The Break(19)

“I love it,” I say, because I do. And it’s obvious so does he. He looks around the place like it’s heaven. “It’s awesome, right?” he says. “But I really want to get a dog.”

“I love dogs,” I say, and never have I been so grateful to not be allergic.

“You do?” he asks, beaming.

I can’t see any windows because of the wall that’s been put up. It gives me a claustrophobic feeling, like I’m in a closet and can’t breathe. New York is so open out on the streets, but then everyone has these tiny apartments.



“Do you have one?” Sean asks.

A window? I almost say. “A dog?” I ask, trying to focus on him and not the apartment. Quickly, I add, “I don’t have one now, but we had a chocolate lab growing up.”

“Is he dead?” Sean asks, and the wording is so off-putting it breaks up my smile.

“Um, yeah,” I say. “He died right before I went to college.”

Sean takes a step into a small kitchen that was probably remodeled in the eighties. (It’s only inches away from the entry door, so we’re pretty much already standing in it.) On the counter is a red microwave and porcelain Hello Kittys that I think might be salt and pepper dispensers. Sean opens a white fridge and retrieves two beers, cracks off their tops, and passes me one. “Thanks,” I say. He must set his fridge really cold, because the glass is icy against my fingers.

“To great apartments,” Sean says, and I smile even wider, because I wonder if he’s thinking what I am. I’m nervous, so I try to remind myself that he’s the one who mentioned he was looking for a roommate.

“To great apartments,” I say as we clink bottles, and I think about how perfect this place is. There are no nice things around, but there’s no mess, either.

“I like things neat,” Sean says as if he read my mind.

“Me too,” I say. And then I almost utter the words—they’re right there in my throat, climbing higher . . .

Are you looking for a roommate?

But I’m too nervous—I don’t want Sean to reject me. Instead I move toward him. Somehow, in some way, it just feels easier. It’s a rejection I could handle if it happened, though I don’t expect it to, because when I comb my memory I can’t come up with a single instance a guy has stopped me from making the first move. I press against him and drop my beer to my hip. My other hand goes to his shoulder, and for a quick breath it feels like we’re slow dancing. “Sean,” I say softly. I’m five eight and he’s five ten or so, but I’m wearing wedge sandals so we’re looking dead into each other’s eyes. “Do you want this?” I ask, because even though I can already feel him pressing up against me like he does, there’s something else there, too: a hesitation, or a tiny kernel of doubt.

His breath is coming faster now. “I do,” he says, but his voice catches.

“You’re sure?” I ask. “Something’s not wrong? Is it me?”

“It’s most certainly not you,” he says, and then he bends to put his beer on the coffee table. The living room is so small it feels like we can reach out and touch every surface. I put my beer down next to his, and I stand there, my toes scrunching against my sandals. I like Sean enough to kiss him, but I’m not sure how much else I really want to do with him. Maybe that should be a warning, but if it is I’m too tipsy to heed it.

Sean closes the space between us. His hand goes behind my back and pulls me close and I revel in it—the moment right before the kiss happens, my favorite moment, the one I would live inside if I could. Those precious seconds before any kiss I’ve ever had are always better than the actual kiss that follows. Maybe that’s how I’ll know when I’ve found my person: when the kiss itself trumps all.

This one doesn’t.

We’re only kissing for a second when I know for sure that this isn’t going to work. His kiss is too hard, too much all at once, and I can feel myself shrinking back; I feel every possibility of something between him and me slipping away like low tide. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and Sean lets go of me right away. “I shouldn’t be kissing you,” I say, my heart racing, needing to find the words that will work, the ones that will hold us together just enough to not lose everything I want and need from him. “I need a friend right now,” I say, because that’s truer than anything. “Not this. I’m so sorry.” And then I add more partial truths. “I’m really mixed up. Lost, really. And trust me, these are all my issues, it’s not you.” Sean’s wide hazel eyes narrow with hurt. He’s backing away from me slowly. “I hope, I mean, what I really need right now is someone I can trust. Someone who has my back. A friend, you know, to do this with, to live in the city with, to go places. Back to the tigers, maybe,” I say, forcing a smile.

Sometimes I’m not sure how much of what I say is real. In moments like this it’s like reading a script—I know exactly how to make my face look; I know exactly how much waver to add to my voice.

I’m not sure whether that makes me a good actress or a good liar.





EIGHT


Rowan. Wednesday afternoon. November 9th.


The day after I see June in the coffee shop, Gabe and I are at the pediatrician’s office with Lila. Wall decals of grinning jungle animals leer at us, and everything smells antiseptic like the hospital. The nurse checks Lila’s temperature with a thermometer on her forehead. I have no idea if my OB communicated my mental state with our pediatrician, but I imagine he did: Do doctors do that? Call each other? I bet they do when they think a baby’s safety could be at stake. And I’m the only one who knows the state of my mind well enough to know that Lila’s safe with me, aren’t I? Gabe told me his mom used to fly off the handle when he was little, and one time when Elena was drinking, she told me that of all the things she’s ever regretted, she regretted her temper the most. I wonder if my dad would say the exact same thing if he hadn’t been killed so long ago; would he have regretted all the ways he tortured us? I don’t know if Gabe’s fully forgiven Elena for her temper and all the things it meant for them, and whenever I ask him about any of it, he says he doesn’t remember much about being little, just being shuttled back and forth between his parents after their divorce. He loves and trusts his mom enough to let her care for Lila, and I don’t think he sees any point in drudging up years-old transgressions. And it’s not like we leave Lila alone with anyone—I’m always there.