THE RESTAURANT IS IN a neighborhood I’ve never visited, situated on the corner of a wide street near vibrant Victorian multistories and small coffee shops. The ocean is close enough it’s visible when I get out of Ethan’s car. I wonder how Ethan found this place until I remember his dad writes restaurant reviews for a respected website.
He holds the door while I walk past the industrial facade into the softly lamplit space. Ethan talks to the hostess, and I take in the room. It is fancy, if unpretentious. Walls of white-painted brick contrast with the black wood of the bar and tables. Climbing vines provide dashes of striking green, and the exposed ducts and metal light fixtures complete the upscale-warehouse image. I follow Ethan and the hostess to our table.
The place is packed. There’s music playing, but the collective volume of conversation drowns out everything except the bassline. I don’t notice the time passing while we sip sparkling water, inspect the menus, and order, the waiter committing our choices to memory instead of writing them down.
Conversation flows easily with Ethan. We have endless topics in common, and we make each other laugh over stories of our worst meetings with Principal Williams, whether he enjoyed his momentary stint as the Fairview puma mascot—he did—and when Simon Long submitted wonderful, engaging Chronicle sports coverage we later found out was completely made up. Ethan’s smile seems effortless, his laughter unrestrained. Over his cacio e pepe and my scallops, I catch myself enjoying the little details. How his blazer hugs his shoulders, the earnest interest in his eyes when I talk about my sister.
I can think of no reason why this couldn’t work in the future. Why we couldn’t have this exact date in Cambridge, Massachusetts, amid finals and Crimson deadlines and flights home.
While we vow not to discuss reunion planning, wanting the night off together, I can’t help making one comment about how he must concede the Millard Fillmore was an excellent choice on my part. I wait for his sarcastic comeback. I’m even preparing my comeback to his comeback.
But he only nods. He changes the subject, and while I follow him into discussing how we pretend not to enjoy ASG, I don’t realize until moments later I’m a little disappointed.
I hadn’t known until he deflected my comment how much I wasn’t just expecting he’d parry and strike—I was hoping he would. It steals some of the luster from the lighting, the color from the room. I remember this feeling. The week I decided I wouldn’t compete with Ethan, I found myself frustrated after each unfulfilling docile exchange we had. Since then, I’ve rationalized the feeling to have been some warped form of missing Ethan in my life. I thought it was keeping my distance from him I couldn’t stand.
If I’m feeling it now, with Ethan smiling in front of me across two feet of table, then this disappointment isn’t about missing him. It’s about missing the fire our relationship has never lacked in the years we’ve known each other. Until now.
We eat our entrees, and I keep trying to provoke him. It feels like swimming farther and farther out to sea, waiting for the scary thrill when my feet no longer touch the ground. It never comes. Ethan evades each pointed remark like he’s been practicing.
Which is when it hits me. “I had no idea,” I say to him.
“No idea what?” he asks.
“You liked me this much. You’re really working hard.” I reach across the table and take the last bite of his pasta.
Ethan’s lips curl as he watches me chew. “First of all, being this charming”—he gestures to himself—“is not me working hard.” My heart does a little flip when I see the momentary glint of competitiveness in his eyes. “Second,” he continues, the edge in his voice softening, “you already knew I liked you.”
I did know. I guess it’s still surprising, hearing someone’s feelings have changed so fully, so fast. It’s hard to accept. “Do you think this is why we’ve always been . . . the way we were?”
“Are you asking if we competed with each other because we were secretly in love?” I don’t comment on the word he dropped, despite it stilling my breath. Ethan gazes off into a corner of the restaurant. “I don’t know. I do know I haven’t been pining for you this whole time. I’m not the kind of guy who’s awful to a girl because his feelings are unrequited. And I don’t think you’re the kind of girl who’d fall for a guy who treats her poorly.”
I nod. Our waiter drops off the dessert menu, which we don’t pick up. I project the version of Ethan I knew before onto the one in front of me. He’s not wrong. If he did now a few of the things he’s done to me in the past, I wouldn’t be here with him on a date.
“Whether I felt this unconsciously . . . I won’t write it off entirely,” he continues. “I can say, I wouldn’t sabotage your newspaper today.”
“And I wouldn’t give the math textbook you left in the journalism room to someone who thought it was theirs,” I offer in return.
Ethan furrows his brow. “You—wait, what? I missed two assignments because of that. You know, on second thought”—he waves his hand decisively—“we don’t have to retread all the terrible things we’ve done to each other. We’re different now.”
I have no objection to what he’s said, which definitely is different. I’m glad for it. Nevertheless, I can’t ignore the fact that when he exchanged our disruptive warfare for our new relationship, he traded in a few qualities of his I liked. His sharp wit. His smug sense of humor. The way he pushed me to be smarter, faster, better. He’s half himself. While it’s a half I’m enjoying meeting, I miss his other side.
I want the irritating and competitive Ethan back, and our messy relationship—I mean, without the sabotage. It might make me immature, and might not even be worth pursuing at this point in my life. But I’m starting to wonder if none of that mattered as much as I thought.
Ethan picks up the menu. “Shall we order dessert?”
I reach across and push the menu down. “I have a better idea.”