Page 15 of Come Back To Me

SAM. Seattle’s art museum. He was waiting for me outside. I spotted him before he spotted me. I stopped in the middle of the street when I saw him, just as the light changed to red. A car honked at me. I didn’t know why I stopped; maybe it was that I saw him and then I couldn’t move. I made it to the other side just as he saw me. His hands were in his pockets, he didn’t take them out as he watched me walk toward him. There was this look on his face.

“You don’t even seem surprised that I came,” I said.

“I’m not.” He shrugged.

“Why not?”

“When there’s chemistry you can’t stop the reaction.”

“Isn’t that clever, Bill Nye,” I said.

“How do you know about the science guy, English?”

“We have the internet too over on my side of the pond.”

He took my hand as we walked toward the doors, and I let him. He’d given me a nickname and I hadn’t even kissed him yet.

“I like your boots,” he said.

I looked down at my boots. The same ones the bartender had commented on a few nights earlier.

“Why?” I asked him. “What do you like about them?”

“They look like you’ve had them for a dozen years. Like they’re well loved. If you can love boots like that, how much more could you love me?”

I was speechless. Dumb. I felt so stupid for liking what he said, so vulnerable.

“They’re just boots,” I told him. “You’re making a thing out of boots.”

“You’re not even from here, Yara,” he said as he held the door open for me. “Everything you have means something.”

He was right. So right.

“I’ll tell you about the boots if you tell me what was wrong with you yesterday.”

He looked at me in surprise, his fingers squeezing mine for the briefest of moments.

“How do you know something was wrong?” he asked me.

“I could just tell.”

He looked away then back at me. “My dad,” he said. “He had a stroke. He’s all right,” he said quickly. “But, we were scared. Seeing your hero lie on a hospital bed—pale and helpless—really puts things in perspective, you know?”

I didn’t know. I had no heroes. No idols.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But, I don’t like it when you hurt.” I imagined that we both looked surprised. I certainly was.

“Forget I said that,” I said.

“Said what?”

I smiled.

“I like it when you care about me and then pretend that you don’t,” David said. “It’s almost like I’m the only one who has that privilege.”

“Do I come across that cold?”

“Yes.”

---