“Movies like this give you all unreasonable expectations.” I idly strum a chord. “As if we can actually commandeer a marching band, or set up a moonlit picnic on the Empire State Building.”
“Oh, ‘us all’?”
“Yes. Girls.” I try to look at her as seriously as she’s looking at me. “We can’t actually make that shit happen. It’s unrealistic.”
Another spoonful of ice cream slides into her mouth. “No one expects a guy to re-create this movie stuff, Cam. Grand gestures aren’t actually about scale.” The silver spoon twists in her fingers like a drumstick. “They’re about putting yourself out there and creating a moment.”
“A moment?”
“Yes, amoment. It’s about doing something outside of your comfort zone to show someone what they mean to you.” She’s looking at me as if this is the most obvious thing ever, and not girl-speak that basically requires a translator.
I give her an “I still don’t get it” shoulder shrug. Just to irritate her.
She rewards me with a dramatic eye roll. “Conducting a marching band in front of a football field of students,” she says, gesturing at the TV. “Or standing outside her bedroom window with a giant boom box, playing a love song?”She watchedthat onelast week.Her eyes are fixed on me. She’s waiting for anaha!moment, but I’m not going to give it to her.
I shrug again.
“Ugh. It’s about creating a freaking moment.” Her spoon drops into her bowl with a loud clang.
I’m trying to play along and keep a straight face, but I can feel my lips betraying me now. “It’s unrealistic.”
“You’reunrealistic,” she says with mock anger, sticking her tongue out at me as I shake my head.
I finally give up a laugh.
The spoon is sticking out of her mouth and she’s facing the TV again, but I can tell she’s smiling. “Shut up and write your song.”
***
I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. A lot of the middle school, movie-date-with-your-parents kind, and just one of the sort of serious, I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours kind. I know all about remembering birthdays and favorite foods, and buying flowers on Valentine’s Day and presents at Christmas. Still, I’ve never considered myself a particularly romantic guy. Not like Anders. That guy’s always sending Cort flowers, or driving three hours after school to meet her at her college. He takes her out to the kind of restaurants that require reservations and clothes nicer than most of what he owns. That all seems forced and fake to me. I don’t want to do anything for Vee just because I feel like I’m supposed to.
This is definitely something I have to do, though. Before she finds out, I have to tell her. And when I found the light on inmy spare room the morning after she slept over, I knew it was a matter of time. Weeks have already passed, and it’s felt like a bomb in my back pocket, just waiting to blow my legs off. I’ve put this off long enough, and I’m hoping if I make the moment semi-romantic, I can distract her from what a big deal it is. Vee is always swooning over romantic, grand gestures, but this is more of a romantic diversion.
The whole apartment smells like pepperoni pizza. I turn off the movie Vee’s playing—another one of her chick flicks—and flip to one of the music stations. I yell into the kitchen. “How long?”
“Ten minutes.” She’s standing in the archway between the living room and dining area.
“Come in here.”
She’s smiling as she walks toward me. “I’m not making out with you again.” She pretends to think about it.She’s adorable.“Well, I will, but I can’t stay late tonight.” Vee falls asleep here some nights, waking up before the sun’s up, to get home before her mom does. I sleep strangely well with her next to me. I haven’t had a nightmare with her beside me, since that first night. For the most part, we’ve swapped our nights lying on the beach talking, for nights lying on my bed talking.
“I don’t want to make out.”
Her expression falls as I say it, and I can’t help but laugh at her pouty face. I grab her hand and pull her over to me. “Not now, I mean.” I keep her hand in mine, placing the other on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her obscenely close to me.
One corner of her mouth turns up in amusement. “We’re not going to make out, huh?”
I kiss her forehead and leave my lips there, brushing her skin as I speak. “There’s something I need to tell you.” I feel her tensefor just a second as I say it, a moment of hesitation in her step. “Don’t panic.”
“I’m not,” she says, as if the idea of her jumping to the worst-case scenario was absurd, rather than expected.
I can tell, just from the tone of those two words, that she is. “I need you to know I don’t really want to talk about it… or get into details… but I do want you to know.”
“Okay…”
We continue to sway back and forth.Maybe I don’t have to say anything. She’ll forget the empty bedroom eventually, or maybe she won’t even ask about it. That’s ridiculous, though, because she’s not an idiot. I know it’s only a matter of time before she starts to ask questions.And my hesitation is just making this all worse. “My parents…”
She looks up at me, a question on her lips that I’m not going to answer.
