You Deserve Each Other(75)

Since it seems he doesn’t want to answer this question, I come up with something else to say. “The plaque on your parents’ house is wrong. The ‘rose by any other name’ one.”

He laughs. “I know. I looked it up once. Don’t tell them, okay? I want to see how long it takes them to find out.”

We share a smile. Nicholas isn’t so bad, maybe.

It’s this goodwill that makes me say, “When we get home, there’s something I want to show you.”

He looks over at me. I feel his stare in the darkness, dividing between my face and the road. He’s quiet but I hear his brain spinning the rest of the way home, wondering what I’m going to show him. I can’t get a read on what his guess might be.

By the time we’re walking through the front door, I’m already regretting this. Why am I so impulsive? I need to take back my offer. I strain to come up with a different secret to show him but draw a blank.

“So,” he says, hedging. “What do you want to show me?”

I’m not sure I still would, were it not for the hesitation in his eyes. He’s worried. He thinks that whatever it is, it involves him and me, and that it might be bad. I can’t let him suffer, so I suck it up and summon all my bravery and then some. Never in a million years did I think I’d voluntarily show him this.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter when I hand him my phone. “Here.” Then I retreat to the other wall, biting my nails.

He’s even more worried now. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Check my notes.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

He studies me for a handful of seconds like this might be a trap, then does as he’s told. I want to snatch my phone back. My face is red and my heart’s in my throat, and if he laughs at me I’m going to cry. His pity would be even worse. I am so certain that he’s going to think I’m a pathetic loser. All the evidence is there in his hand. No one wants me. Look at what you’ve thrown everything away over. A woman who can’t even get hired as a waitress at Olive Garden.

I watch him read the list that I’ve typed up in my notes, of every single establishment I’ve applied to. It’s detailed: I describe if I applied online or in person, if I can expect to hear back from them over the phone, by text, or email. Places I had high hopes for are marked with smiley faces. The nos are followed by Xs. The places I haven’t heard back from yet have question marks beside them. There are no yesses.

It’s a long list, and it’s full of Xs.

When several minutes pass and he still hasn’t spoken, just staring at my screen as he no doubt decodes it all, I feel like I’m being strangled. When I was the only one who knew about all these rejections, I was able to handle it. Now that he knows, it’s freshly humiliating. I know I’m not worthless, but god is it tough not to feel that way when you’re in the middle of a never-ending streak of This is hard to say, but we’re going with someone else. We’re very sorry we couldn’t give you better news and we wish you the best of luck.

I’ve got my face in my hands, so when a pair of arms wraps around me I’m not expecting it. His touch tugs all my threads loose, and I start crying into his shoulder. “It’s stupid to cry over this. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, nuzzling my temple. “It’s not stupid. You have nothing to be sorry for. These places are stupid.”

“They’re not,” I sob.

“They are if they turn you down. I want to get into my car and go throw eggs at all of them.” My sob turns into a laugh, and the cheek he has resting against my hairline tightens, telling me he’s smiling. But when he pulls back and examines me closely, his eyes are serious. “I had no idea you’ve applied to so many places.”

“Yeah, well …” I wipe away my tears with my sleeve, averting my gaze. “It’s embarrassing. Especially since you have a stable job. I didn’t know if you’d understand.”

“I would,” he says softly. “And I’d want to be here for you. Support you and make you feel better. I want you to tell me when you get bad news so that you’re not going through it alone.”

“It’s like applying to universities all over again,” I confess. “I haven’t told you about that, but about two years after high school graduation I decided that I wanted to go to college, so I applied to a bunch of universities all over the country. I was so hopeful; I thought for sure at least one of them would pick me. Then I slowly watched all the rejection letters trickle in. My parents suggested I apply to community colleges instead, because they wouldn’t mind a lower grade point average, but by then I was … I don’t know. Jaded, I guess.”

He doesn’t respond the way I think he will. He doesn’t drill-sergeant me with a list of goals I need to set for myself and carry out, no matter what, no exceptions. He doesn’t tell me I should have tried harder in high school, and paid more attention, or that if I’d been more focused I could have a bachelor’s degree and a great-paying job by now. He doesn’t say I planned my life badly and spent my twenties achieving nothing.

Instead, he asks, “What did you want to study?”

“I don’t know, honestly. I thought I’d figure it out as I went along. Never had a specific major in mind—all I wanted was a workplace I looked forward to driving to every day. A small setting with friendly people, like having another family. Somewhere I fit in.”