“That would’ve been… I wish I could’ve… I’m sorry, Henry.Feel whatever you need to feel about me.Hate me, resent me, never speak to me again, forgive me, forget me.But please know that it was love and desperation that made me run.Not you.You were and always will be the best part of me.”
I guzzle my beer, needing relief.A break.A timeout.Something.The paralyzing tension inside clenches and growls at me as it grows.
“I never hated you.I wanted to.Hate would’ve been easier.But how could I?You taught me to climb trees, get dirty, and stand up against bullies and false claims,” he says, his lop-sided smile returning like he needs the distraction.
I laugh, thinking of Frank the Frog and grateful for the relief.
“I just… missed you,” he adds.
I nearly crumble again.“I missed you, too.I missed us, and I’m sorry.”
He nods, a gentle smile on his face.“Thanks for helping me understand.”
My bare shoulders bob in a weak shrug.“Only took me ten years.”
“Better late than never.”
Two heaping cheeseburgers arrive with a tower of fries.I can’t help but chuckle over his exorbitant “usual.”I dig in, suddenly ravenous and anxious for my tears to dry.Outside, streetlights pop on as the sun dips and fades behind the buildings, and I fixate on the traffic streaking by the window.I don’t know what to say now that my heart lies dissected on the table between us.There are no conversational guidelines for moving on after such an emotional purge.Are there?
“Are you… okay?”he asks finally.
“Yes, fine, thank you.”
“I’m, um, about to finish my Master’s,” he says.“In education with a specialty in AIG students.”
“That’s commendable.”
He looks sheepish as his eyes narrow at me.“Commendable, huh?How many degrees do you have?”
“I have a doctorate in botany and two master’s degrees in environmental science and art.The latter I did for fun.I may pursue another Master’s in Art History soon—it’d be an easy addition to my resume.I’m also an EMT-B, a Mensa member, and a contributing member of several environmental organizations.”
He laughs.
“Is that funny?”I ask, unsurely.
“No, Venus.You’re amazing.It’s just… I was trying to impress you.”
A smirk curls up my cheek that he’d evenwantto impress me.“You want to help exceptional learners.I find thatveryimpressive, Henry.”
“You went from barely passing high school to stockpiling degrees,” he says, twiddling with a fry.“What made the difference for you?”
“Freedom to learn as I pleased.Guided, virtual instruction and hands-on field work with my mentor,” I explain.“Dad kept me in school because he feared I wouldn’t socialize without it.Perhaps he had a valid point.Though ironically, all it did was reinforce my feelings of isolation.And I’mstillsocially awkward.It’s funny that schools don’t offer a class on socializing and connection, right?”
His brows perk as he considers the question.
But I go on, grateful to be talking about something other than my emotions.“Most students thrive with rules and routines—a system.But I performed better in classes where I was given trust and more freedom and had teachers who were willing and able to engage in discourse with me, without labeling me as belligerent for asking questions.The Socratic method, a forum of intellectual discussion and ideas, would’ve been my ideal when forced to learn with others.Self-guided study, if on my own.”
I shove a fry in my mouth and reach for another.“Receiving my diagnosis and the Individualized Education Program helped me, and others, understand my ADHD.Understanding my high IQ and being raised on books and experimentation rather than TV and video games presented the greater challenge—many teachers couldn’t relate to me.I was a difficult case?—”
“I hate that word,” he says, breaking my dialogue.“It’s loaded with negative connotations and overused generally, especially with you.Difficult.Even you call yourself that now.”
“What would you have called me?”I say, surprised that he noticed.
“Complex,” he says, his earthy brown eyes meeting mine, “an intriguing opportunity.You deserved better.”
“Thank you.”Heat rises to my cheeks at his gentle acknowledgement.
He stares, nibbling the inside of his cheek in almost sad contemplation.It’s a look I’ve seen before, like he doesn’t know what to do with me.
