Page 149 of Pick-Up
“Agreed.”
He runs a hand along his jaw again, a stress tell—and I can see how worried he’s been. “Ethan,” I say, “I’m sorry things have been so hard—with Ruby, with Kaitlin. It’s all going to be okay.”
He exhales sharply. “Thank you.”
“What’s the latest with Kaitlin?” I ask.
“She’s going to stay with her sister for a few weeks in Northern California.”
“That sounds nice.”
“That sounds necessary. She definitely needs to regroup.Weneed to regroup.”
“Of course.”
“But we talked this morning,” he says. “I think she’s really going to try to accept this—us.”
I am not Kaitlin’s biggest fan. And I do not look forward to future interactions with her. But, I have to admit, I do understand some of what motivated her. What do you do when you’ve misplaced your identity? Become a jumble of errands and dinners? A snack dispenser? A nag? How do you construct a new sense of self? If the present doesn’t look how you’d hoped, maybe you look to the past. To the moment when things went awry or when you last remember feeling whole. Or when you last recall feeling a thrill. Or hopeful. Or full of promise. Or maybe, if you’re me, you hunker down and become an immutable object, fixed to the spot where you’ve landed, whether it serves you or not.
In the not too distant future, I will catch Kaitlin’s eye from down the street outside of school, as families weave in and around us like space dyed yarn. And we will not look away.
“I didn’t steal her boyfriend,” I say again. “At least not on purpose.” I don’t know why it matters at this point. But it bothers me that Ethan might think that about me.
“She always had a little hang-up about you,” he says. “I guess it turned into a full-blown projection.”
“And now her worst nightmare confirmed,” I say, gesturing between the two of us.
“Well, ironically, all her sabotage kind of forced us to get to know each other. Maybe unconsciously she was pushing us together to prove herself right.”
“Right?” I crinkle my nose.
He twists his mouth to one side. “She saw me looking at you at some event a few months ago, long after we separated,” he admits. “She thought I had a crush on you.” He looks shyly down at the ground. “Maybe I did.”
I try not to grin, but I can’t help it. “You liked me even before you stole the sweatshirt!”
“Well, I don’t know about liked. I thought you were hot. And we had one good conversation on the playground—that you promptly forgot. The sweatshirt debacle made your personality seem questionable at best.”
“I knew it!”
“Youknewit?”
“Well, no. Not at all. But I like it!”
“I bet you do.” He tilts his head. “How’s your sting, by the way? All healed?”
“I’ve filed for worker’s comp,” I deadpan. “That jellyfish will be hearing from my lawyer. No, seriously. I’m just glad my fall got cut from the video before anyone saw it.”
His expression glitches in a deeply suspicious way.
“Excuse me,” I say, pointing at him. “What was that on your face?”
“Nothing!”
“Ethan?”
“I may have watched that clip—on repeat this last week.”
“Oh my God!” I punch him in the arm. He rubs the spot where I made contact in mock pain.
