as she slept in her bouncy chair. My brain leapfrogs through a hundred images: Miss Dina cooking dinner with the swaddled bundle of Alex slung against her chest. Mr. Nick holding Alex in his beefy, hairy arms, staring down at her with the tenderness of an entire village. Sixteen-year-old George trying\u2014and failing\u2014to change a diaper without incident on the family couch. The protective lean of Nick Jr., George, and Andreas as they stared down at their new, most beloved sibling. And then, invariably, my mind shifts to Elliot just beyond or behind, waiting quietly for his older brothers to move on to their fighting or running or mess making, leaving him to pick up Alex, read to her, give her his undivided attention.<\/p>\n

I ache, missing them all so much, but especially him.<\/p>\n

\u201cMace,\u201d Sabrina prompts.<\/p>\n

I blink. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe wedding?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight.\u201d My mood droops; the prospect of planning a wedding while juggling a hundred hours a week at the hospital never fails to exhaust me. \u201cWe haven\u2019t moved on it yet. We still need to pick a date, a place, a\u00a0 .\u00a0 .\u00a0 . everything. Sean doesn\u2019t care about the details, which, I guess, is good?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d she says with false brightness, shifting Viv to covertly nurse her at the table. \u201cAnd besides, what\u2019s the rush?\u201d<\/p>\n

In her question, the twin thought is very shallowly buried: I\u2019m your best friend and I\u2019ve only met the man twice, for fuck\u2019s sake. What is the rush? And she\u2019s right. There is no rush. We\u2019ve only been together for a few months. It\u2019s just that Sean is the first man I\u2019ve met in more than ten years who I can be with and not feel like I\u2019m holding back somehow. He\u2019s easy, and calm, and when his six-year-old daughter Phoebe asked when we were getting married, it seemed to switch something over in him, propelling him to ask me himself, later.<\/p>\n

\u201cI swear,\u201d I tell her, \u201cI have no interesting updates. Wait\u2014no. I have a dentist appointment next week.\u201d Sabrina laughs. \u201cThat\u2019s what we\u2019ve come to, that\u2019s the only thing other than you that will break up the monotony for the foreseeable future. Work, sleep, repeat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sabrina sees this as the invitation it is to talk freely about her new family of three, and she unrolls a list of accomplishments: the first smile, the first belly laugh, and just yesterday, a tiny fist shooting out with accuracy and firmly grabbing her mama\u2019s finger.<\/p>\n

I listen, loving each normal detail acknowledged for what it really is: a miracle. I wish I got to hear all of her \u201cnormal details\u201d every day. I love what I do, but I miss just\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. talking.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m scheduled today for noon, and will probably be on the unit until the middle of the night. I\u2019ll come home and sleep for a few hours, and do it all over again tomorrow. Even after coffee with Sabrina and Viv, the rest of this day will bleed into the next and\u2014unless something truly awful happens on the unit\u2014I won\u2019t remember a single thing about it.<\/p>\n

So as she talks, I try to absorb as much of this outside world as I can. I pull in the scent of coffee and toast, the sound of music rumbling beneath the bustle of the customers. When Sabrina bends down to pull a pacifier out of her diaper bag, I glance up to the counter, scanning the woman with the pink dreadlocks, the shorter man with a neck tattoo taking coffee orders, and, in front of them, the long masculine torso that slaps me into acute awareness.<\/p>\n

His hair is nearly black. It\u2019s thick and messy, falling over the tops of his ears. His collar is folded under on one side, his shirttails untucked from a pair of worn black jeans. His Vans are slip-on and faded old-school check print. A well-used messenger bag is slung across one shoulder and rests against the opposite hip.<\/p>\n

With his back to me, he looks like a thousand other men in Berkeley, but I know exactly which man this is.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s the heavy, dog-eared book tucked under his arm that gives it away: there\u2019s only one person I know who rereads Ivanhoe every October. Ritually, and with absolute adoration.<\/p>\n

Unable to look away, I\u2019m locked in anticipation of the moment he turns and I can see what nearly eleven years have done to him. I barely give thought to my own appearance: mint-green scrubs, practical sneakers, hair in a messy ponytail. Then again, it never occurred to either of us to consider our own faces or degree of put-togetherness before. We were always too busy memorizing each other.<\/p>\n

Sabrina pulls my attention away while the ghost of my past is paying for his order.<\/p>\n

\u201cMace?\u201d<\/p>\n

I blink to her. \u201cSorry. I. Sorry. The\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was just babbling about diaper rash. I\u2019m more interested in what\u2019s got you so\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0.\u201d She turns to follow where I\u2019d been looking. \u201cOh.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

Her \u201coh\u201d doesn\u2019t contain understanding yet. Her \u201coh\u201d is purely about how the man looks from behind. He\u2019s tall\u2014that happened suddenly, when he turned fifteen. And his shoulders are broad\u2014that happened suddenly, too, but later. I remember noticing it the first time he hovered above me in the closet, his jeans at his knees, his broad form blocking out the weak overhead light. His hair is thick\u2014but that\u2019s always been true. His jeans rest low on his hips and his ass looks amazing. I\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. have no idea when that<\/em> happened.<\/p>\n

Basically, he looks exactly like the kind of guy we would ogle silently before turning to each other to share the wordless I know, right? face. It\u2019s one of the most surreal realizations of my life: he\u2019s grown into the kind of stranger I would dreamily admire.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s strange enough to see him from the back, and I\u2019m watching him with such intensity that for a second, I convince myself that it\u2019s not him after all.<\/p>\n

Maybe it could be anyone\u2014and after a decade apart, how well do I really know his body, anyway? But then he turns, and I feel all the air get sucked out of the room. It\u2019s if I\u2019ve been punched in the solar plexus, my diaphragm momentarily paralyzed.<\/p>\n

Sabrina hears the creaking, dusty sound coming from me and turns back around. I sense her starting to rise from her chair. \u201cMace?\u201d<\/p>\n

I pull in a breath, but it\u2019s shallow and sour somehow, making my eyes burn.<\/p>\n

His face is narrower, jaw sharper, morning stubble thicker. He\u2019s still wearing the same style of thick-rimmed glasses, but they no longer dwarf his face. His bright hazel eyes are still magnified by the thick lenses. His nose is the same\u2014but it\u2019s no longer too big for his face. And his mouth is the same, too\u2014straight, smooth, capable of the world\u2019s most perfectly sardonic grin.<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t even imagine what expression he would make if he saw me here. It might be one I\u2019ve never seen him make before.<\/p>\n

\u201cMace?\u201d Sabrina reaches with a free hand, grabbing my forearm. \u201cHoney, you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

I swallow, and close my eyes to break my own trance. \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

She sounds unconvinced: \u201cYou sure?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI mean\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0.\u201d Swallowing again, I open my eyes and intend to look at her, but my gaze is drawn back over her shoulder again. \u201cThat guy over there\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. It\u2019s Elliot.\u201d<\/p>\n

This time, her \u201cOh\u201d<\/em> is meaningful.<\/p>\n

MORE SOON!<\/p>\n

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