“I’ll Venmo you.”
“You will forget.”
“I’ll set a reminder.”
“You will ignore it.”
I almost smiled.
Dinner with Vanessa was at my apartment because she had an early content shoot the next morning and said she wanted something quiet. She showed up with takeout from the Thaiplace I liked, a bottle of wine for herself, and a reusable bag full of candles she said would make my place “less bachelor panic.”
“That’s a design category?” I asked.
“For you, yes.”
She moved around my kitchen like she belonged there, opening cabinets, finding plates, lighting one candle on the counter. She looked pretty in black jeans and a soft cream sweater, hair pulled back, makeup softer than usual. Not dressed for photos. Not performing.
That made the guilt worse.
We ate on the couch with containers spread over the coffee table. She told me about her shoot, about a brand asking her to approve a caption that sounded like it had been written by a drunk robot, about her mom calling to ask if Jace could get tickets for a cousin’s boyfriend’s brother.
I laughed in the right places. Mostly.
Halfway through, she nudged my knee with her foot. “Hey.”
I looked over. “Yeah?”
“Come back.”
My stomach dropped.
“I’m here.”
“Your body is.” She smiled a little, but it didn’t reach far. “Sorry. That sounded like Roman.”
“He said the same thing today.”
“Then maybe listen to both of us.”
I set my container down. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” She tucked one leg under herself. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to be mad. There’s a difference.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Sorry again felt too small. Telling her the truth was impossible because I didn’t even have the full truth in my own hands.
She traced the rim of her wineglass. “Is it me?”
“No.”
“You answered fast.”
“Because it’s not.”
Her eyes searched my face. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
I wanted to be the kind of person who could say yes and deserve it.
“I’m just in my head,” I said.
