Love, Hate and Other Filters(27)

“Well, it’s spring right now, and we’ve, like, stolen this place for ourselves.” Phil is on a roll. “I can imagine the trailer now.” He tries the cadence of a movie voice-over: “It’s senior year. She’s a beautiful budding filmmaker. He can swim and fix cars. They don’t know where the path beyond the stone cottage will lead.”

I blink. “You think … I … I’m …” My voice is a whisper. I can’t say the word. I’m afraid to.

“What?”

“Uh … Nothing. Your trailer sounds like it could be a horror movie or maybe … you’re not going to get all sparkly in the sunlight and confess to being a vampire, are you?” There’s a hint of teasing in my voice.

Phil smirks. “We don’t know how it’s going to end yet, do we?”

He stares into my eyes as my chest rises and falls. He leans toward me. My heartbeat echoes through the trees. His face inches closer. I will our lips to meet. I want to wrap my arms around him and press my mouth to his, but my body hesitates.

Phil plucks a little leaf from my wet hair and shows it to me. “It was stuck,” he says. His arms slacken. He rises awkwardly and reaches for his T-shirt. The spell is broken. “I gotta get going. If I’m late for work, my brother will kick my ass.”

Suddenly there’s a dark storm inside me. I snatch my things. I’m not sure what happened right now. It felt … natural, like the moment in a movie when the guy and girl who’ve been kept apart finally kiss, under the moonlight or in an airport, or on a crowded street—or by a secret pond. Maybe I imagined it all because the difference is the guy and the girl in that Hollywood movie have fate on their side. In the bleak indie movies, they don’t get the happy ending; they get a tragedy. They get Romeo and Juliet.

And the Muslim? The Indian? That girl, she doesn’t even get the dream of the football captain. She gets a lifetime of being stopped by the FAA for random bag searches every time she flies. She gets the nice boy, the sensible boy, the one her parents approve of and who she will grow to love over years and children and necessity.

We walk down the path to the car. I glance back to steal a final look at our little beach and the pond and then hurry through the trees and beyond the cottage. I don’t say a word. Leaves and twigs crunch underfoot. I wish I were home already or at the bookstore rearranging the shelves, anywhere but here, next to Phil and this painful reminder of everything that I can’t have.

When we pass the Japanese Garden, Phil finally speaks. “Sorry we had to pack up early today. I promised—”

“No problem.” My voice is clipped. I walk faster, moving past Phil, to try and save myself from the humiliation that builds with each second we’re together.

I climb into the passenger seat and slam the door. I sit with my arms crossed over my chest, my lips a tight line. This moment is so cruel. For a second I forget myself. All I want is to be the normal girl, with parents who let her date and a house that smells of seasonally appropriate candles and not fried onions. I slink back in the car seat. I know I can wish for life to be different. I can click my heels and hope I’m somewhere else. But in the end, I’m here. I’m me.



We’re still a couple blocks from my house when Phil pulls the car over. He turns off the ignition. On any other day, my hands would get clammy, and my heart would pound. Right now I just feel sick.

“Do you want me to get out here?” I ask, a raw edge in my voice.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing.” I stare out the windshield.

“You’re not a very good liar.”

“I’m better than you know.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

I sigh. Loudly. “Phil, please take me home.” My eyes burn. I blink rapidly. I’m on the verge of tears. I need to get out of his car.

“Maya?” Phil whispers my name and takes my limp left hand in his. It might as well be a phantom limb. I’m a shadow. “I’m sorry.”

I turn away. I have to; otherwise, I will burst into ugly sobs. I bite the inside of my cheek. “You don’t have to apologize. Please. I want to go home.” A few tears roll down my face. I brush them away with the back of my free hand. My shoulders droop. The air in the car is too heavy to breathe.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”

I try to clear away the lump in my throat, to compose myself. “No worries. You’re going to be late for work if you don’t get going.”

“It’s only … the timing of all this … I shouldn’t have.”

He clenches the steering wheel; his veins pop up against his skin. He opens his mouth as if he wants to form words but has forgotten how. I want to put him out of his misery, so I touch his forearm, barely graze it, and steady my voice. “It’s okay. I understand.” I open the door. “Look, I’m going to walk the two blocks home.”

He takes my forearm and draws me back. “You don’t understand.”

“Trust me, I do. I know who I am and I know who you are. Thanks for the swimming lessons. We’re even. See you Monday.”

Phil won’t let go. “Look. I want you to know that I meant what I said back at the pond. You are … I think …” He can’t say it. He can’t bring himself to say anything, really.