I just stared at him, my stupid heart thumping against my ribs as if it had already forgiven him. I searched his face, looking for a sign that he was just saying what I wanted to hear. But all I saw was raw honesty.
“And I agree,” he continued. You deserve decency and respect, and I’m sorry I didn’t give that to you.” He let go of my chin, but he didn’t step away. “I’m sorry.”
I stood there, my mind reeling. We had come down here for food, not for this. But as I looked into his eyes and let his words sink in, the walls I’d started to lower went right back up, making me feel powerful again. I wasn’t going to let my hearttake over just because he apologized and admitted he could have handled things better. I’d be foolish to forgive him without knowing he truly meant it and would show it in the future.
I gave a small nod and whispered, “Okay.”
He understood that this was it for now. He smiled tightly and stepped back, then cleared his throat before tipping his chin down the aisle.
26
Lana
On Saturday, Holland was true to her word. She showed up at my door right after noon, with her energy higher than it had ever been before. “Get dressed,” she’d said. “We’re going on an adventure.”
Her adventure turned out to be a sun-drenched parking lot on the edge of the city that had been converted into a food truck park. There were about fifteen of them lined up in a semicircle, each brightly colored with delicious-looking pictures of what they offered.
“The plan is to get one thing from every truck. We’re conducting a very serious, scientific study of which one is the best,” she announced.
“Sounds like a great plan,” I agreed, smiling at her.
We started with a gourmet taco truck, moved on to one that served loaded grilled cheese, and were now at our third stop: a battered-looking van with a hand-painted rooster on the side that claimed to have the “best damn fried chicken in the state.” We ordered a basket of chicken strips and fries to share and made our way back to a worn wooden picnic table in the center of it all.
Holland was mid-story, her hands occupied with two chicken strips she was taking bites of one at a time as she told me about the student film production she was writing about in her essay. “And you know what the absolute worst part of it all is?” she asked, her eyes wide with dramatic frustration.
“What?” I mumbled around a mouthful of fries, listening in pure amusement.
“The guy’s dad, who’s apparently some semi-famous producer, is the one playing the main character,” she said, waving one chicken strip for emphasis. “And he is totally, tragically, a bad actor. Like, zero emotions. He’s supposed to be finding out his wife is leaving him, and he delivers the line with all the emotional depth of a man reading a grocery list.”
I snorted. “That’s painful. Are you going to write about that too?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said, taking another bite of her chicken. “Almost the entire thesis is about nepotism in student films and how it compromises artistic integrity. I’m basically roasting this guy and his dad for three pages. It’s therapeutic.”
We spent the next hour working our way through the trucks, taking breaks in between to free space in our stomachs. There was a Korean BBQ truck that served garlic-soy pork belly on a stick that was so good I almost cried, and a dessert truck that sold deep-fried chocolate chip cookies drizzled with Nutella that we both agreed was probably a one-way ticket to a heart attack, but a delicious one. By the time we reached the seventh truck, a fancy-looking one specializing in artisanal lemonades, we were both stuffed, leaning back on the picnic table bench and groaning.
“I can’t move,” Holland declared, patting her stomach. “I think I’ve achieved maximum capacity. This scientific study is over. The winner is…all of them. And also none of them, because I’m never eating again.’
“You said that an hour ago,” I pointed out, sipping my fancy strawberry basil lemonade.
“And I meant it then, and I mean it now,” she said, then ruined her own declaration by stealing a fry I had left in the bottom of the chicken basket. She popped it in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Okay, so spill. How’s your essay going?”
I swirled the ice in my cup, “I finished,” I said with a simple shrug.
Holland sat up straight, her previous food coma vanishing. “You’re kidding. Already?”
“Yup. Printed, clipped, and ready to be turned in on Monday.”
“God, you’re such a loser, always doing everything ahead of everyone else,” she said, teasing me. Then she smiled proudly. “That’s amazing, though. How many words did it end up being?”
“About ten thousand.”
“Shit, Hayes will either be annoyed that you’ve once again overdone it, or he’ll praise you again, telling everyone you’re his favorite student.”
I laughed because we both knew the latter would be true. “Do you want to read it?” I offered.
“Uh, duh! Send it to my email.”
“Will do.”
