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“I didn’t see you come in.” Xave slips into the seat opposite mine, dusts his hands from the cue chalk, steals a French fry and pops it in his mouth. “Mmm, these are perfect.” He takes another one and dips it in jalapeño sauce. “What happened to your mouth?”
I forgot I’d bitten through my lip. “Karate practice.”
Xave nods, easily accepting my lie. “What you been up to? I called to see if you wanted to hang.”
“I was busy.” I take a deep breath, try to bite the mean question that is making my tongue feel like a viper’s, the question that involves Judy Pratt.
“Busy, doing what?” He appraises me, probably wondering if I’ve been doing anything IgNiTe related.
“Oh, just stuff,” I say in a suggestive tone, trying to make him suspicious about my whereabouts.
His eyes flicker to one side and go dark for a nanosecond. Then he does an introspective shrug, as if he’s decided he’s not interested in anything me or IgNiTe may be up to. He flashes me a smile and eats another French fry.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, pointing at the burger with the long fry. “You’re not hungry?”
“Oh, I’m hungry, all right,” I say, taking a huge, messy bite. Ketchup squeezes out of one side of my mouth, dribbles down my chin and splats on my chest. I dab at the spot, rubbing so hard the paper napkin starts falling apart. I give up, crumple the stupid thing and throw it on the table. Xave laughs at my failed attempt to remove the stain. Great!
“It’s not funny,” I mumble. “And get your own damn fries.” I slap his fingers away as he reaches for another one. He jerks his hand back, an injured and confused expression on his face. We’ve always shared our food. It’s never been a reason to bicker.
“What’s wrong with you today?” he asks.
“Are you on a date with Judy?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Xave’s eyes grow wide, wide and wider. Yeah, my question to his question is not what he expected. What’s wrong with me today is Judy Pratt and, clearly, the revelation is making his wheels turn.
I can see his face go through a rainbow of emotions. Surprise, confusion, doubt. The emotions seem to be attached to churning thoughts inside his mind. Several times, his mouth moves as if to ask something, but nothing comes out. He looks as if he’s trying to settle on the best question possible and he’s discarding them before they make it through his lips.
He finally says, “Why do you care?”
“I—I ...” Any other question would have been better than this one. I can’t answer it. Not to him, not even to myself. “I really don’t care. I’m just ... puzzled. That’s all,” I whisper, because it’s the easiest, most cowardly thing to say.
“Puzzled?” He ponders. “And why is that?”
“C’mon, Xave. This is Judy Pratt we’re talking about. We hate her. We always have. And, by the way, she hates us.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Aren’t you always the one telling me to grow up once and for all? Always saying I’m ... how did you put it?” He makes air quotes. “‘Perfectly irrational’? Hmm?”
Xave waits for me to say something. But what is there to say?
He continues. “For once I’m trying to see past my narrow, judgmental views. I’m ... expanding my horizons. Breaking stereotypes. And you don’t approve?”
I cross my arms over my stained t-shirt. “Is that what you’re calling your sexcapades now?” There’s a twist of bitter lemon on top of my comment.
“Again ... even if that’s what this is all about, why do you care?”
I wish he’d stop beating on that drum. It makes me feel hollow inside.
“You’ve never cared before,” he says, having found a more bitter substance than mine to make his point.
Our eyes lock and the silence between us swells and swells with an absence of words that need to be figured out. But I’m dry as a bone. I have nothing to give, nothing to offer. I’m the one who’s perfectly irrational. It takes one to know one, after all.
“The world is going to hell, Marci. I may as well enjoy it while it lasts. I can’t ... wait forever.” His last two words are loaded with meaning.
Is he trying to say that he’s ... waiting for me? I shrink away from the thought. That can’t be what he’s trying to say! Why doesn’t he just tell me what he means? My mouth hangs open, a mute “O” of incredulity. Is this the way he chooses to let me know? A way that is, by no means, clear.
“We should talk. There’s something I should tell you and maybe something you’d like to say to me?” Xave tells me in a sweet, inviting tone. He leans closer, hazel eyes drilling mine with heated intensity.
His hand—up till now resting on the table—moves inches slowly toward mine. His fingernails are blue from the cue chalk. I see the Celtic tattoo between his middle and fore fingers. It’s so small I always forget about it. My body tenses and I instinctively pull back a bit. And even though my fingers retract only a few inconsequential millimeters, the distance feels insurmountable, because Xave’s eyes darken with the knowledge that I’ve recoiled from him. Again.
What does he expect? He seems ready for something I’ve only begun to contemplate. And even if somehow this spark in my heart could ignite me, what could I ever give him? He doesn’t even know what I truly am. My soul aches. One person at a time, I’m carving a path toward loneliness.
Mom, Luke, and now ...
I swallow, blink, ignore the fire in my throat.
“No, Xave,” I croak, somehow holding his gaze as I pronounce each word. “There’s nothing I’d like to say to you.” Because there is nothing you have ever said to me. Because even if you did, I can’t go there with you. Not anymore. But I can’t add this, because even if he poured his heart onto my lap, there’d still be nothing I could give him back. It’s better if I don’t let him say what he wants to say.
All expectation collapses out of Xave’s chest in one big exhale. His eyes fall to my unwilling hand. Our fingers may as well be on opposite sides of the Atlantic.
Xave’s moist lips part, as if they’ve lost the strength to stay together. Air fills his lungs very slowly and his eyes suddenly brim with sickening resignation and finality, as if he’s seen everything clearly for the first time.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” he says, nodding sadly. “But I guess I always knew.”
I’m breathing rapidly, holding back the tears that burn in the backs of my eyes.
I have nothing to offer.
Emptiness.
Nothing.
Xave stands, pats my petrified hand with something like longing. He takes a step forward, without removing his hand. My shoulder aligns with his hip. I stare at the fries, don’t even know if he’s looking down at me. It doesn’t feel like he is.
“I can finally let you go,” he says, then walks away, leaving behind the ghost of what could have been.