The Comeback(85)

“Was I a worse friend or wife?” I ask, just before I realize I’m talking about myself again.

“How are you anyway? How’s the single life treating you?” I ask, shooting for funny but landing somewhere between awkward and belligerent. Dylan grimaces.

“Sorry. How are the surfers?”

“They’re all right,” he says, having a sip of water and still watching me carefully. “The story isn’t doing what I want it to do, but I know I just have to roll with it.”

“That’s how it works, right?” I ask. Dylan’s hair is still wet from a shower. Some of it is falling in his eyes, and I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than how good he looks. I imagine pushing him into the bedroom and fucking like we used to, always like it was going to be the last time. Despite everything, I always enjoyed sex with Dylan more than I ever deserved to. “I thought that was the point of working with real people.”

“No, it is. The story is never what you think it is. I’m just hoping I’ll be able to see it soon,” he says, shrugging. “It’s been a long shoot.”

“The story is never what you think it is,” I repeat. “I like that.”

I have another sip of water, sort of wishing I could have a tequila soda to relax a little instead. Maybe it was being around Dylan that made me drink more. He listens too closely, expects too much. It’s unnerving when you’re not used to it.

“I’ve been working on this . . . project with Esme, but I think she feels like I’ve let her down. Maybe I just need to tell her that we were chasing the wrong ending all along.”

“I’m sure she can’t be mad at you for long,” Dylan says. “That’s cool, by the way.”

“What is?”

“That you’re helping her out like that.”

“Oh. I think it might be the other way around,” I say, digging a tortilla chip into the guacamole. “It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

I wipe my salty fingers on the tablecloth, and when I look up, Dylan is watching me like he used to, as if I’m some rare, beautiful thing, which instantly makes me want to do something to ruin it.

“You seem different too,” I say after a moment.

“Different how?” Dylan asks warily after a pause.

“I don’t know. Like less innocent or something. I mean you came to my house minutes after your girlfriend broke up with you.”

Dylan swallows a tortilla chip and doesn’t say anything for a moment. A mariachi version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” is playing softly through the speakers.

“We came here the night we got engaged,” he says eventually. “We literally sat right here.”

I look around again, but nothing about this restaurant is even remotely familiar to me. The server hangs back by the entrance to the kitchen, looking about as pained as I feel. I try to remember the day we got engaged. Dylan woke me up with blueberry pancakes and his grandmother’s wedding ring, and while I was still crying, he showed me his ring finger with my name already tattooed around it in black, scratchy ink. The tattoo was raw, and I cried because that was exactly how I felt when I saw it, so in awe that this person wanted to share his life with me. It was one of those rare spring days when I thought everything would be okay, but I still supplemented the glasses of champagne with secret bumps of coke whenever Dylan left the room. After that, I remember the beach at sunset, and maybe a flat tire. Was there a dinner too?

“I’m sorry. I really don’t remember it.” The expression on his face is making my chest hurt, so I don’t want to look at him anymore. “I think this was a bad idea.”

“Luckily, I already ordered everything we ordered that night, and it’s only going to get more and more fucking awkward as the night goes on. What did you call it? A clusterfuck of misery?” Dylan asks, running his hand through his hair. “I mean, you did warn me.”

“What did we order?”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to do this for my benefit.”

“Remind me of what we ordered.”

“All right,” he says slowly. “We drank jalape?o margaritas, but I got mine with vodka instead of tequila because you put me off tequila for life the night we met. You couldn’t choose between burritos and enchiladas so you got them both, and they made a heart out of sour cream on top, and for some reason you loved that. For dessert we had the Mexican wedding cookies with coconut and chocolate ice cream because we were celebrating. So what, were you high or just drunk that night?”

“Don’t be mean, it doesn’t suit you,” I say as the server places a pitcher of margaritas in front of us, with jalape?os swimming in it. I might have remembered the margaritas if Dylan had mentioned them earlier.

I take a sip, and when I realize it doesn’t have any alcohol in it, I feel instantly, uncomfortably disappointed.

“You know I can drink, I’m not going to kill myself in one night,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

“Go ahead,” Dylan says wearily, signaling for the server. “Can we have a bottle of tequila on the table for my friend?”

The server brings a bottle of Don Julio, and we both just stare at it. I try to remember how it felt when we liked each other.

“Grace, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m exhausted. I want to work this out, but I can’t figure out if you want to be found anymore.”