“That’s fair.”
She nodded, satisfied, and poured herself a third cup of coffee.
For the first time, I began to understand that falling in love with Diane meant becoming part of a life that existed long before me.
I wasn’t there to rescue her.
I wasn’t there to erase Mark.
I was there because she had opened a door, and I was learning how to walk through it without expecting her to change everything to accommodate me.
That evening, we sat on the back patio.
The air was cool, and a wool blanket rested over Diane’s shoulders.
“Do you want this to be real?” I asked.
She looked at me.
“In what sense?”
“In the ordinary sense. Dinner with your friends. Holding your hand in public. People knowing we’re together. Not hiding because someone might think the age difference is strange.”
She considered the question.
“I spent too many years worrying about what would make other people comfortable,” she said. “I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life doing that.”
