“Because getting married is romantic when you’re in love,” I say.
She’s quiet for a moment.
“Huh,” she says. “I’ve genuinely never thought about it like that. I think I almostagreewith you.”
Good.
I pull into the parking lot of Roberta’s. It’s a little out of the way, a few miles down the island from the public beaches, in an older, 1960s-era building with wall-to-wall glass windows. My parents used to take me and Dave here for birthday brunches. And when Molly first agreed to go out with me in high school, I wanted to take her somewhere special. This, to my teenage boy’s mind, was as special as it got.
As we walk in, I’m tempted to put my hand on Molly’s back, but I don’t. All the attraction and intensity of our conversation last night feels distant, because I’m so nervous about the conversation I want to have with her now.
The maître d’ is wearing a three-piece suit, and the tables are decked out in stuffy white cloths and crystal wineglasses. The room is populated primarily with groups of older couples drinking mimosas, and families with hyper children running around with plates of Mickey Mouse–shaped pancakes heaped with chocolate sauce and whipped cream.
It’s a little like a retirement home, and it’s making me question my choices.
At least we get a table near the windows, with a view of the lagoon behind the restaurant. If you’re going to dine in an assisted-living facility, you should be able to do it while looking at swans.
“This place is insane,” Molly whispers as soon as the maître d’ is gone. “Like, I remember it had the elaborate buffet and the omelet and pancake stations. But were there always ice sculptures?”
“No. And I think the chocolate fountain is new.”
Our server comes to take our drink orders—an oat milk cappuccino for her and a lemon ginger tea for me. (I’m too jittery with nerves for caffeine.)
“We don’t have oat milk,” the server says apologetically.
“Oh. Almond milk?” Molly asks.
“We only have, you know, milk milk,” the girl says.
“Right. Okay, milk milk it is.”
We opt to order off the à la carte menu rather than risking the buffet. “I don’t want to catch Covid from a sausage link,” Molly says.
Once ordering is out of the way, there is nothing to do but… talk.
I’m so nervous I could throw up.
And so I just plunge in.
“Well, thank you for agreeing to come here with me today,” I say. I immediately cringe at this bizarrely formal choice of words.
Molly nods gravely. “Why, it’s my pleasure, sir. Thank you for your kind invitation.”
Her mockery actually puts me a bit more at ease. Gentle ridicule has always been her way of expressing affection.
“I wanted to apologize that I haven’t been in touch this past year.”
“You already did that last night. It’s fine.”
I shake my head. “No, it was shitty. And I should tell you a bit about why.”
She frowns. “Okay then. I’m all ears.”
“Right. Good.”
She looks at me expectantly. I feel awkward and clumsy talking aboutthis. I’m so used to being the positive, optimistic, everything-all-figured-out guy. It’s hard to admit being adrift.
I dive in anyway.
