Claire seems to process what I just said and then takes a long sip of soda. After clearing her throat she says, “Wow, being adopted at fifteen had to have been tough. I mean, teenage years are hard enough.”
My instinctual response comes to my mind.Try not being adopted at all. I don’t say it out loud because I can tell she meant no harm by it, but that’s always people’s reaction to Ronan’s story. Don’t get me wrong, no one knows how hard it was for him better than I do, but at least he found a new family. I take a large bite of my mushroom slice so she’ll think that’s why I’m not responding and answer only with a nod.
“Was probably hard for Mikey too.” She looks off to the side like she’s really thinking about it. She’s surprised when a short laugh escapes my lips, so I quickly clarify.
“Mikey was so excited. I had never seen a seventeen-year-old kid so happy about something that wasn’t related to boobs or booze.” I wipe my mouthbefore continuing. “But Mrs. Caruso said his birthday wish every year until he was eleven was for a little brother, so I guess it didn’t matter that they were five years late, he was still just as pumped.”
Claire flashes that smile again, and it’s so real I can’t help but smile back. She’s invested in their story and she doesn’t even know them. Because she’s clearly enjoying this, and I apparently enjoy making her happy, I continue.
“Ronan, on the other hand, was a bitter kid, pissed at the world, and rightfully so. He had a hard time trusting really anyone. So, when Mikey jokingly tackled him during a game of touch football, like brothers do, Ronan walked over to him and decked him right in the eye.”
Claire’s mouth drops open and her eyebrows raise. “The scar! I saw that!”
“Yep. Knocked him right to the ground and busted his eyebrow open. The kid needed four stitches. And you know what Mikey did?” She seems part concerned and part amused, but is hanging on to my every word. I take a sip, savoring her attention just a second longer. “He hugged him.”
She clutches her heart with both hands. “No.”
“Sure did. And they’ve been fine ever since.” I chuckle thinking of two teenage boys embracing while blood drips down between them. “Man, Mikey is so soft.”
“Stop it! No he’s not! That’s sweet!” She leans over the table and smacks the hand still resting on my cup. Just that touch sends shivers down my arm, but that one second of contact wasn’t enough.
Changing the subject, she asks, “So, do you have any siblings?”
I pause unsure of how to answer. Do I tell her the truth? That I’m not sure. That I used to almost two decades ago, but I have no idea if he’s even still alive. That technically I could have more somewhere too that I don’t even know about. I could lie and just say no. Or omit the truth, telling her I have a brother and leave it at that.
My gut tells me to keep it simple. An easy “Nope” and continue the conversation. But looking at her, I can’t seem to get it out. The four letters are lodgedin my throat threatening to choke me if I don’t swallow them down. So much for word vomit.
I realize then, that for some reason, some batshit crazy reason, I want to tell the truth. I want to uncover what’s tucked away. Afraid to give too much too fast though and scare her off completely, I settle on a half-truth.
“One half-brother.” My voice is quiet and shakier than I mean for it to be. “But I haven’t seen him in a really long time.”
Sensing the change in mood, Claire leans over the table again, but this time she doesn’t smack my hand, she holds it. “I’m so sorry.”
That’s it. No questions. No prodding for more details. No attempt to fix it. Those three words wash over me, and I realize I didn’t know I needed them until right now. I think this is what has been drawing me to Claire. She seems so goddamn genuine. I mean, the girl couldn’t even let me walk back to work without begging to give me a ride for Christ’s sake. And now, she’s fully invested in Ronan’s story and apologizing about my brother, which she knows nothing about. The heart of this girl has to be made of pure gold. And that’s something I can’t say I’ve seen very much of.
I look back down at our hands and can’t help but notice how well they fit together. I give hers a gentle squeeze because it’s all the response I can seem to manage.
Thirty minutes later, we are still sitting at the table. My plate is empty as she takes the last bite of her Hawaiian, minus the crust.
In the last half hour, we have covered everything from past times to favorite foods. She runs and writes, I lift and read, and both of us now prefer Enzo’s pizza. We discussed a few of my tattoos (yes that’s a naked lady and no I don’t know her) and the fact that she hates Uggboots and people who say audiobooks don’t count as reading. We even talked about our favorite singers, hers, unfortunately, Pink! and mine a tie between Elton John and Tom Petty, because there's just something about the way they sing that tells a story.
Basically, we have covered a lot of meaningless topics, and I’m not sure I’ve had a better conversation in my entire life.
At the end of it, I find that I just want all of it again. Another story, another question, another time to have her skin on mine. I could have killed myself for releasing her hand to swat a fly away that must have snuck in, but by the time I realized what I'd done, she had already pulled her arm back across the table to tuck her hair behind her ear.
Dropping her napkin on her plate, Claire brings that same hand to her perfect mouth to stifle a yawn. The last thing I want, which is wild to me, is for our conversation to end, but it is getting late, and I have to be at work at the ass crack of dawn. I collect our trash before I reluctantly say, “I guess we should get out of here.”
Standing and stretching, she yawns again. “I think I’m in a pizza coma.”
“I told you, best in town.”
“Okay, try not to let it go to your head, but you were right. I mean, they were both great, but the pineapple was definitely not a miss.” I wipe down our table with a napkin and pile our two chairs on top.
Without thinking of the aftermath I say, “Hawaiian was my mom’s favorite.” She smiles as she slowly walks towards the exit. I never talk about my mother, let alone to someone that I barely know, but it’s out now, and I love how she seems to notice and appreciate when my walls drop even an inch.
This whole idea of sharing is so unfamiliar to me and usually, it’s uncomfortable to say the least. But with Claire, I’m like a fucking dog with a bone looking to dig up everything that’s buried and lay it at her feet.
“Sometimes, when I was really little, she used to come in after a long night and put a frozen pizza in the oven. Then, right before it was finished cooking, she would pull out the oven rack and open up a can of dicedpineapples. She’d hand me some and keep some for herself, and we would take turns throwing them into the oven to try to get them to land on the pizza.”
