“You know what happened. I kissed you, and you pushed me away because you were scared of my moli.” I can’t look at him, so I focus on an old gouge in the counter left by a previous tenant. “I was too much for you.”
Rafe stares at the ceiling, his throat working as he struggles forthe words. “I never should have done that. I said it all wrong, and I ruined our friendship and what we had. I regret that, Lucy. I regret it. I’m so sorry.”
“You said it wrong? There was a right way to tell me you wished I wasn’t who I was?”
“No, never! I never thought that.” He almost lurches out of his seat. “I think what you and your mother do is incredible.”
“Sure didn’t seem that way.”
“I know, because I fucked it all up. I made it sound like you were too much for me, but that’s not what I meant. It was the opposite. I was worried I wasn’t enough for you. I didn’t think I could be.”
I examine him, the familiar boy in the unfamiliar man. “Because of Dad and Eric.”
He looks me in the eye. “And because I was young and immature and self-centered.”
This makes me laugh, although it’s not funny. “Yeah.”
“When I was in China, I thought about what I’d said and how you looked at me. I felt sick, all the time. My aunt made me drink this shitty broth she got from some Chinese medicine shop for a week straight.”
“Gross.” I don’t feel bad for him. He made me suffer as well.
“I meant what I said, that it had nothing to do with you, Lucy. It was all me, and what happened in the garden confirmed I didn’t deserve to be in your life. I thought that for years.”
“And now?”
“Now I do.” He says it simply. “I want to be, if you’re willing.”
I eye him. “Just like that, huh?”
“Well, no, you’re seeing the end result of a decade of experience that younger me didn’t have the benefit of—and therapy.”
“You have a therapist?” I’m impressed by this. Dad and Eric would rather gouge out their eyes than admit they could be improved in any way, and of course, I don’t go. There’s no point, if I have to keep mymoli secret, which I would. I also move around too much. There are always reasons.
“I live in Vancouver,” he says. “Everyone has a therapist or a dog. Most have both.”
I sigh. “I’m glad for you—but what do you want from me, Rafe? To forget it happened and start fresh because you can now name your feelings?” It might be rude, but I have a lot of hurt swirling.
“No. I want you to let me back in, at whatever speed you want.” He waves toward the door. “Me being here gave us another chance. I understand if you need time or if the answer is no, but I miss you. Let me prove to you that I’ve changed. Let me be your friend again. That’s all I want.”
We sit in silence as a siren wails on the street, rising in volume before fading away in the distance. Lassitude overtakes me, and I sway in my seat, almost as if I’d been saving my breath and finally released it. A strange grinding noise comes from the radiators as the kitchen light flickers on. We look at each other as the microwave blinks a yellowish 12:00.
“Power’s on,” I say.
Rafe has already moved to check the radiators. “Heat,” he declares before sitting back down.
“This is like…” I pause. “I think I need a second to recalibrate.” Talking to Rafe is strange and disjointed. He knew so much about me, and then he knew nothing. I can tell building a bridge to connect those pasts and presents will take time and effort. I think I want to, but what’s unclear is whether I want it to soothe my feelings about the past or create something for the future.
“Me too.” He picks up his water glass and puts it down. “Do you have any wine?”
Finding a bottle and uncorking it brings a semblance of normalcy that lasts until we huddle up next to the radiator. The heat is taking its time to seep through the lingering cold of the room, and we’rewrapped in blankets from my bedroom. I’ve turned the lights off to leave only a couple of the less-fragrant candles burning, and it feels peaceful as we look out at the snow. The space between us is less charged.
“I sent you a birthday card,” he says. “That next spring. I did send one. When you didn’t answer, I figured you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“I didn’t get it.” When I gather my nerve to look up, Rafe is watching me with the same expression I glimpsed when he showed me that first sea star. That’s when I know this conversation is not to rectify the past. I believe what he’s telling me, and it’s enough for me to dredge up the confidence to offer him a truth. I’m not extending the full olive branch, but I’m walking back from the tree with my hands full. “I wish I’d called you.”
“Me too.” He puts his glass to the side. “I thought the feeling of you not being there would go away. It never did.”
“I know,” I say. “Same.”
