“You made it,” he says.
“I did.”
We stand a few feet apart, on separate cobblestones that feel like rafts in a churning sea. He really does look good; he’s standing straight and tall, and the bruise that marred his cheek just a week ago has faded almost entirely. I want to launch myself into his arms, but I’m worried about his ribs, and thrown by the way he’s clutching his notebook, regarding me with apprehension, like we’ve never been alone before.
“I’m glad you’re back,” I tell him. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Glad to be away from the hospital.” His gaze falls to the ground, then, shyly, returns to mine. “Will you come inside?”
“If it’s okay.”
He shrugs. “It is for now.”
He doesn’t mean anything by it—there’s not a barbed bone in his body—but his words pierce me. I’m not welcome here unaccompanied—in his mother’s eyes, I might not be welcome at all. I am a surreptitious social call, a cursory friend, a dirty little secret. I amtemporary. That’s all I ever can be.
You knew going in,I think.You’ve known all along.
Nothing changes in the cottage. We’re quiet, circling each other, waiting to see who’ll make the first move. It hasn’t been like this in weeks, since we visited Nicky in Sacramento and found a semblance of comfort, and later, at Audrey’s, where we fell into an intimacy that felt special and sacred. Somewhere in the space separating all that from now, the closeness, the contentment, has funneled away.
He sits on the sofa. I do, too.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks. “Chai? Water?”
“I’m okay.”
“Did you get your photo?”
“Of you? Yep. Did you write your words?”
“About you? Yep.”
I smile, though his mood is serious.
“Elise… I’m sorry I had to be away.” He reaches across the vastness between us, letting his hand rest on my knee. His skin is warm, as always. “I’ve wasted our time.”
“You haven’t wasted anything. What happened wasn’t your fault and anyway, healing is more important than hanging out with some girl.”
“You are notsome girl.”
“Well, I’m notthegirl.”
He flinches. “What does that mean?”
My heart is slashed down the middle, torn between sticking whatever this is out as long as possible, and saving itself from the agony of telling him goodbye later. “It means this is never going to work,” I say with all the tenderness I can spare. I’m not out to hurt him, but I have to be honest. “Mati, you know we can’t last. So what if we’ve been talking around it? In a couple of weeks, you and me… we’re done.”
He pitches forward to take my hands. His eyes, doleful, search mine, like if he looks long enough, the impossible will rearrange its pixels and become feasible. “Don’t say that.”
“Tell me how we can possibly survive. You, moving back to Afghanistan with no plan to return, with thisdutyyou’re always talking about. Me, in America, working toward a degree I need and want and won’t give up. Our families, who’ve made no secret of their disapproval. And don’t get me started on language barriers and religious complications and cultural chaos.”
“But none of that—”
“Don’t say it doesn’t matter. It does, all of it, and it always will. Did you know I haven’t seen Audrey and Janie since the day after Aud caughtus in her cottage? She’s letting me babysit tonight, but only because she thinks I’ve stopped seeing you. My mom does, too, and today, for the first time in too long, she was almost pleasant.”
His grasp on my hands tightens; despite everything I’ve said, I’m clinging to him, too. “I’m sorry I’ve caused trouble for you and your family.”
“But you haven’t. That’s my point. It’s not you and it’s not me—it’s you and me in combination. It’sus.”
“If there is no us, everything is easy,” he says, gravelly, as if the phrase scours his throat on its way out.
