Love and Other Words
Page 16

Pushing inside, I spot him immediately. His napkin slides to the floor and his thighs awkwardly collide with the table in his rush to stand. I notice two things: one, he’s wearing a dress jacket, nice jeans, and a pair of black dress shoes that look newly polished. Two, he got a haircut.
It’s still longish on top, but cut very short at the sides. It makes him somehow a little less highbrow literary hipster and more… skater hot. It’s amazing that a look he would never have even attempted in adolescence is one he can absolutely rock at twenty-nine. That said, I’m sure he has only his stylist to thank. The boy I grew up with would give more thought to which type of pen he used to write a grocery list than what he looked like on any given day.
Fondness clutches me.
I make my way to him, trying to breathe through the hum of electricity surging in my bloodstream. Maybe it’s the benefit of having had time to get ready tonight – and that I’m not in my scrubs – but this time, I feel the way his eyes move from my hair to my shoes and back up.
He’s visibly shaken when I step closer and stretch to give him a quick hug. “Hi.”
Swallowing, he lets out a strangled “Hi” and then pulls my chair out for me. “Your hair is… you look… beautiful.”
“Thanks. Happy birthday, Elliot.”
Friends. Not a date, I repeat, like a prayer. I’m just here to make up for breakfast, and to clear the air.
I attempt to brand it into my brain and my heart.
“Thank you.” Elliot clears his throat, smiling without teeth, eyes tight. And really: where to start?
The waiter pours water into my glass and slides my napkin onto my lap for me. The entire time, Elliot is staring down at me as if I’ve come back from the grave. Is that what it feels like for him? At what point would he have given up on getting in touch with me, or would the answer be never?
“How was work today?” he asks, starting somewhere safe.
“It was busy.”
He nods, sipping his water and then putting it down, letting his fingers trace drops of condensation as they flow from the lip to the base. “You’re in pediatrics.”
“Yes.”
“And did you know as soon as you started med school that you wanted to work in that?”
I shrug. “Pretty much.”
An exasperated smile quirks his mouth. “Give a little, Mace.”
This makes me laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be weird.” After a deep inhale and long, shaking exhale, I admit, “I guess I’m nervous.”
Not that it’s a date.
I mean, of course it isn’t. I told Sean I was meeting an old friend for dinner tonight, and promised myself I would give him the whole story when I got home – which I still intend to do. But he was preoccupied with setting up his new TV and didn’t really seem to notice when I stepped out, anyway.
“I’m nervous, too,” Elliot says.
“It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” he says, “but I’m glad you called. Or texted, rather.”
“You replied so quickly,” I say, thinking of his old flip-phone again. “I wasn’t prepared for that.”
He beams with mock pride. “I have an iPhone now.”
“Let me guess: Nick Jr.’s hand-me-down?”
Elliot scowls. “As if.” He takes another sip of water and adds, “I mean, Andreas updates his phone way more often.”
Our laughter dies down but the eye contact remains. “Well, in case you were wondering,” I say, “the score is even at one–one. Liz gave me your number. Though I probably should have remembered it. It’s the same one you always had.”
He nods and my eyes flicker down reflexively when he lick-bites his bottom lip. “Liz is great.”
“I can tell,” I say. “I like her.” Clearing my throat, I add quietly, “Speaking of… sorry about how I left at breakfast.”
“I get it,” he answers quickly. “It’s a lot to process.”
It’s almost laughable; an ocean of information separates us, and there are an infinite number of places to begin. Start at the beginning and work forward. Start now, and work backward. Jump in somewhere in the middle.
“I honestly don’t even know where to begin,” I admit.
“Maybe,” he says hesitantly, “maybe we check out the menu, order some wine, and then catch up? You know, like people do over dinner?”
I nod, relieved that he seems as mentally sturdy as ever, and lift the menu to scan it, but it feels like the words on the page are trumped by all the questions in my head.
Where does he live in Berkeley?
What is his novel about?
What about him has changed? What stayed the same?
But the petty, traitorous thought that lurks in the guilty shadows of my brain is the bravery it took him to end a relationship after seeing me for less than two minutes. I mean, unless it wasn’t very established.
Or was already on its way out.
Is this the worst place to start? Am I a complete maniac? I mean, at the very least it was the last real thing we talked about yesterday, right?
“Is everything okay with… with…?” I ask, wincing.
He looks up from his menu and maybe it’s my slightly anxious expression that clues him in. “With Rachel?”
I nod, but her name triggers a defensive reaction in me: he should be with someone named Rachel, who reads with relish every issue of the New Yorker, and works in nonprofit, and composts all her eggshells and beet peelings so she can grow her own produce. Meanwhile, I’m a mess, with never-ending med school loans, mommy issues, daddy issues, Elliot issues, and a shameful subscription to US Weekly.
“Things are okay, actually,” he says. “I think. I hope eventually we can be friends again. In hindsight, it couldn’t ever have been more.”
This sentiment slips into my bloodstream, warm and electric. “Elliot.”
“I heard what you said,” he says earnestly. “You’re engaged, I get it. But it will be hard for me to just be your friend, Macy. It’s not in my DNA.” He meets my eyes and puts the menu back down near his arm. “I’ll try, but I already know this about myself.”
I feel his disarming honesty chipping away at the resilient shell around me. I wonder how many times he could tell me he loved me before I melted into a puddle at his feet.
“Then I think some ground rules are in order,” I say.
“Ground rules,” he repeats, nodding slowly. “As in, no expectations?” I nod. “And, maybe… anything you want to know, I’ll tell you, and vice versa?”
If this is quid pro quo, I’m going to have to put on my big girl pants and get through it. Although everything inside me is rioting in panic, I agree.
“So,” he says, easing into a smile, “I don’t know what you’d like to know about Rachel. We were friends first. For years, in grad school and after.”
The idea of him being friends with another female for years is a knife pushed slowly into my sternum. Taking a sip of water, I manage an easy follow-up. “Grad school?”
“MFA from NYU,” he says, smiling. Rubbing a hand over his hair as if he’s not quite used to the feel of it yet, he adds, “Looking back, it seems a little like when we hit twenty-eight, we defaulted into a relationship.”
I know what he means. I turned twenty-eight and defaulted to Sean.