Page 37 of Before We Came

“Do you want to tell me why you’re drinking so much tonight? Does it have anything to do with you feeling anxious about the move?”

“Something like that.”

“What else?”

She says nothing for a while, but I refuse to fill the silence. The only way to make her talk more is by me speaking less.

“I shouldn’t be sitting here.”

I can feel the sting of rejection coming. How is it that it seems like every other woman in the bar would throw themselves at me, but the one I want is holding me at an arm’s length?

“Then move. I’m not keeping you here.”

She doesn’t.

She turns her head to the side so I can only see her profile. “I get that this is your life, and you’re probably used to the attention from a lot of women, but it blurs lines for me. I need my friendship to be enough for you right now.”

Ouch.I wish she could understand she’s not just some other woman to me. There’s something between us, and there’s no way she doesn’t feel it too.

“You’re enough for me. In any capacity.” I lean forward to bring my lips to the shell of her ear. “Just because I get a lot of attention, doesn’t mean I give mine away as freely.”

Our food shows up shortly after, and she sheepishly slides off my lap, leaving me with the unfortunate loss of her body heat. My gaze remains fixed on her.

“I love bar food,” she mumbles between bites. I take that as a sign that we’re done talking about us. That’s fine. I’m willing to give her time to realize this is going to happen. I’ve waited this long, what’s a little longer? Her friendship is enough for me. For now. The conversation goes quiet, and she’s chipping at her nail polish. I can tell she’s getting in her head, so I drop the subject and move on to something I know she likes talking about: food.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Ever?”

“Yeah, ever.”

“Oh my God, I could never choose.”

“All right, your favorite at this moment—besides these bomb-ass nachos.”

“Maybe Dungeness crab? There is so much incredible seafood in Vancouver. Oysters, salmon, and sushi... I’m going to miss that for sure.”

“What!? You’re telling me lutefisk in some church basement isn’t better than fresh seafood from the Deep Bay? Outrageous.”

“Crazy, right?” She giggles, happily munching on nachos and the extra jalapeños in a dish on the side.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Honestly? Snickerdoodles. The ones you and your mom used to make. Fuck, they were so good.”

“It’s a cookie!”

“So?”

“You can’t choose a cookie, it’s not even a—”Hiccup.“Meal.”

“I like what I like. And I like your snickerdoodles.”

“That’s what all the boys say,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.

“Give me names,” I tease.

“This creep named Lonan. Plays hockey, obsessed with me, about yay tall.” She holds her hand at the top of my head.

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