Tease(77)

This part of the city has been kept the way it’s been since the 1800s, with cobblestone streets and old brick warehouse buildings still standing. Inside them are little boutiques, shops, and fancy restaurants. When Carmichael leads me to one of the nicer Italian ones, Vermicelli, I get another small wave of nausea. This is too nice. It’s too much. I don’t deserve this. My parents used to go here sometimes, for special occasions—I’ve never even been inside. This is the kind of place I would’ve gone before prom with Dylan. If that had, like, been able to happen.

And now, Carmichael is holding the door open, and here I am. The ceilings are tall and dark; the brick walls have candles set in sconces here and there, and the back wall is open to the kitchen with a big wood-burning stove. It’s like the cellar in an old castle or something. Romantic.

“This okay?” Carmichael asks.

“Yeah, of course,” I say.

The hostess puts us at a tiny table near the back, close enough that we can watch the kitchen, and hands us menus the size of poster boards. I look at Carmichael, tempted to make a joke about how huge they are, but he’s just studying his seriously. So I do too, and by the time our waitress comes, I’ve found the cheapest pasta so I can order that.

We don’t talk about Emma, or the trial, or anything, really. I ask Carmichael questions about stuff, trying to keep my promise to get to know him better. He tells me about the BMX competition he has the next weekend. And his older sister, who goes to college in Denver. And he asks me about my brothers, about where I might apply to college. We’re in a different world, a parallel universe.

By the time the waitress asks if we want dessert and Carmichael says no, I feel comfortable enough to say, “Why, you think I’m getting fat?”

“Obviously not, no, I wasn’t—” Carmichael shakes his head, and I realize my little joke has thrown him, made him flustered. But then he finally lets out a small laugh and says, “We’re going somewhere else for dessert.”

It’s gotten colder outside, and when Carmichael takes my hand leaving the restaurant, for a second it almost feels like he’s just trying to keep me warm. It works—a shot of heat races through my whole body, up my neck and into my cheeks. He walks us toward a popular ice cream place, one where they hand-mix whatever candy you want into your soft-serve, and keeps talking about nothing, like nothing unusual is happening. I love every minute of it. I love being someone, something usual. I love that tonight feels so special but so normal at the same time.

But when we reach the door to the ice cream parlor, I pull Carmichael past it, on toward the park that lines the edge of the marketplace. There are lots of people out, and most of the benches are taken, but we find one and sit down.

“I’ve had a really nice time,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry it’s too cold for ice cream.”

“That’s not it. I just . . . I mean, thank you for all of this. But you don’t . . . you don’t know . . .” I stop. We’re still holding hands, and I can’t look down, can’t acknowledge my fingers wrapped in his. But I can’t look him in the face, either.

“I do know,” he says softly, but I’m shaking my head. I can feel tears coming but I take a deep breath, swallow them back down. I want to just say this.

“I just want you to know—I just, if this is the beginning of something, and I don’t know if it is, but I should just tell you—I did so many horrible things,” I say in a rush. “I hurt so many people. I still think what Emma did . . . I think it was really selfish. I don’t understand why I have to take the blame for something I never wanted to happen.”

Silence hangs between us. Our bench sits at the top of a little hill, overlooking the sidewalk that follows along a creek. A few people, on dates like ours, walk by, stroll over the footbridges, stare at the city lights reflected in the water. Above us the sky has turned a clear, deep black, the stars just visible beyond the glow of downtown. A few blocks north of us there’s a skate park, and I can just barely hear the sounds of wheels on the pavement, rolling, then up, that break in the noise, that moment of held breath before they come crashing back down, rolling forward again or stuttering to a stop.

Finally a tear escapes, falling fast and landing on my sweater sleeve. Then another. Carmichael is still silent but I keep going.

“I’ve been talking about her, about everything we said to her, for so long,” I go on. My chest is tight and I try to breathe in again, but I can only take little gasps of air. “And I’m trying to figure out how to . . . how to apologize. I have to say something in court, or at least I have to try. At least they’re letting me talk. But how do you apologize for this? I know what I did, I know it was bad, some of it was really bad. But how am I supposed to fix anything now? What do I—” But I have to stop talking again because the tears are coming faster, so hot on my face it feels like they’re burning me.

Carmichael picks up my hand and holds it against his lips. The rush of feeling distracts me and I feel myself calming down, breathing more evenly. The crying slows. He covers my fingers with his other hand and holds it there, in the air, like an offering.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he says, finally. “I don’t know if anything you say now is supposed to fix anything. But I don’t think it can hurt, either. You have a chance. I think Emma—” He pauses. “She didn’t give herself another chance, you know? Maybe she didn’t think she deserved one. Maybe she thought it wasn’t possible.”