I’m taken aback by his all-too-accurate assessment. “Well ... notculinaryschool. But she did take a few classes.”
One side of his mouth quirks up in a hint of a smile, but there’s a shadow in his eyes.
We fall quiet again, eating our spaghetti, Caesar salad, and sourdough bread baguettes.
The longer the silence lasts, the more uncomfortable I am until my hands are clammy on my fork. “Speaking of moms ... what are your parents like?” I have to end the silence. I can’t take it anymore. “I don’t know anything about your family except ...”
“That I killed my sister,” he says, and I recoil.
“That’s not what I ... I’m sorry ...”
Hunter wipes a hand over his face. “No,I’msorry. You were only trying to make normal conversation.”
“Maybe we both suck at normal conversation.”
“I don’t know about you, butIdefinitely do.” He takes another bite of baguette, chews, swallows, and then adds, “My parents are very nice people who have had a very hard time dealing with their grief and have ignored me as much as humanly possible from the minute I got out of the hospital and no longer needed care, because they don’t know how to forgive me for what happened.”
“Hunter, that’s ...horrible.” I suppress the urge to reach for his hand that rests on the table.
“I don’t blame them,” he says quietly. “I’ve asked myself a hundred times if I’d do the same in their place. I’ve already told you ... I can’t forgive myself. So how could I ask that ofthem? They lost their daughter ... because of me.” His voice is flat, but his grip on his fork tightens.
The silence stretches for a beat. Then I inhale, steadying my voice. “I can’t imagine that kind of pain. I won’t pretend to. But ...” I pause, carefully choosing my words. “They didn’t have to lose you too. That part ... that was a choice.”
Hunter’s eyes fly up to meet mine, his face inscrutable.
“You didn’t take their daughter from them on purpose,” I continue, voice low. “But they chose to let go of their son. And that breaks my heart for all of you.”
He stares at me for so long my heart starts to slam against my rib cage; I’m terrified I went too far.
“Well, now who can’t make normal conversation?” I joke, but it falls flat.
Hunter picks up his glass of water and finally looks away from me as he takes a sip. The sun has set. Shadows creep across the backyard, inexorable as they stretch to smother the light of day.
Much like both of our pasts. The darkness is always skulking in, relentless and inescapable.
“Let’s play a game,” I blurt out.
“Agame?” His eyes shift back to me.
“Well, kind of ... It’s really more like a therapy game.”
Hunter grimaces. “That sounds terrible.”
“It’s called confessions of a mess,” I continue, ignoring his lack of enthusiasm. “Talia and I used to do this in college when we were both dealing with some tough things.”
“Games mixed with therapy sessions is not my idea of fun, Liv.”
My neck grows hot, but I plow on. “Here’s how we play. We take turns confessing what makes us a mess and decidewho wins at the end. Plus, sometimes, saying it out loud helps you work through it.”
“The goal of this ‘game’ is to see who is more messed up? I amnotdoing this.”
But he hasn’t left yet, so I say, “I’ll go first.” I take a deep breath and divulge, “Sometimes when I’m on a date, I tell the guyeverythingabout my heart transplant and all the potential complications to see how long it takes to freak him out so badly he finds a way to end the date early.”
Hunter gapes at me. After a pause, he says, “That’s ... messed up.”
“Exactly. Confessions of amess.”
His jaw works as though he’s trying to hold something back, but finally he asks, “How often have you done that?”
