Free The Life Intended by Kristin Harmel Page B

abruptly, “You got any kids?” I see him looking at the two framed photos on my desk of me with Dan. “Who’s that guy anyways?” he asks before waiting for an answer.
    “That’s my boyfriend.” I pause and correct myself. “Well, actually, my fiancé. And no, I don’t have any kids.”
    “Why not?” He’s twirling one of his xylophone mallets now. “You seem pretty old. Like older than my mom.”
    It’s common for kids to try to turn the therapy sessions around on me, but the purpose of these visits isn’t so that we can bond and become friends; it’s so that they can find out more about themselves. I try to walk a fine line between answering their questions honestly—because I think adults should always take children’s questions seriously, and I want Leo to feel like I respect his feelings—and deflecting questions that are too personal.
    I shrug. “Why do you ask about kids?”
    “I just want to know.”
    Again, I stay quiet, waiting for him to go on. Silence can often be as effective as sound when you use it correctly. After a moment, he returns to playing the melody of the Beatles song, almost absently. “I bet you wouldn’t let someone beat up on your kid,” he says in a small voice when he stops playing again. “I bet you’d care enough.”
    So that’s what his questions are about. “Leo, what’s happening at school isn’t because your parents don’t care about you.”
    His jaw tightens. “My dad keeps saying I got to just stick up for myself and hit Tyler back. But Tyler would beat the crud outof me. Or his friends would. You think my dad wants me to get beat up?”
    “Absolutely not, Leo. He’s just telling you that sometimes, bullies won’t push around someone who stands up to them.”
    “Yeah, well, I bet you wouldn’t let your kid go and get creamed, if you had a kid,” he grumbles. “I bet you’d fix things and help your kid to be happy.”
    I ’m at the stove making shrimp scampi that night when Dan gets home.
    “Dinner smells great,” he says, coming up behind me and nuzzling my neck. “I love it when you cook, babe.”
    “Why don’t you open a bottle of wine? And would you mind setting the table?”
    “Sure.” He opens a bottle of sauvignon blanc, pours us each a glass, then heads into the bedroom to change out of his suit and tie. A minute later, I can hear the shower running, which annoys me a little. He knows the meal is almost ready. Patrick never would have done that, I think, but I catch myself and banish the thought. It’s not fair to compare my former husband with my future one.
    But as I set the table myself, top off my wine, and pour us each a glass of water, I can’t help but think how different this feels. Dan’s a great guy, just like Patrick was, but in a way, the similarities end there. For the first time, I find myself wondering if what attracted me most to Dan is simply that he was so different from Patrick. He’s perfect and glossy, a storybook prince, while Patrick was rough and warm and endearingly imperfect.
    As I pile pasta onto two plates and add shrimp and buttery garlic sauce, I feel a pang of sadness. Patrick and I used to cook for each other all the time, and I loved that we hada sort of intimacy in the kitchen. We were a team; if he was cooking, I was chopping vegetables or washing dishes. If I was cooking, he was pouring wine or setting the table. We had an easy sort of we’re-in-this-together camaraderie that’s just not there with Dan.
    Patrick and I used to communicate in our own sort of shorthand too. I could say a single word, and he’d almost always know exactly what I meant. He’d say, Lynn, for example, and I’d know he’d had a tough day at the office with his boss and that he needed a few minutes alone to unwind. I’d say, Five, and he’d know dinner would be ready in five minutes and he should start pouring our water. He’d breathe Katielee in a low voice, and we’d always look at each other for a moment