“It’s all right,” I say, stroking again. “Tomorrow, okay?”
“Tomorrow,” he agrees, and then—as if to seal it—Reid lifts his head the smallest amount. Enough to press his lips against the back of my hand.
And that’s how Reid and I rest after the fight, waiting to get stitched all the way back together.
It’s a bold move, going back to the park.
We don’t so much plan it as we do walk our way to it, one of the many mutual, unspoken agreements we’ve come to over the course of last night and this morning. The promise we made to each other in that tiny treatment room—Tomorrow—has lived between us through every interaction we’ve had, something we both seem to be keeping sacred for full daylight, for full sobriety, for full assurance of no head injury. Inside the low-light, hushed quiet of my apartment, Reid had been polite, careful, helpful, a houseguest unsure of his welcome:Your place is nice. I don’t want to get blood on your couch. I can put the sheets down.
In response, I’d tried to be easy and unbothered, nearly professional in my hangover-preventing, concussion-checking, of-course-you’re-welcome-here care. Advil and a full glass of water to keep future headaches at a minimum. Quiet, hourly, tiptoed walks out into the living room to see his big, still-clothed body sprawled on my couch, half-covered by the blanket that I usually keep at the foot of my bed, his breathing soft and even. An extra towel and toothbrush in the bathroom, a fresh bar of soap in our tiny shower stall, a large T-shirt I got last year for free at the Northside Festival folded neatly on the counter.
All of it had gone a long way to establishing some way through for those awkward, sometimes charged moments in the early morning as we both woke and took turns showering and dressing in the incomplete privacy of the small space. When I’d emerged from my room, my hair still damp, the ends darkening the shoulders of my simple, gray cotton dress, Reid had looked up from where he waited for me on the couch, the stitched cut bisecting his brow, his jawline tight and shaded with scruff, his shoulders a few inches too broad for that borrowed T-shirt.
I thought if I let him look at me that way for too long, ourTomorrowpromise to each other wouldn’t involve all that much talking. It would involve that couch and Reid’s scruff and the smell of my shampoo and our mouths and our hands and also, under the Saturday morning circumstances, Sibby probably walking in at a very inconvenient time.
I’d reached for my jacket and Reid had stood and reached for his own, and we’d made our way outside into the crisp, clear morning, the back of my hand still tingling from the feel of his lips on my skin.
“It’s nice out today,” Reid says, shifting his weight on the bench we sat on to finish our breakfasts—bagels from my favorite shop, coffee for me, tea for him, both of our to-go cups set carefully by our feet, as though they’re weapons we’ve laid down. It’s early enough still that the park is pretty quiet, no one else on the benches around us, most passersby either biking or jogging or on the kind of determined, headphone-accompanied walk that takes no interest in its surroundings.
“That’s my line,” I say, and he smiles softly.
“Meg, listen, I—”
“No, wait,” I interrupt, because in between those tiptoed walks to check on him last night, I’d thought a lot about this morning, about how to finish this fight. I’d thought about everything Lachelle had said to me, and I’d thought about the things I have to say to make it so that Reid and I both try to stay. Ipracticed.
“I want to go first.”
He nods, but I see the way he sets his jaw, a bulwark against what I think is some lingering embarrassment. I take a deep breath.
“The most important thing is that I’m sorry about last week. About the fight we had, and about how mad I got. What I said to you—it was really unfair.”
“It wasn’t unfair. It’s like I said last night”—he clears his throat, lowering his eyes—“I’m well aware of my faults, especially the one you mentioned.”
“It’s not a fault,” I say quickly, and he gives me a look I’ve never seen on his face, a cock of his head that looks a lot like sarcasm—a look that somehow telegraphs all the small moments where Reid’s bluntness got the best of him: calling me a shopgirl. Scolding me for not having an umbrella. Asking me about my health insurance.
You know it is, that look says.
“Or at least it’s no worse a fault than my own, which is . . . well, I guess it’s one you already know about.”
Reid waits, and for a couple of seconds, I do, too. I think about my parents and about Sibby, about how my fight with Reid pressed up against everything about my life that hurt before I came to New York, and about everything that hurts about it now.
“I hide things. My feelings about things in my life, or in the lives of people I care about. I hide them in my letters, and I hide them when I’m talking about the weather or Frisbee or whatever other thing I fill up the space with—”
“I like everything you talk about.”
You know you don’t, my look back to him says, and then I take a breath before I speak again.
“Last week,” I begin, “I was really . . . I was trying so hard to hide, I guess. I was upset about this thing at work, and some things from my past it reminded me of, but instead of telling you that, I tried to distract you.” I swallow. “That’s something I’m realizing I do too much, to keep me—”
“I never meant you to feel unprotected,” Reid says, his eyes full of regret. “I wouldn’t ever want to make you feel that way.”
“You punched a guy in the face for me last night,” I say, my mouth curving into a teasing smile. “I feel pretty protected.”
Reid ducks his head, his hair falling forward, skimming his stitched-up brow. “I only wanted you to—”
“Be honest,” I finish for him. “Say what I mean.”
His lips press together, which I take to mean agreement.
