I Hope Daisies Are OK

Don’t you remember the time you told me I was too good for you? Or, should I say, the first time you told me I was too good for you?

I told you I was surprised you thought I was stupid enough to fall for a line like that. I mean, look at all those times you said I was smarter than anyone else in my office, and that I was one of the few people  you could have an intelligent conversation with about anything. I also told you that I had hoped that you at least respected me enough to tell me the truth: That you liked me, but you didn’t like me that way.

You insisted it wasn’t me it was you. I said, “Thanks, George Costanza.” You laughed. It was that laugh that made me laugh, too, no matter how pissed off I was. Then we started trading other lines from “Seinfeld.” “These pretzels are making me thirsty,” you said, while actually picking up a pretzel from the bowl on the bar. I think that made it even funnier. At any rate, I laughed way harder than was warranted, which made me a little angry at myself because  I was still pissed off at you. But telling myself in my head that I was angry reminded me of, “The sea was angry that day, my friends.” “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” you said. “I once broke up with someone for not offering me pie,” I said. “Mulva,” you said. Again, I laughed way harder than I should have.

Yada, yada, yada.

We had a couple more glasses of pinot. You paid, as usual, and we went to our separate homes. For the rest of the night, though, I couldn’t help but think  how sad it was that you believed  I was too good for you. Or that anyone could be too good for you. Before that night I never thought of you as having an inferiority complex. Why would you? How could you? You were smart and funny and witty and so handsome, with that great smile. You were a great dad, although you didn’t see Kevin and Kate as much as you wanted to, which made you believe you were not a good dad. But people notice things, and they did notice you were a great dad.  And  Kevin did come back to live with you, after all. And, no matter what you said, it was not just because he wanted to be closer to his cousins. 

Besides all that, you were a lawyer with a successful practice who also advocated for kids dumped into the legal system because of some usually-heinous thing their parents or guardians did. As if that wasn’t enough, you volunteered for the United Way and the Red Cross. How could you think anyone, especially me, was too good for you?

It’s not like I was Princess Diana out doing good deeds all day and looking gorgeous and totally put together while doing them. I was a newspaper reporter covering the local cops and court beat, and felt as if I was having a good day if the part in my hair was straight and I was wearing matching shoes. 

I was too good for you? Give me a break!

That could have been the end of our relationship but, obviously, it wasn’t. I figured “just friends” was better than nothing. I was relieved a couple of days later, after court, when you asked if I wanted to stop at The Brew Station for a drink. Like you even had to ask. That night was good, as were the many nights that followed over the next few years. As long as we kept it casual and in the friend zone everything was fine. 

Then we went a month without going for drinks after court. We had been going out two or three times a week, but that dropped off to just Thursdays. Those Thursdays were the highlight of my week, although I never told you that. I didn’t want you to think – well, know, really – that I still desperately wanted to take it out of the friend zone.  When the fourth Thursday rolled around I thought maybe you were waiting for me to ask you to go to The Brew Station after court. It’s possible, I thought, that you got tired of always being the one who asked. So, when I asked you I fully expected you to say yes. I’d feel relieved and everything would seem normal again. But you said no. Not no, exactly. You just said you couldn’t. No explanation. Other times you couldn’t make it for drinks you’d told me you were going to Ohio because Kate had an important swim meet or you had a late meeting with a client or something. But not this time. This time it was just, “Sorry, but I can’t.” 

Besides the lack of an explanation, there was something else different about your declining my invitation. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. It was a look on your face, in your eyes, that I’d never seen before. I wish I could say I figured it out on my own, but I didn’t. Probably because I didn’t want to believe it.  But, in a small town where people talk and gossip, it was only a matter of time – a very short time – before I heard about Gayle.

Strangely enough, I don’t remember people telling me you were happy. I just remember hearing that you were with her. Now that I think about it, I don’t even remember you telling me you were happy. That was a weird conversation, though. You telling me I made you a better person because, before we became friends, you would never have thought of telling me you were marrying someone else. You would have just let me find out through the grapevine. Then when you said you decided to marry her because when you spent 23 hours driving to Florida you didn’t kill each other, I just shook my head and thought maybe I was too good for you. I mean, if your standards were that low.

I wasn’t surprised that it didn’t last. Actually, I was surprised that it lasted as long as it did. I heard rumors. Turns out most of them were true. 

I was sad that we didn’t get back to pre-Gayle status right away. It was just a friendly wave at the United Way picnic or a nod when we passed each other on the way to our seats at a Bonaventure basketball game. Was it really six years before we had a proper conversation? I remember that day at the charity auction like it was yesterday.  You were looking at a La-Z-Boy recliner and I said, “Perfect way to relax with a grandson sleeping on your chest.” You turned around. Your eyes lit up and you said, “Exactly what I was thinking.” Honestly, I don’t remember what we talked about besides your grandson. I just remember it felt good.

We didn’t see each other very much after that. Again, I’d heard rumors. I don’t know why I didn’t call and ask you about them. I’m glad you finally told me, though. I don’t know how I would have handled finding out any other way.

I remember that night so well. It’s like a movie I’ve re-watched dozens and dozens of times. You suggested we go to Players for drinks, which we’d never done together before. After some chit-chat and a couple glasses of pinot you told me you were dying. I knew by the look in your eyes it wasn’t a cruel joke, and the rumors were true. Then you reminded me of the first time you told me I was too good for you and me saying that you must think I’m stupid to fall for a line like that. You told me you certainly did not think I was stupid, but you had been; that maybe I was right and we should have tried being more than just friends. 

But then again, you said, we might have ended up hating each other. You do have a track record, you said. 

I told you I could never hate you, and that should have been obvious to you. I mean, you married someone else, for goodness sake, and I was still crazy about you. Instead of replying you asked if I wanted to dance, which you had never done before. I said yes. You nodded to the DJ. At the first few notes of Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” I started crying. You wiped the tears away  with your thumbs, pulled me closer and told me you should have asked me to dance a long time ago. I was speechless.

Not at all like today. I hadn’t planned on talking this long. I was just going to drop the flowers off in front of the gravestone and leave. I don’t even know what your favorite flowers were. I hope daisies are OK. Anyway, the last song we danced to that night? The Beatles? I love you more.