“Ah that’s nice. Too cold to go in though.”
“Not for me,” he replies. “I love a cold swim. I go to the beach in Chicago all the time.”
“Chicago does not have beaches.”
“It most certainly does.”
“Those little patches of sand on Lake Michigan don’t count.”
“They most certainly do.”
“You really go swimming in Lake Michigan in the winter?”
“Not in the winter, but this time of year it’s still bearable. A nice polar swim.”
“You are so wholesome.”
“I know.”
“You should have called me. I could have given you some bars and restaurants to try. Taken you out.”
He leans back in his seat.
“Molly,” he says slowly. “Not to be awkward. But I got the distinct impression you didn’twantme to call you. Like, ever again.”
I’m quiet. I know, of course, that I’ve been inconsistent with no explanation, and that this is likely confusing to him. But being clearer would require me to process my own emotions—which is something I find highly distasteful, as my long-suffering therapist can attest.
I drum on the steering wheel, grateful that the traffic frees me from the obligation of looking at him.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “I regret that.”
“You do?” he asks. There’s an intensity to his voice that tells me this information is not nothing to him.
That he reallycaredwhen I told him not to contact me.
There’s a long pause while I gulp down my innate resistance to even the faintest hint of vulnerability. But I owe it to him.
“I do,” I make myself say. “I’ve been debating whether to get in touch with you for months to apologize. For overreacting that night.”
He’s staring at me.
“I would have liked that,” he says. “I didn’t… realize you felt that way. Obviously.”
“Yeah.” I look determinedly ahead. “I’ve missed hearing from you.”
He shakes his head and laughs softly. “Wow.”
“And when I saw you at the game,” I confess to the rearview mirror, “I realized how dumb it was not to just get over myself, because I was really happy to see you. I mean, how many times in my life have I been grateful to Marian Hart?”
He snorts, but his voice goes soft. “I’m touched, Molly.”
For a moment, we’re both silent. I gather the courage to glance at him, and he’s looking at me sadly.
“But, you know,” he says, “Iamaware I was out of line during that conversation. It was… too much. I understood why you felt the way you felt.”
Floating underneath his words is the unspoken thing he said.I’m carrying a torch for you.I wonder if it’s still true. If I dare ask.
No. That’s not the kind of thing one asks. It’s the kind of thing one has to earn back.
