“Yeah. I don’t know ... maybe I just have to visit more often. Get more acquainted with the locals ...”
He looks at me, watches as I put the lens into the spare case I carry.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back.”
I concentrate on the case, the twist, careful not to break the lens.
“I wish I had an excuse, but I don’t.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve been mad at me all day.”
“I haven’t been mad at you all day.”
“Okay—maybemadisn’t the right word. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but the chance hasn’t come up. Is something wrong?”
I still can’t look at him. I simply roll the lens case in my hand, trace theLand theRwith my fingers.
Issomething wrong?
I am torn betweennot reallyandhell yes. And as a result, I end up with ... “I don’t know.”
“Oh.”
We teeter in an awkward silence. I look downtown and realize the others have left us behind. He must have told them it was okay.
I go on. “‘I don’t know’ must be my favorite phrase. It’s so true so much of the time.”
“It always seems appropriate,” Noah agrees.
“Yeah, but look—can I be honest with you?”
“No.”
Now I stare at him, unsure.
“I’m kidding. What’s wrong?”
“Look ... I was scared that no one was going to ask me what I was afraid of. The whole conversation ... I don’t know why I want to play that game, but I do. I mean, I guess I do know why ... but what I’m saying is that Andie is so wrong. I can be scared. A lot. In fact, I’m scared most of the time.”
“I know. I get it.”
I should let him say this. I should be happy he’s saying it. But instead I tell him, “No, you don’t. You can’t understand the full extent of it. I’m scared that you think I’m an idiot. I’m scared that I’m saying the wrong thing right now. I’m scared that nobody wants me here. I’m scared that you, specifically, don’t want me here, that you’re nice to me because you’re a genuinely nice person who’s nice to everyone, not because I’m at all interesting. I’m scared that as soon as I stop talking, I am going to want to run away—like far, far away. I’m scared that our friends talk about movies and crushes and gossip, but they don’t talk like this. They don’t talk about what’s inside. Or maybe Margaret did, but then we’re like, ‘Ha ha, you’re not alone, you’re with us.’ And you’re like, ‘Sorry I didn’t call you,’ and I’m scared that, best-case scenario, you’re being polite and, worst-case scenario, the more I talk, the more relieved you are that you didn’t.”
“Eric, stop for a second. Give me a chance.”
“Okay.”
“I’m scared too.”
Again, I can’t let him have that. “It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not. It’s never the same. My scared isn’t identical to your scared. And mine probably isn’t around as much of the time. But it’s there.”
“So what are you scared of? And don’t say windows.”
“You want it real now?” he asks in a tone that’s part challenge, part warning.
