“I think, maybe, I’m not as laid back as you.”
“Well, yeah. That’s an understatement. You were born with a résumé and a list of career goals in your hand.”
The car rumbles with his next turn.
“That makes me sound like no fun at all,” he says. “But we’d be a good team, you and me. You would lighten me up, and I would keep you from joining a punk rock band and running off to New York.”
“Like you could stop me,” I say. “Too bad, anyway. We already established that my worst fear is being poor again. So, career stability it is.”
We’re quiet for a few moments. I shift on my heated seat. If you’d told me as a kid that I’d get to ride in a car that made my ass warm, I probably would have been ecstatic about that luxury.
I also would have been shocked at the man next to me, but life is funny like that.
We eventually pull up to a brick restaurant with a black awning. Grant swings into a parking spot across the street and meets me at my door.
“I’ve been to this place,” I say.
“It’s not the most upscale restaurant in town or anything.” He sounds unsure of himself.
“Are you kidding me? I love this. Much less pretentious.”
We cross the street together, and Grant reaches for my hand. I let him take it. As usual, just the touch of our skin together sets off sparks. The half-moon casts a sliver of light over the dark pavement, and the air’s thick with autumn petrichor from an earlier rain. It’s achingly romantic, and it’s getting more and more difficult to shove my emotions into a black box, never to be examined again.
Inside, Grant gives the host his name, then thanks the man when he walks us to our table. It’s not a white tablecloth sort of place, but I wasn’t lying when I said I liked that better. There’s aspeakeasy kind of feel: dark woods, glass chandeliers, and comfy leather chairs.
We sip water and chat about the menu, our upcoming week, the weather. It’s pleasant, but I can tell he’s working up to a weightier topic.
He sets his drink down. We’ve ordered wine, a peppery red that’s delightfully smooth on my tongue.
“Can we have a serious discussion for a few minutes?”
“Is there any other kind?” At his eye roll, I continue. “Okay. Shoot.”
“You remember how I told you that I never apologized to you because it would have been only for me?”
I nod.
“I’ve been sitting with that. That discomfort, I mean. Of just knowing there’s no way I can make myself feel better, and that I shouldn’t make it about my feelings at all.” He drums his fingers on the table. Our waiter starts to walk toward us but, perhaps sensing the gravity of our conversation, pretends he’s forgotten something and walks out of the room again. “What doyouwant from me, Kendall? I know it’s not just material stuff. What would make you feel better?”
“Grant.” My eyes sting. Damn it.
“Come on, Kendall. Please talk to me.”
I sigh. “At first, I thought that answer was nothing. Then I thought a sincere apology would suffice, and you’ve definitely given me that. But I think what would help me most, honestly, is your real understanding of what you did. Of how it impacted me. I want you to know it, deep down.”
He doesn’t look away from me. We’re in a private corner here, and in the dim lighting my courage builds.
“You once wrote something in Sharpie on my backpack. I don’t remember the whole phrase, but it was something cruel.” He winces, but I continue. “I scrubbed at it, but it wouldn’t come off, so I tossed it. I was too proud to keep carrying it. So, Iused a plastic grocery bag for a while, because we didn’t have money for a replacement. I felt like such a loser.” I look down. “If I didn’t have good friends at the time, it would have been worse. Luckily, they helped me deal. But it left a mark.”
His eyes stay trained on me.
“I’m okay, now,” I say. “And I’ve enjoyed what we’re doing here. You asked what I want from you, though, and I think it’s just that. Your awareness of how you actually influenced my life.”
Grant opens his mouth to speak, but the waiter comes to take our order before he can say anything. He thanks the man with a smile—I’ve noticed how well he treats service staff—and grips his napkin.
“I get it,” he says. “I really do. I’ve tossed and turned over it for years. I’ve imagined what your life would have been like.”
“Are you sure? Because it could have been worse than it was for me. Much worse.”
