Fluffy(51)

“That dinky little thing?”

“It’s fun!” I protest. “And I wouldn’t want to miss the fried-pickle ice cream sundae. This is my one chance for the whole year.”

Surprise crosses his face, eyes narrowing as he steps closer to me, into resume-the-kiss territory.

“That must be some sundae.”

“No kidding. The combo of their creamy ice cream–”

He interrupts, one eyebrow arched. “I don’t think this is about the festival.”

“You don’t?” I huff. “You’ve obviously never experienced the culinary orgasm of a fried pickle drenched in caramel and dark chocolate fudge.”

His pupils dilate when I say orgasm. As Will opens his mouth, I wonder if that kiss is still in play.

Or maybe I need to make the next move.

And then he says:

“You’re afraid to be seen at the reunion. For people to question your choices.”

“What choices?”

“Staying. It’s weird, Mallory. You never left. Were you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Being a small fish in a big pond. Not being able to cut it in corporate life.”

“You're making some pretty big assumptions about me based on knowing only one variable!”

“Sometimes the simplest explanation is the answer.”

“It’s not about fear. It’s not like there’s something wrong with me. Why does the fact that I make choices that don’t conform to yours mean that I’m the deviant?”

Intensity level notched up by a few increments, the swiftly moving conversation has me charged.

Or maybe it's the almost kiss.

All I get is a steady gaze in response. Is he actually listening? Of all the reactions I’d expected from Will, this is the one I never anticipated.

“Explain.”

“I don’t have to explain any part of who I am to you, Will.”

“No. You don’t have to. But I want you to.”

“Because you’re going to find a way to tell me I’m wrong?”

“Because this is the most authentic conversation I’ve had with anyone since...” One corner of his mouth goes up in a wry smile that shows emotion. “Since that time our senior year.”

My mind goes blank. I thought we were closing the gap for a kiss. Not dissecting my choices and certainly not… this. Will goes from shallow to infinite depth in seconds, an intellectual and emotional whiplash I find myself enjoying, but it’s so strange.

Strange to find someone else who does it. That kind of pivoting comes naturally to me. I’ve had to tamp it down with family and friends.

But no tamping needed here.

“You had an authentic conversation with someone in twelfth grade, and that’s your benchmark? And you’ve gone an entire decade since without authenticity?” I challenge him, the words out before I can stop them.

“I had that conversation with you, Mallory.”

My mind buzzes as memory races to catch up to what he’s saying. “Me… what?”

“You don’t remember.” He’s perplexed.

More emotion than I have any right to evoke in him comes out in a long sigh, one weighed down by something inside him I can’t even begin to understand.

“I don’t,” I confess. For the longest time, I stored every single interaction with Will Lotham in a hard drive in my head and heart, but time faded some of those memories slowly, like the tides rushing in and out, steady and strong, wearing away at every inch of me until all that was left were smooth fragments of shells.

“Last day of finals senior year,” he starts. A sigh lingers in the air between us as my heart stops. “You had bangs back then.” He looks at me and smiles. “They were auburn, like a shelf across the top of your eyebrows. And you were at your car.”

My emotional foot hits the brake pedal in my memory bank as the conversation he’s describing comes into full, blooming relief in my mind.

“When we went outside? To get textbooks out of our cars for the government final?” Plaintive and soft, he’s practically pleading with me to remember, as if the tables are turned and we’re in high school but he is trying to impress me.

I remember thinking it was a strange coincidence, that Will left his book in his car, too, and walked down the long vocational education wing with me, his voice so serious, his conversation almost existential.

“Yeah. When your friends decorated your car.”

“The ‘Most Likely to Become a Porn Star’ glitter paint on my windshield was the most authentic conversation in your life?” I goggle.

A sound of mocking comes out of him, self-deprecating and sheepish. He looks at his palms. “That magenta glitter crap was all over my hands for days. My friends and parents gave me so much shit for it.” He looks at me. “Not that, though,” he says, suddenly terse. “The rest.”

And then I know.

I know.

I know why he’s bringing that moment from ten years ago into our now.

“You asked me about Brown.”

His eyes light up. “Yes.”

“And why I’d reject Harvard for that.” I say the words verbatim. Teen Will’s revulsion came out loud and clear back then: Why would you reject Harvard for that?