bumped my knee against his under the table, or touched his arm. I wonder whose job it is to make the first move. I wonder if I even want that.
“I didn’t mean to be creepy,” I say, keeping my limbs to myself. “I was waiting for you and it was freezing and I knew the blanket was in there. Then I was going to say something but didn’t think it was safe to scare you while you were driving.” Remembering something Dylan once said about how I never say I’m sorry, that I make excuses instead—true—I add, “Sorry.”
The waiter sets two steaming bowls of beef broth on the table, along with plates of noodles and limes and bean sprouts and thinly sliced meat. We quietly go through the ritual of unwrapping and breaking apart our wooden chopsticks, rubbing them together to smooth out any splinters. We move items from the plates into our bowls. I lean my head over mine, inhaling the fragrant steam and closing my eyes for a second. I make a wish. A pho wish. I wish for Dylan to speak to me as if I’m a person he might still like a little bit. I don’t need for him to love and adore me. Only to tolerate, be my friend.
Maybe the best way to encourage that to happen is to talk about something somewhat neutral, at least as it pertains to our relationship.
“Remember how my mom is adopting that baby?”
“Pretty sure I’m not going to forget that.”
“The mother, the pregnant girl, got here yesterday.”
That gets his attention. He sets his chopsticks down. “Oh, man. I didn’t realize that was happening now . Wasn’t it only, like, six weeks ago or something your mom told you?”
“Yeah. It’s happening.”
“It must be crazy. To realize it’s for real and everything.”
“Totally crazy.”
“I want to meet her.”
“You do?”
He picks up his chopsticks, slurps noodles. “Yeah, I mean, it’s a big deal. And even with, you know, the way everything is, I still kind of feel like part of the family? If that’s okay.”
Yes, I know the way everything is. “It’s okay. It’s good.”
This is going so well. So unbelievably perfect. I barrel ahead. “My mom took her to the doctor this morning. To check everything out. This girl, she’s from another planet, I’m telling you.”
“Yeah?” He takes a bite of bean sprouts.
“Sniffer of leather. Eater of the worst kind of junk food. Lover of tabloid magazines.”
“She’s our age, right? And she’s only staying there a little while. You can handle it.”
“Seriously, Dylan, she’s weird .” I drop a slice of beef into my broth; now I’m on a roll. “Not much going on upstairs. Her big ambition was to go to Pancake Universe.”
Dylan pushes his lower lip out and nods. “Uh-huh. And how long have you known her? Like, a total of five waking hours or something?”
His tone has totally changed. So I change mine, too. “Are you saying I don’t have the right to judge?”
“No. And even if I were saying that, I know it wouldn’t stop you. I’m just saying maybe you should think about how she feels. She’s probably scared as hell. She probably needs a friend. Not everyone was born independent like you.”
Well. What am I supposed to say to that?
He picks up his bowl and drinks, then sets it down. “Wow. Have I rendered you speechless?”
“Ha,” I say weakly, and it’s all I’ve got. So I’m independent. The way my dad raised me to be. No daughter of his would ever be stuck on the side of the road in the dark flagging down potential rapists to help with a flat. He opened my first checking account with me when I was twelve and taught me how to make a budget and balance my account using a spreadsheet. He taught me not only how to drive but how to drive in snow, on ice, off road, in a flood. I know how to change my oil and brake pads; I understand the wonders of compounding interest; I’m in charge of keeping the smoke alarms and heating filters fresh in our house; I can load and clean guns and shoot them if I have to; and I
“I didn’t mean to be creepy,” I say, keeping my limbs to myself. “I was waiting for you and it was freezing and I knew the blanket was in there. Then I was going to say something but didn’t think it was safe to scare you while you were driving.” Remembering something Dylan once said about how I never say I’m sorry, that I make excuses instead—true—I add, “Sorry.”
The waiter sets two steaming bowls of beef broth on the table, along with plates of noodles and limes and bean sprouts and thinly sliced meat. We quietly go through the ritual of unwrapping and breaking apart our wooden chopsticks, rubbing them together to smooth out any splinters. We move items from the plates into our bowls. I lean my head over mine, inhaling the fragrant steam and closing my eyes for a second. I make a wish. A pho wish. I wish for Dylan to speak to me as if I’m a person he might still like a little bit. I don’t need for him to love and adore me. Only to tolerate, be my friend.
Maybe the best way to encourage that to happen is to talk about something somewhat neutral, at least as it pertains to our relationship.
“Remember how my mom is adopting that baby?”
“Pretty sure I’m not going to forget that.”
“The mother, the pregnant girl, got here yesterday.”
That gets his attention. He sets his chopsticks down. “Oh, man. I didn’t realize that was happening now . Wasn’t it only, like, six weeks ago or something your mom told you?”
“Yeah. It’s happening.”
“It must be crazy. To realize it’s for real and everything.”
“Totally crazy.”
“I want to meet her.”
“You do?”
He picks up his chopsticks, slurps noodles. “Yeah, I mean, it’s a big deal. And even with, you know, the way everything is, I still kind of feel like part of the family? If that’s okay.”
Yes, I know the way everything is. “It’s okay. It’s good.”
This is going so well. So unbelievably perfect. I barrel ahead. “My mom took her to the doctor this morning. To check everything out. This girl, she’s from another planet, I’m telling you.”
“Yeah?” He takes a bite of bean sprouts.
“Sniffer of leather. Eater of the worst kind of junk food. Lover of tabloid magazines.”
“She’s our age, right? And she’s only staying there a little while. You can handle it.”
“Seriously, Dylan, she’s weird .” I drop a slice of beef into my broth; now I’m on a roll. “Not much going on upstairs. Her big ambition was to go to Pancake Universe.”
Dylan pushes his lower lip out and nods. “Uh-huh. And how long have you known her? Like, a total of five waking hours or something?”
His tone has totally changed. So I change mine, too. “Are you saying I don’t have the right to judge?”
“No. And even if I were saying that, I know it wouldn’t stop you. I’m just saying maybe you should think about how she feels. She’s probably scared as hell. She probably needs a friend. Not everyone was born independent like you.”
Well. What am I supposed to say to that?
He picks up his bowl and drinks, then sets it down. “Wow. Have I rendered you speechless?”
“Ha,” I say weakly, and it’s all I’ve got. So I’m independent. The way my dad raised me to be. No daughter of his would ever be stuck on the side of the road in the dark flagging down potential rapists to help with a flat. He opened my first checking account with me when I was twelve and taught me how to make a budget and balance my account using a spreadsheet. He taught me not only how to drive but how to drive in snow, on ice, off road, in a flood. I know how to change my oil and brake pads; I understand the wonders of compounding interest; I’m in charge of keeping the smoke alarms and heating filters fresh in our house; I can load and clean guns and shoot them if I have to; and I
Similar Books
