There’s a part of me that wants to hang on to that old hurt and anger, but there’s a bigger part that’s more than ready to let it go like I just did out on the dance floor.
“So, what do you say?” he asks. “Can you forgive me?”
Slowly, I begin to smile. “Okay,” I say. And because he seems to need to hear it outright: “I forgive you.”
A good chunk of the weight of our past, that heavy load I’ve been carrying with me, evaporates. We smile at each other for a little infinity, and I hear that ringing in my ears again. Those blasted bells only I can hear, signaling a new beginning.
We sit for a while longer, chatting and laughing like the old friends we might just get to be again. When I finally look up from him and scan the room, I realize we’re some of the last patrons left. The waitresses have traded in their uniforms for track suits and flip-flops; they’re counting their tips and calling it a night. Leon lurks near the bar, shooting glances our way. It’s clear he knows we’re having a moment and doesn’t want to intrude.
“We should probably pay.”
“I’ll grab it. Family discount. No sweat,” Derick says, even though I can see his palms are slick with the stuff. Was he as nervous as I was? He’s always been somewhat reserved with his feelings. But I guess all closeted people kind of have to be when they’re burdened with their true selves underneath the performance.
He thanks his uncle for the service and the wings. I notice a plaque on the wall crowning the Lonely Lass-O BEST WING SLINGERS IN WILLOW VALLEY by a local publication. You’ve got to celebrate even the small stuff, I guess.
Derick bumps my shoulder in the narrow hallway on the way out, something we used to do all the time when we were hanging with our friends. The sense memory clings to me like static socks straight out of the dryer.
We both stop by our respective cars. “What was the project Earl mentioned you were working on last weekend?” He leans back against the driver’s side door, kicking one leg over the other. A good lean goes a long way.
“I did some of my undergraduate research on a retired director from Willow Valley named Alice Kelly. She was supposed to have a film premiere here back in 1978 for this awesome indie zombie movie she made on a tiny budget, but it fell through. I want to make it happen now.”
He straightens. “That sounds pretty awesome. Why’d it fall apart?”
“Everyone says it’s because it got panned by critics, but there are theories floating around on the message boards that her husband, another hotshot director at the time, paid off the press to kill her movie.”
“What the fuck? That’s messed up. Why would someone’s husband do that to them? Jealousy?”
“Maybe.” I press my back into my car. My lean isn’t nearly as alluring as Derick’s. “It’s possible he was afraid her rumored bisexuality would be too apparent in the movie or that it would finally prove to everyone that she was the real visionary behind their collaborations. Whatever the reason, he served her papers, sent her packing, and Hollywood blacklisted her.”
“That’s bullshit. You definitely have to make that happen.” There’s a distinct, sudden fervor emanating from Derick.
“I really want to, but I’m afraid I can’t. She wants me to do manual labor around her house in exchange for her permission. The only time I’ve even worked with power tools was when we did those peer-leadership Habitat for Humanity projects. Do you remember that one horrendous one in Baskersville? My glasses fogged up while we were building that deck. I missed the nail and ended up hammering my hand. They had to send me to the ER. My parents were not happy.”
Voicing my fears has always been hard for me. I work overtime to ensure people see me as the confident leader I want to be after so many years of being background actor invisible. That’s why the storage closet and the ticket incident were so insufferable. They set the tone for me to be a bumbling idiot rather than someone to look to for guidance and support.
“I know my way around a toolbox,” Derick says, because of course he does. “I could help out if you want. To make up for the, well, everything.”
“I don’t know. Alice is really particular. She didn’t even seem pleased that I’d be invading her space.”
He crosses the white-painted parking line on the pavement between us with one confident step. My breath snags. “Okay. I won’t press you. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He’s one of those tall guys who doesn’t know how much space he takes up, how blissfully suffocating his nearness can be.
“I’ll think about it,” I gasp. I’m staring up at his face, charting his left-leaning, freckled nose and his boyish cheeks. There’s a millisecond where it seems like he might crane his neck down toward me, make it up to me, create a moment where hethinks of me like that.
But instead, he waggles his eyebrows and asks, “So, we really can be friends again?”
My preservation shell snaps over me.
Ghosted. Stood up. Rejected. My evolution to unrequited cliché has come to its climax. Behold the Boy Wonder. Watch as he repels every person he’s ever pined after.
But, in the end, it’s not Derick’s fault he doesn’t feel the same way I do. He can’t control the way his heart works. If it doesn’t beat for me, it doesn’t beat for me. He’s not the mighty suitor sent to slay the kiss quest, which I’ve abandoned anyway.
He’s never beenmine. He’s just Derick. I guess I’ll have to learn to be okay with that.
And since I’ve already forgiven him for the past: “Uh, yes, friends. For sure.”
He smiles, all warmth, before he says, “Good night, Wrenji.”
“Good night, Derick.” His helpful proposal and platonic proposition trail me into my car and all the way back to my apartment complex.
