“Am I happy?” he asks. “Or do I hide a lot?”
“Yes.” This feels important.
“Right this minute? Yes.” When his eyes meet mine, he adds, “And yes.” It doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a reluctant confession. “Do you ever wish you could start over, Soph?”
“I haven’t had my second cup of coffee yet, so I don’t know that I’m equipped to answer a question that requires that much brain power. Are we talking about life in general? Or from a specific point in time forward?”
He tilts his head like he’s thinking. “A point in time, I guess.”
“Is the do-over related to regrets? Like, are we stuck in the past replaying perceived or actual mistakes? Because that’s the greatest hits track that replays for me nightly when I wake up around two AM. Me and regrets are like this.” I cross my fingers.
He rubs at the dark stubble on his chin that grew in last night while he slept. It’s a good look on him. “I don’t think it’s necessarily a regret thing. Regrets are unavoidable, aren’t they? The tricky part is not giving them too much power, or they’ll eat you alive.”
“So, if we’re not stuck in the past with regrets, are we looking toward the future where we know change is required for a different outcome?” I pause because I don’t have deep conversations like this very often, even with Lola, and I want to understand. “Does starting over begin right now, and we need to look for a new path to take because the old one didn’t work out? Because I’m also neck-deep in that delightful little quicksand pit.”
“Maybe it’s not about the past or the future. Maybe it’s that I don’t want to screw up the present.” His eyes glance away butthen find mine again. “I feel like I’ve forgotten how to dream. Or maybe I’m afraid to.” He shrugs. “What about you?”
“Mmm…that’s a good question.” It is. “I think I’ve always lived my life in crisis management mode, and that’s never lent itself to dreaming. It’s like walking through land mines—you get one outcome, and it’s dependent on your current step, not the next, or the last. So, there’s never time to dream, only time to survive in the moment.” I look at him, and he’s focused on the tabletop like he’s deep in thought. “Does that make sense?” I ask.
He nods emphatically. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it feels like.”
“Maybe our dreams are just beyond the land mines.”
“Or maybe our dreams are the land mines, and we’ve been dodging them the whole time out of fear,” he counters, thoughtfully. “Maybe we have to blow things up to get to the really good stuff.” I don’t know what he’s going through, but it’s clear it’s weighing on him.
I stop and think. “I was going to say, that’s a depressing thought. But, you might be on to something. Blowing shit up to see how it all shakes out sounds a lot less exhausting and a lot more fun than dodging.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, like he’s lost in thought.
Circling back to his earlier comment, I try to lighten things up a bit because this is getting heavy for him. “All that said, I’m a second-guesser who’s plagued by regrets.” I lift a shoulder and add, “Maybe, like you said, I give them too much power. I mean, I still think about the word I got wrong during my third-grade spelling bee. I’d love to redo for that one.”
A small smile appears. “What was the word?” he asks.
“Theatrical,” I answer without hesitation. “I still hate that fucking word,” I mutter, but then smile.
His smile inches wider. “So, let me guess, you’re a grudge holder?”
I nod and raise my eyebrows for emphasis. “Award-winning.”
“Remind me to stay on your good side,” he teases.
“Oh, Ever, for you I could be averygood girl.” It’s too late when I realize I said that out loud. And it sounded every bit as filthy as it did in my head.
He’s so still that the bob of his Adam’s apple is pronounced when he swallows.
The heat’s rising in my chest and coloring my cheeks, and I want to cover my face with my hands to break eye contact. But I can’t. I don’t know how to describe locking eyes with him, but it feels private. Like being held. Or touched. “I wouldlovea do-over right about now,” I whisper, because we’re in the bubble of my embarrassment and volume doesn’t seem possible or permissible.“I am so sorry. That was beyond inappropriate.”
The shake of his head is so minute that if anyone else is watching, they wouldn’t see it. He hasn’t blinked, and it only intensifies the hold he has on me. I can’t look away and find myself leaning in like I’m being pulled there, as he whispers, “Soph, what you just said will liverent-fucking-freein my head.Don’t you dare apologize.”
I press my hands to my chest like I can slow my racing heart. “Fuck,” I mouth the word, take a deep breath, and close my eyes.
When I open them, he’s still staring.
The RV door opens and slams shut, and Hannah emerges dressed in a beachy sundress and sandals. Coupled with her blonde waves and tanned skin, she looks like she should be walking in the sand along the coast of Australia, not a rundown campground in Georgia.
“Good morning, loves. Did you sleep all right?” she asks, breezily.
“Morning,” Ever and I reply. Followed by nods from both of us. “You?” I ask.
