I pull out a box of takeout leftovers that I know are weeks old and toss them into the garbage without even looking at them. Then I grab a container of something, pop the lid just enough to release a horrendous smell, then immediately close it again before even seeing what it used to be. “What do you think? Should I just throw the whole container away?”
“It’s the only merciful option.”
As Reese is checking the expiration date on a bottle of ranch dressing, I ask, “Have you ever been dating a guy, then met his ex-girlfriend—who seems absolutely perfect for him—and it makes you feel so much less sure that you are?”
She tosses the bottle. “Nope.”
“No? Really?”
“Yep, because the key word in your sentence was ‘seems.’ Sheseemsabsolutely perfect for him. But a) first impressions can be wrong, b) some people are very good at presenting themselves in a way that isn’t true to who they really are, and c) you can’t get the full story by just briefly meeting someone. I always tell myself that they broke up, right? Thatmeans that no matter how perfect theyseemedto be for each other, they weren’t. Simple as that.”
“True,” I say as I pull out a Ziploc bag containing half a red onion that looks like it was put in a food dehydrator. “But there were probably areas where the ex was really strong, and he loved those parts. And maybe those parts are where you’re weak.”
Reese tosses a jar of vinaigrette. “Well, yeah, there will always be that. I just tell myself that the best parts of me will so blindingly outshine those that he won’t even care.”
“I wish I had your built-in self-assurance.”
“Yeah, it’s helpful. Except when I’m very vocally confident about something… and then find out I am wrong.” Reese shrugs. “It’s less helpful then.” She pulls out a plastic container, pops the lid, and sucks in a quick breath. “I think it just hissed at me.” She takes the lid off completely and then holds it out for me to see. “What do you think this was?”
It doesn’t even look like it was ever food. “I’m going with a science experiment that failed and then mutated.”
Reese dumps out the contents. I’m looking for the expiration date on a tub of sour cream, but I’m not making any headway. Probably because my mind is on other things. “I haven’t told Owen that I was kidnapped as a kid.”
“Girl,” Reese says as she pulls out a bag of decomposing broccoli, “you and I have been friends for what? A year and a half? And you didn’t tell me for most of that.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. It just happened so long ago! I was three, so it’s been twenty-two years. And, I mean, it’s not like I told you about the time when I was six, fell off my bike, and broke my arm.”
Reese gives me a look. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
I sigh. “Yeah. And I feel really bad that I haven’t told him. I know I should. He’s opened up to me so much, and I’m not reciprocating. But it’s also hard because the kidnapping shouldn’t still affect me. I’ve lived—” I quickly do the math—“eighty-eight percent of my life after it happened. But I’m starting to realize that maybe it does affect me more than I’ve been willing to admit.”
I give up on finding the date, pop the lid, and give it a sniff. It’s probably still good, so I put it back into the fridge. “Plus, I don’t want to just dump my problems on him, you know?”
“I don’t think he’d see it as dumping your problems. He seems like the kind of guy who’d love to know so he can support you.”
I nod.
She pulls out a jar of salsa, tips it back and forth, and then tosses it into the garbage. “I getit, though. You know how I had Hodgkin lymphoma when I was fifteen?”
“Yeah.”
“The part I haven’t told you is that during treatment, I had to have high-dose chemo and pelvic radiation. It saved my life, but it cost me my fertility.”
“Oh, Reese,” I say, my stomach just dropping for her. “I am so sorry.”
She brushes away my comment with her hand. “That’s not what this conversation is about. The point is that I get why it’s hard for you to tell him. I don’t like to talk about my past trauma, either, and I am pretty much never the one to bring it up. I like to just go on with life, acting as if it didn’t happen, until I come upon a situation where I can’t, then I act like it doesn’t really affect me.
“But I know it did—does—affect me. And I understand that ignoring that fact doesn’t make it stop affecting me. But sometimes it’s just easier to pretend it never happened, you know? It makes it less heavy.”
I nod. I really do know. “I think I’ve been pretending it never happened for too long.”
“So, you’re going to tell him?”
I nod as I dump out a container of mystery stew. “Yep. I’m going to do it.”
“Good timing,” Reese says as she stands. “Because I think we’re done here.”
“I’m not going to go tell him right now!”
