Lily looked at me.
She was not shy. She had her father’s quiet demeanor but not my hesitation.
She said, “Are you my dad’s friend?”
I said, “Yeah.”
Lily said, “My dad talks about you sometimes. He says you’re teaching him how to not be so sad all the time.”
Banks flushed red.
I said, “Lily.”
Lily paid no attention to her father’s discomfort.
She continued eating her pie.
I did not look at Banks.
I was looking at the small girl with her serious expression and her fork and her ice cream-covered mouth. I understood that children asked questions that had layers, questions that seemed simple on the surface but went down deep, questionsthat made you think about things you were not ready to think about.
Lily said, “Are you Maple’s boyfriend?”
I said, “Working on it.”
The answer came easily. I had said it before. I had been saying it for three weeks. It was the truth and it was also the hope. I was working on being the kind of boyfriend who was worth having. I was working on being the kind of man who could be trusted with the kind of love that Maple had to offer.
Lily considered this.
She was only five but she had the particular wisdom of a child who had lost a mother, who understood loss at a cellular level, who knew what it meant to miss someone.
She said, “How do you work on a boyfriend. Is it like how daddy works on being sad. Does that mean you’re learning too?”
I did not answer the question directly.
I had learned not to answer children’s questions directly. Children asked questions that seemed to be about one thing but were really about something else. Lily was asking whether I was changing, whether I was learning, whether I was the kind of man who could grow into something better than I had been.
Lily said, “My teacher likes pie too. You should tell my dad. He needs a girlfriend. He’s lonely.”
Banks made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a groan.
I said, “Lily, that is not appropriate.”
Lily said, “But it’s true. You’re always sad. And Maple is nice. And she likes pie. And Mr.—” She looked at me. “What’s your name?”
I said, “Knox.”
Lily said, “Mr.Knox likes Maple. So maybe Maple could like you. And then you wouldn’t be sad anymore.”
Maple was behind the counter, three feet away, arranging pie slices on a plate.
I did not look at her directly, but I could see her in my peripheral vision, and I could see the moment she realized what Lily had said, could see her mouth trying not to smile, could see her pressing her lips together like she was trying not to laugh out loud in her own diner.
She mouthed something at Banks.
I thought it was:I’m sorry.
From the rest of the diner, Hudson Vance started to laugh.
