I Owe You One(99)

“Well, maybe I’m tired of the joke,” I say, still staring down at the table. “Is it never going to end? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours? Backward and forward, totting up what we owe each other, and we’d better settle up or else?”

I’m speaking faster and faster, and my face is getting hot. I don’t feel totally in control of myself.

“Fixie,” says Seb. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I say miserably. “But I wish you’d just said, ‘I’ve made you some fudge.’ The end.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” says Seb, a hint of impatience in his voice. “All friends do favors for each other.”

“Maybe they do, but they’re not counted out. They’re not itemized. They’re not presented on a spreadsheet.”

“No one’s got a spreadsheet, for God’s sake!” exclaims Seb angrily.

“What’s this?” Getting to my feet, I take the coffee sleeve out of my tote bag and brandish it at him.

“For fuck’s sake!” Seb sounds hurt. “I thought it was fun.”

“Well, I thought so too,” I say, my voice trembling. “But it doesn’t feel like fun anymore.”

“Why not?” he demands, almost furiously.

“Because I want to love you!”

My words spill out before I can stop them, and at once I catch my breath. I’m about to say hurriedly, “I didn’t mean it,” but that would be a lie. Because I did mean it. So I just stand there, panting slightly, my face turning deep crimson.

“Well, I want to love you,” says Seb, after what seems like an endless pause. “Is there a problem with that?”

My stomach starts turning over painfully. We hadn’t ever used the word love, and now we’ve both said it. Seb’s eyes meet mine, infinitely affectionate and warm, and I know this is my cue to run into his arms and forget everything else … but I can’t. I have to make my point.

“There’s a problem with this!” I jab despairingly at the coffee sleeve. “Love isn’t transactional! It’s not about what can you do for each other.” I gaze at him, desperate for him to understand. “Love means all debts are off.”

“Well, they are off!”

“They’re not! Even if I get rid of this”—I thrust the coffee sleeve back into my tote bag, then jab my head—“they’re here!”

For a moment we’re silent. The air between us is crackling with tension. I feel like love is on the other side of an invisible wall and neither of us knows how to get there.

“What do you want from me, Fixie?” says Seb at last, sounding a little weary, and I swallow hard, my head racing with thoughts.

“I wish we could go back to that coffee shop,” I say at last. “And we’d meet. And you’d say, ‘Hi. I’m Sebastian.’ And I’d say, ‘Hi. I’m Fixie.’ And there wouldn’t be any favors or owing or receipts or tallies or anything.”

“Yes. Well.” Seb shrugs unsmilingly. “You can’t go back in time and do life a different way. That’s not how it works.”

“I know.” I feel a prickle of irritation. “I was just saying. You asked.”

“Have another piece of fudge,” says Seb pleasantly, but with an edge to his voice. “With no debt or obligation attached whatsoever.”

“Thanks.” I match his sarcastic tone.

He passes me the plate and I take a piece and for a few moments we’re silent, until Seb suddenly draws breath, his face working with thoughts I can’t guess.

“You think love isn’t transactional?” he says. “That’s what you’re telling me? Then I have a question. Why do you run around, constantly doing too much for your family?”

“What?” I give a shocked, incredulous laugh. “No, I don’t!”

“Is it because of love?” he continues, ignoring me. “Or is it because you feel you owe them? Or is it guilt? Because that’s a toxic, subprime, never-ending debt, and you need to get rid of it.”

Everything he’s saying is touching a nerve. But I can’t admit it.

“I don’t do too much for my family.” I glower at him.

“All I hear about is what can you do for your mother, your family, the business. You work harder than any of them. You clear up their messes. Your brother has problems and you want to sort them out! Why should you? Let him sort it out!”

I can’t help it; I’m starting to bristle. If people attack my family, I defend them. It’s how I’m made.

“Look, you wouldn’t understand,” I say tightly.

“Because I don’t have a family?” he shoots back, equally tightly, and I blink in shock.

“No! Of course not! I only meant … We’re very close. We have a motto—”

“I know,” he cuts me off. “Family first. When did they last put you first, Fixie?”

I stare back, my face prickling. I feel like he’s taking each of my most hidden, most painful feelings and holding them up to the light to brush them down—and it hurts. I want him to stop.

“My family may be a distant memory,” says Seb, “but what I do remember about them is that love isn’t acting like a doormat. Love can be tough. Sometimes love has to be tough.”