Page 65 of Happy After All

I laugh. “You aren’t. Which is one of the very strange things about you. You’re here, but you’re not a tourist.”

“No,” he says.

I feel those walls starting to go up again. Ridiculous, actually, because we had sex, and he’s still acting like these basic comments are intrusive.

But I have to remember that he’s the one who showed up at my door this morning. He’s the one who felt like he needed to make the connection. He’s the one who ...

I just need to relax and let him take the lead here. I’m not good at that. I want to control things. I recognize that.

It’s one reason I left the place I lived when I went through my dramatic breakup. When I decided I needed to heal. I needed to be in absolute and total control of all the things around me. I couldn’t help it. It’s who I am. So, I need to let him be the one to make the move here. I need to let him be the one to take charge. Because he’s the one who knows what he’s thinking; I don’t. I don’t want to change whatever he intends.

I want to let it play out. That, I think, might be growth. Or at least something like it.

We walk into the diner and are greeted by the waitress I don’t know, which is sort of a relief because it will minimize speculation. We get seated at a small, shiny table for two nestled in the corner and are handed menus the size of small novels.

“I personally like the omelets,” I say. “But the pancakes are also great if you like a sweet breakfast.”

“I don’t. I’ll do an egg-white omelet, if they have it.”

“They can do that,” I say. “They just might laugh at you.”

“Me and my cholesterol are okay with that,” he says.

He doesn’t look like he could possibly have cholesterol problems, but I’m not a doctor. I have, however, examined every square inch of his body.

Still, it is something of a relief to know he doesn’t look that way on accident.

Based on the frozen meals he was buying, I wouldn’t have necessarily guessed he was health conscious.

The waitress swings by our table again. She has two mugs and a pot of coffee in her hands.

“Coffee?” she asks.

We both say yes.

“Do you know what you want to order?” she asks.

“Veggie omelet,” he says. “Egg whites.”

She looks at me with a hint of judgment in her eyes, and I feel validated by this.

“The farmer’s omelet,” I say. “The whole egg. Extra cheese.”

She takes our menus and leaves.

He looks at me, and I look back.

“Here’s the thing,” he says, as if he can’t hold it in anymore. “I’m leaving after Christmas. I’m not coming back.”

I’m shocked. After three summers, I was starting to think he’d always be my summer.

“You ... You’re not coming back this summer.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t need to. I ... This is the last time I’m coming. So anything after December ... It’s impossible.”

“Right,” I say.

Then I just wonder, because I have to, if this is why it finally happened at all. He knew he wasn’t coming back. He knew he wouldn’t have to deal with me again after this. Maybe I have no right to be mad about that. The truth is, we’re a loose end. I definitely felt it. Like he was the summit I needed to climb. Really, in more ways than one. So maybe it’s fair. It’s okay that ... the desire to finish with me was the inciting incident. It’s okay that it was the reason. The final ingredient that created this alchemy.

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