Page 27 of Unforgettable

“This is really good,” he compliments while scooping up another portion. “I’m not a good cook, so most things taste better than I can make myself, but this is exceptional.”

I begin cutting into my portion of the grilled sandwich. “So, you don’t cook?”

“Oh, no, I do. I actually really enjoy it,” he says in between chews. “I’m just really bad at it.”

This tidbit of information makes me laugh. “How can you be bad at it?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. I follow recipes and do all the prep and all the steps, and everything always tastes so underwhelming.”

“There’s got to be something you’re doing wrong, because that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Ask Murph,” he exclaims. “I think he eats all my meals under sufferance. He was probably grateful he got to work overtime tonight. What about you? Do you cook? You’re probably really good at it. Aren’t you?”

I smirk. “I’ve been known to master a dish or two.”

“I knew it. You are so that guy.”

“What guy?”

He points at me. “You know, the one who’s good at everything.”

A humorless laugh leaves my mouth. “If you ask my parents, they’ll tell you I’m good at absolutely nothing.”

I freeze as soon as the words leave my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I say too quickly. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Reeve’s face softens as he let’s go of his cutlery, reaches over the table, and puts a hand over mine. “I guess we have that in common, huh?”

His skin feels so good against mine. In solidarity. In comfort. I ensure my gaze doesn’t drop to our hands, knowing he’ll move away the moment I do. Instead, just like Reeve did earlier, I answer truthfully. “I might know a thing or two about disappointed parents.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I give him a non-committal shrug. “There’s not much to say. You’re going to work with your parents, and I refuse to listen to mine.”

“I wish I could do that,” he states, surprising me.

“You could,” I point out. “But I can also understand why you would choose to work with them over dealing with them being disappointed in you.”

“It’s still a choice I made at the expense of my own happiness,” he scoffs. “And in actual fact, I think they’re still disappointed in me.”

“What would make you happy?” I ask.

Reeve removes his hand and returns to fidgeting with his fork. He lowers his head, his eyes downcast, and it’s obvious I’ve hit a nerve. Eventually, he looks up at me, looking a lot younger and a lot more vulnerable than he has before. “Is it weird to say I have no idea?”

His voice has lost its confidence, his usual awkwardness replaced by uncertainty and embarrassment, and I hate that anything or anyone in the world could bring out this side of him. Now understanding why his default is to always shy away, and why his first reaction is always to apologize or second guess himself.

What I’ve also come to understand is that no matter how different Reeve and I thought we were, this one similarity we share makes me feel validated in a way I had craved but never expected.

We were now attuned to one another. In sync in a way that pushed our physical connection into the background and brought forth feelings and layers and complexities that I hadn’t anticipated.

This conversation alone tugged fiercely at the ever-growing pull between us. Not having the right words to say, it’s my turn to reach out and comfort him. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as his eyes flicker between me and our touching hands.

Reeve clears his throat and finally keeps his gaze on mine. “You weren’t wrong when you said I loved words. I love reading them and writing them,” he states. “I just have no idea how to turn that passion into a job worthy of my parents’ approval. And when you don’t have a plan, how can you convince your parents to metaphorically invest in you?”

It was like listening to a different version of my life, where the details in the middle twisted and turned over one another but the beginning and the end were very much the same.

“Wouldn’t it be great if you could just pack up and leave and find yourself? To take your time and not rush into finding the thing that will make other people deem you successful?” I contemplate loudly.

“That sounds like a dream.” He sighs. “A really far off, non-existent, never-turning-into-reality dream.”

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