“Meg. Hello.”
He seems all the drunker for pretending not to be. His voice is extra deep, extra stern, and I should not be attracted to that, given that he’s probably compensating for an inclination to slur. But there’s no helping it: He soundsgreat.
“Hey there, Reid.” I catch the bartender’s eye, give her a wave of acknowledgment that I made it. She smiles and makes a discreet gesture to the register and I nod, indicating that I’ll take the check.
“You’ve got cats all over you,” Reid says.
I look down, remembering the gold Hello Kitty faces. I truly wish I was wearing something less absurd, but when I look back up at Reid he doesn’t have the perplexed furrow in his brow I expect. Instead he’s got a sloppy version of thatswoonsh, as though he is entirely charmed.
As though we haven’t fought at all.
And I admit—I’m tempted to give in to it.Yes,part of me is thinking,look at my silly dress and forget about Prospect Park. Finish your drink and we’ll walk it off, look at some signs together. We’ll forget this ever happened. We’ll never talk about it again.
Instead I ask him the most direct question I can think of at the moment. “Did you lose your phone?”
He meets my eyes, his crooked smile fading. “No, I left it at home. I needed a break from it.”
I swallow, feeling stung. Three calls isn’tthatmany. Still, I stay in my seat.
Istay.
“From work,” he clarifies, seeming to read my mind. He turns his glass a quarter-turn, but makes no move to pick it up. “I called in sick today.”
I search his face and realize there’s something more drawn about it tonight, the already-carved planes along his cheeks sharper than when I last saw him. As with his posture, his face probably looks perfect to the untrained eye—but I can tell the difference. I wonder if he’s been across the river all week, as blocked with his numbers as I’ve been with my letters, adding up sums that don’t make sense. Like me, he ended up at a bar with a drink in his hand, but unlike how it turned out for me, no one here—with the exception of Gretchen—looks even half as cool as Lachelle.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He seems to ignore the question. “I’ve never done that before, called in sick. I’m sure it’ll cause—” He breaks off, shakes his head, and starts over. “What you saw, in the park. I get the flares when I’m stressed.”
“Reid,” I say quickly, almost sharply. I’m curious—I’m so, so curious—but I suddenly feel as clear about how this night needs to go as I’ve ever felt about anything. Reid this way, not quite himself—this is no time to practice, because this isn’t a fair fight. I’ll settle the bill; I’ll get him a cab. I’ll insist he calls me tomorrow. “We can talk about this later.”
Reid starts to speak again, but I get an assist from Gretchen, who shows up with the bill. I’m reaching into my bag for my wallet but am surprised when I look up to find Reid holding out a credit card to her.
“I thought I paid,” he says, but it’s not accusatory. It’s . . . confused.
She slides my business card back across the bar to him, and for a good five seconds the three of us are frozen in an awkward tableau—me with my oversized wallet, some random receipt stuck in the zipper, Gretchen with her hands on her hips, her heavily lined eyes moving back and forth between these two proffered payments, Reid’s head tipped down, his gaze frozen on the business card.
Like it’s a sign.
“Oh,” he says finally, and it’s almost as if I cansensehim sobering up. Realizing how his sort-of friend Meg showed up to the same bar as him on a random Friday night.
“Sorry, man,” Gretchen says, shrugging. She smiles as she plucks his card from his fingers. “Thought you needed an assist.”
Reid watches her go, and I watch the wash of pink spread across his cheeks.
“It’s fine!” I say, tucking my wallet back into my bag. “I was out, anyway.”
“Meg,” he says quietly, too quietly for the rising tide of noise all around us. “I’m sorry.”
I wave a hand. It’s ridiculous that I’m so embarrassed, but I am. I rushed over here as though he needed rescuing, so eager to see him again. “It’s like I said, I was—”
“No,” he says, and he has to lean in so that I can hear him. He went swimming today; I can tell. I let my eyes close for a beat longer than a blink, relishing that now-familiar smell, but open them when he speaks again. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. That I didn’t answer your calls.”
I send up a silent plea of exasperation—to Lachelle, to Gretchen, to the fates—for giving me themostcomplex practice problem for my first try at fighting with Reid. Should I let him keep going? Should I interrupt to tell him how sorryIam, how it was my fault, how I never meant to hurt him? Should I tell him again that this isn’t the time, that he’s been drinking, that it’s too loud and annoying in here? Or will that make it worse; will that make me seem rude, dismissive, distant?
“I thought of calling,” he says, taking advantage of my quiet, anxious indecision. He reaches up and rubs a hand through his hair, messily enough that it sticks up on the right side. “Every day, I thought of it. But then I’d think about what you said. About people trying to protect themselves.”
“I was wrong,” I blurt, even though it’s going to be no use right now explaining to him what I learned tonight—about myself, about other people.
