Owen shakes his head like a child refusing a parent's request to clean up toys. "I meanwhy.Not what happened that caused us problems. I want to know why we couldn't handle what happened."
Why couldn’t two eighteen-year olds handle an abortion? Gee, let me think…
"I … don't know." As insufficient of a response as it may be, it's the truth. I honestly don’t know what went wrong after that day, only that I could no longer look at him the same. Could no longer see us together.
His dark lashes fall and I see the hurt my lack of an answer causes, so I try to explain. "I used to think about it a lot. But I could never really pinpoint exactly what it was that ended us. There was no great big swipe of a blade … it was just everything."
"Death by a thousand cuts," Owen says, the admittance both nostalgic and forlorn. It makes me sad for our younger selves, the teenagers who bit off more than they could chew, who tried to be adults and instead of cautiously stepping into the water, jumped in headfirst and drowned.
"I suppose so." I look at my wine. It's half empty but I don't remember drinking it.
“You ghosted me.” His voice is small. “We promised to go to college and meet back here. I … waited for you.”
My heart breaks in that moment and I reach across the table to squeeze his hand.
"I’m sorry.” I meet his gaze. “Every day after the abortion, we chose not to acknowledge it. We buried it alongside our grief and pretended we weren't heartbroken. We lied to each other, and the whole time we were slipping further and further from one another. Then, when you came to see me at Santa Clara, you exploded."
His head hangs in shame. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I shrug, pulling my hand back. “It’s okay, but it’s the reason I ghosted you.”
There, I said it. I admitted he was to blame for some of this whole thing and it felt good.
He nods. "The entire time, the only thing I wanted was to take you into my arms and hold you." Owen struggles to get control of his voice.
I push away the burning in my throat. "And I thought you were disgusted by me. By my body and my choice."
"Never." Owen's denial is delivered on a fervent whisper. "I felt so far removed from you. I didn't know how to help you, when I couldn't even help myself. And to make it all that much more fucked up, I couldn't even identify why I felt the way I did. We only had each other to turn to, and instead we turned away."
"I couldn't look at you," I choke out, my eyes watering. "I couldn't even stand looking at myself."
Our server approaches, ill-timed, to drop off the check. I use the break in intense conversation to look off to the side, surreptitiously wiping my eyes and checking the moisture on my fingers for runaway mascara.
Owen pays the bill, and this time I don't argue.
On the way out the door, I thank him.
"Would you like to walk around?" he asks. Behind him, the courtyard has come alive with strings of white lights, and somewhere nearby I hear the strains of live music. He offers me a hand, waiting for my answer. I’m not ready for the night to end.
I nod, slipping my warm palm into his. We walk along, admiring the many artist galleries, the boutiques, the store that sells only gemstones and minerals.
As we walk on through the village, the pedestrian traffic is moderate. Tlaquepaque is so beautiful it draws locals and tourists alike. One visit provides a taste of what it has to offer, but I could never tire of its unique beauty.
"Are you ready for dessert?" Owen asks, pointing to an ice cream shop.
"Most definitely," I say with more exuberance than intended, making Owen laugh at me. On the way in, I notice the storefront beside the ice cream shop is dark, and for a quick second I wonder what used to be there. The thought is quickly replaced by the smell of sugar.
Owen scoffs when I order. "I can't believe you still order peanut butter chocolate."
I frown as they hand him his cone over the case. "Says the guy who ordered vanilla."
"It's classic," he argues, head bent to lick the side.
“It’s boring.”
I'm handed my cone, and this time I pay.
Finally, I win the argument.
