“Nobody,” he says. “The answer is nobody. Just you, Al.”
“Right, but you think I’m crazy.”
“Maybe a little,” he says with a smile. “But I think you’re pretty amazing too.”
I rest my head against his shoulder, the sun warm on my face. “I thought it would be different. Coming back out here. I thought it would feel more like coming home.”
“It was only ever home because of your parents,” Teddy says quietly. “Without them, it’s just a museum.”
I sit up to look at him, and he smiles at me, but there’s something sad in it.
“I went to visit my old building the other day,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “I had this crazy thought that I’d ask the architect to keep our old apartment the way it is.” He shakes his head. “It was a dumb idea. It would mean the rest of the place would be brand-new, and then there’d be this one unit that’s kind of a dump.”
“Then why…?”
“I got cold feet after seeing my dad,” he says with a shrug. “That’s where all my memories of him are, you know? I just couldn’t imagine tearing it down.”
I nod. “That must’ve been really hard, going back.”
“It was,” he says. “And it wasn’t. It was like walking into a time capsule. The owners haven’t done anything to it. Remember that crack in the ceiling that looked like an alligator? That’s still there. So are all those tiles we broke in the bathroom.” He pauses. “But it was good too. Seeing it. Because it didn’t feel the same as when we lived there.Ididn’t feel the same. And now we can build something better in its place.”
Somewhere along the way, we’d angled ourselves toward each other, our eyes locked, and now, slowly, almost involuntarily, Teddy tips his head to one side. Around us, the trees are moving in the wind, and the students are calling to each other, and the clouds are scudding across the too-blue sky. And all the while we remain like that, our heads tilted in opposite directions, watching each other intently.
I wait for him to snap out of it, to pull back again, but he doesn’t. Somehow, our faces are closer now, the distance between us smaller by half, and for a few long seconds, we’re frozen there like that, stuck somewhere between a conversation and a kiss, a stalled overture that seems to last forever. Then Teddy’s eyes widen, just slightly, and he gives his head the tiniest shake before leaning back again, taking all the air, all the hope, all the many pieces of my heart with him.
“Anyway,” he mumbles, suddenly focused on his shoes.
I bob my head, not able to speak yet. But finally, I manage it too. “Anyway,” I repeat, shifting away from him, my heart still ticking like an engine that’s not quite cool. We sit there for another minute, staring out at the green grass and the orange buildings, and then I let out a long breath. “Can I ask you something?”
Teddy nods. “Anything.”
“Can we go see my old house?”
“Of course,” he says, looking relieved for the change of topic. “But are you sure?”
“Not really,” I say with a small smile, but I stand up anyhow.
As we start to walk back to the parking lot, I glance over at him. He’s wearing his old corduroy jacket instead of the new one he bought when he first won all the money. It’s worn at the elbows and patchy in places, but I’ve always thought he looked handsome in it, and today is no different.
I don’t know what that was, what just happened between us, the magnetic pull of it. But I know how he feels about me. And I don’t want things to be complicated between us. Not after all he’s done for me. Not after dreaming up this whole trip. Not when we’re finallyusagain.
“Hey,” I say softly, slipping an arm through his. I feel him tense up, but I ignore it, determined to get back on solid ground, eager to show him that I’m not holding out hope, that I’m fine with things the way they are. “Thank you.”
He gives me a wary look. “What for?”
“Just everything,” I say, because honestly, there’s too much to list.
His face relaxes into a smile. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, but he seems pleased, and we walk the rest of the way to the car linked together like that.
When we’re ready to go, he asks for the address to put into his phone, and I give it to him without hesitating, amazed that it could still be so close to the surface after nine whole years. But I suppose things like that get imprinted on you; they’re not so easy to shake.
We take the more direct route this time, shooting up the ribbon of highway toward San Francisco, past the airport and through the city and straight to my old neighborhood, which sits high on a hill overlooking the bay.
Teddy parks a few blocks away, and then we walk up the steep incline together, past the playground where my parents used to take me, and the house with the beagle that always howled when I rode past on my bike, and the square of sidewalk where someone etched a heart with an arrow through it a million years ago.
The street looks exactly the same and entirely different all at once. I pause near the top, breathing hard, no longer used to the hills. After nine years in Chicago, it seems I’ve officially become a midwesterner.
“It’s just over there,” I say, pointing farther up the block.
