Page 46 of Wall

Utensils ping against our plates.

“I didn’t know what to do. I went along with the tracking and all ‘cause I thought it’d make you feel better, but it didn’t, and I didn’t say shit ‘cause it’s not like I could fix it. There was nothin’ I could do to make you feel good again.”

“Is that why you did it? Why you cheated? Because you were mad at me because I wouldn’t cheer up?” My voice wobbles. I can’t believe the waterworks aren’t flowing by now, but there’s a strange peace around us. Like the eye of a storm.

“God, no.” John shifts in his seat. “I mean, yeah, I was angry. All the time. But not at you.”

“Maybe you were angry at me but you couldn’t admit it. Like, it’s messed up to be angry at the depressed lady who lost her baby, right?”

John winces. A flash of pain crosses his face, and he braces himself in his chair. “I wasnotangry at you. I was angry. I was angry that we kept losing the babies, that there was nothing I could do, that I was workin’ this job where everyone keeps calling you a hero, but you can’t stop dreaming about the time you were too late.”

He must be tightening his fists in his lap because all his muscles tense in sharp relief. I want to reach for him, but I’m scared.

“I was angry twenty-four seven. Nothin’ was right, and there was nothin’ I could do. And, baby, I know it’s no excuse, but I started drinking whiskey at five when we got back to the clubhouse. I ain’t even been that drunk before. I got in a fight with Dan. Remember Dan?”

I nod. Dan was a jerk. He told me to smile literally every time I saw him.

“Baby, I was so drunk, Ilosta fight to Dan Neuhouser.”

That’s impossible. Even back then, John would have outweighed him by fifty pounds.

“He landed an uppercut, I lost my balance, fell over, and decided to stay down.”

John was never much of a drinker. A few beers at a picnic, that was basically it. I vaguely remember that he started drinking Wild Turkey at night after we lost Lemon, but it was a hazy time.

“Eventually, I hauled my ass up. Stephanie came looking for me.” He stops. “Do you really wanna hear this?”

My grip on my fork tightens so much the metal bites into my finger. “Yes.”

“She, uh, fussed over me. Put her hand on my dick. Made herself clear.” He exhales a long sigh. “And I remember thinking: what does it matter? It’s all come to shit. And I did it, and the instant it was over, I puked in a corner. And I looked back, and I realized I just destroyed my life.” He snaps. “Like that.”

John stares over my shoulder into the middle distance, his jaw clenched, his body stiff. His regret is clear to read on his face.

And part of me is angry. Belligerent.Hemade it all come to shit. He destroyedmylife.

And another part of me, the pieces that could never stop loving John Wall, wants to go back in time and say I’ll come with you on the ride. I won’t let you get drunk and fight some idiot. I won’t let you be alone in your grief like I chose to be alone in mine.

He’s right. There’s no excuse. But I don’t know if you need a good excuse to forgive someone. Maybe forgiving is something you do. And then the rest follows.

“Baby.” John breaks the silence. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know what to do.”

I drag in a shaky breath. “I didn’t know what to do, either.”

We fall quiet, but this silence is different. Mellowed. After John finishes his steak, he slides his asparagus onto my plate. I polish it off. It’s soaked in butter, the perfect balance of crisp and cooked.

At some point, I realize the table of women has left. I didn’t even notice them go.

The waiter comes back to ask if we want dessert. I’m at a loss. I don’t want this to end, this raw but amiable peace. However, my body’s strung tight. I don’t think I can bear to sit much longer.

“Ain’t there chocolate cake at home?” John puts the ball in my court.

It’s my decision.

A part of me wants to call it a night, retreat, regroup, and patch my defenses back together. But it’s Saturday night. It’s only six thirty. Sure, I have wine and hard seltzers and study guides at home. And laundry. I have things I could do.

None of it sounds nearly as good as chocolate cake.

I don’t mind being alone, but I want to be with John Wall.

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