wise once told me that.”
His beautiful green eyes were asking me who, and when I didn’t answer, he said, “Sometimes when you do something you love, the joy is great, but the pain is even greater.”
I clung to that philosophy, letting the words wrap around the people and things that gave me joy. “But what if you never experience that joy? That love? What kind of life would that be?”
He was silent, his eyes taunting me with what exactly are we talking about here? He was searching the table for something, answers, insight, maybe my hand, but it was under the table, clasping the other one tightly.
The waitress came with our food and he turned to me. “What do you know about love?”
I took a bite of my lasagna, set the fork down, reached for the crayon, and wrote, It stinks .
“And what do you base that on, personal experience, or some after-school special?”
J. Giels , I wrote.
“What about you, Harvard? What’s your experience with love?”
He sunk his teeth into his sandwich as I prepared myself to wipe the mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Does it matter?” The invisible door closed, a window slammed shut. He reeled me in close and then spit me out to sea.
“Yes,” I said, “seeing that you know so much about it.”
It’s not so much what he said but what he didn’t say. A red flag went off in my brain, a warning signal that permeated throughout my body and caused my senses to switch into high alert.
“You remind me so much of Amy,” he said, “the way you wear your emotions for anyone to see.”
“I do not,” I countered, not caring about the lie. I never did have the power to hide things, at least not from him.
“It’s not such a bad thing,” he said, “unless you let people take advantage of it. You can get hurt that way.”
“Are you going to hurt me?” I asked.
Never, he wrote on the table, in bright blue letters, all capitals, and then repeated the same with his eyes as he looked up from across the table. Could he possibly be preparing me for what was to come?
“You have stuff on your face again,” I said, pointing a little to the left. “There,” I said, as he dabbed it with a napkin. I was too afraid to touch him, afraid he might feel the electricity that was coming off my fingernails, afraid he might jump at my touch.
“It’s still there,” I said.
“Well, help me out.”
I reached across the table, our fingers brushing as I wiped the yellow mustard off his face. “It’s funny,” he started, “how people come into your life. You meet them under strange circumstances, chance meetings, and all of a sudden there’s this, this thing between you…how quickly it’s determined if you’ll be friends or not.”
“You mean us?” I asked.
Yes , he wrote.
I wanted to say something fabulous and meaningful and sarcastic, but what? I wanted to ask him if he always bonded with young girls my age by puking on their shoes, because it was the only way I knew how to protect myself from his pursuit. If I divulged what was forming inside my throat, I would disclose too much, opening myself up to vulnerability. Could I let him have another glimpse, another peek below the surface, when he’d already seen so much?
“I like seeing you at the hospital every day,” he said, pausing, waiting for me to add something. “You like seeing me too.”
I asked, “How did your dad end up at Randalls Hospital when there are excellent ones in LA?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Cedars Sinai is one of the best.”
“Okay, I’ll indulge you,” he answered. “Randalls happens to be the most innovative and comprehensive for my father’s condition. Now stop changing the subject. You ignored me when I said I like seeing you.”
“I was ignoring what you said after that.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he said.
“Finish what?”
“My thought.”
“Which thought?” I asked.
“Why we ended up at Randalls…”
“You told me already. It was
His beautiful green eyes were asking me who, and when I didn’t answer, he said, “Sometimes when you do something you love, the joy is great, but the pain is even greater.”
I clung to that philosophy, letting the words wrap around the people and things that gave me joy. “But what if you never experience that joy? That love? What kind of life would that be?”
He was silent, his eyes taunting me with what exactly are we talking about here? He was searching the table for something, answers, insight, maybe my hand, but it was under the table, clasping the other one tightly.
The waitress came with our food and he turned to me. “What do you know about love?”
I took a bite of my lasagna, set the fork down, reached for the crayon, and wrote, It stinks .
“And what do you base that on, personal experience, or some after-school special?”
J. Giels , I wrote.
“What about you, Harvard? What’s your experience with love?”
He sunk his teeth into his sandwich as I prepared myself to wipe the mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Does it matter?” The invisible door closed, a window slammed shut. He reeled me in close and then spit me out to sea.
“Yes,” I said, “seeing that you know so much about it.”
It’s not so much what he said but what he didn’t say. A red flag went off in my brain, a warning signal that permeated throughout my body and caused my senses to switch into high alert.
“You remind me so much of Amy,” he said, “the way you wear your emotions for anyone to see.”
“I do not,” I countered, not caring about the lie. I never did have the power to hide things, at least not from him.
“It’s not such a bad thing,” he said, “unless you let people take advantage of it. You can get hurt that way.”
“Are you going to hurt me?” I asked.
Never, he wrote on the table, in bright blue letters, all capitals, and then repeated the same with his eyes as he looked up from across the table. Could he possibly be preparing me for what was to come?
“You have stuff on your face again,” I said, pointing a little to the left. “There,” I said, as he dabbed it with a napkin. I was too afraid to touch him, afraid he might feel the electricity that was coming off my fingernails, afraid he might jump at my touch.
“It’s still there,” I said.
“Well, help me out.”
I reached across the table, our fingers brushing as I wiped the yellow mustard off his face. “It’s funny,” he started, “how people come into your life. You meet them under strange circumstances, chance meetings, and all of a sudden there’s this, this thing between you…how quickly it’s determined if you’ll be friends or not.”
“You mean us?” I asked.
Yes , he wrote.
I wanted to say something fabulous and meaningful and sarcastic, but what? I wanted to ask him if he always bonded with young girls my age by puking on their shoes, because it was the only way I knew how to protect myself from his pursuit. If I divulged what was forming inside my throat, I would disclose too much, opening myself up to vulnerability. Could I let him have another glimpse, another peek below the surface, when he’d already seen so much?
“I like seeing you at the hospital every day,” he said, pausing, waiting for me to add something. “You like seeing me too.”
I asked, “How did your dad end up at Randalls Hospital when there are excellent ones in LA?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Cedars Sinai is one of the best.”
“Okay, I’ll indulge you,” he answered. “Randalls happens to be the most innovative and comprehensive for my father’s condition. Now stop changing the subject. You ignored me when I said I like seeing you.”
“I was ignoring what you said after that.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he said.
“Finish what?”
“My thought.”
“Which thought?” I asked.
“Why we ended up at Randalls…”
“You told me already. It was
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