Page 93 of You, with a View

She waves me off. “I get it all the time. It’s hard for people to hear what needs to be done, especially when it hurts.”

My hand is on the doorknob when Flor says, “By the way, when I said he had a resource to help him move on?” Our eyes meet and she smiles. “I meant you.”

Twenty-Six

Theo is waiting on the curb when I step outside, his chin tipped up toward the sky.

“Are you okay?”

He blinks out of whatever trance he was in, blowing out a breath. “Can’t say I’ve ever had a date end that way.”

“Are you okay, though?” I press, inspecting him for signs of distress.

His expression blanks out. “I’m fine. I’m not getting twisted up about a few cards randomly pulled out of a deck.” He steps closer, taking my hand. “You good? It got heavy in there for you.”

I shift from foot to foot, feeling silly suddenly. Inside that room, everything was intensely real. Now, with conversation from nearby restaurants floating in the still air, with Theo looking at me like everything’s fine, I wonder if I overreacted. Maybe I assigned too much meaning, not just to his reading, but my own.

My cheeks flush. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ears, looking past his shoulder. “I’m good. Let’s get back?”

Theo’s eyes narrow, but he nods. When I start to walk, he pulls me back until I’m pressed up against him. “Hey.”

“What?” My heart is pounding. I don’t know why.

His voice dips low. “I don’t believe in that stuff, but if you’re upset about anything she said, you can talk to me. You know that, right?”

I stare up at him, the moon shooting silver through his hair, teasing me with how he’ll look years from now.

A million words sit in my throat, and these are the heaviest:you can talk to me, too.But he won’t, and because of that, I can’t give him anything more than a shaky “Yeah.”

The ride home is mostly quiet, and we step into an equally silent house ten minutes later. Theo heads for the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

I kick off my shoes by the door. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

He grabs a bottle of wine, opening a drawer for the bottle opener. “I’ll take this out to the patio. Meet me there.”

When I slip into the bathroom, I lean against the door with a sigh. The small window above the shower lets in a slice of moonlight, and I breathe in the darkness, remembering the energy I felt earlier. The words Flor gave me.

Am I so desperate for change that I want to believe what she said? Is it pathetic to lay so much hope at the feet of the progress I’ve made these past two weeks, with my photography and how I’m processing Gram’s death, and even Theo? So many times now I’ve thought of the bubble I’ve been living in here. It’s expanding every day, and maybe there’s a chance it’ll survive when all this is over. But I’m starting to worry I’m headed for a painful reality check when I get home.

Frustrated, I flick on the light—and yelp when I see my reflection.

There’s mascara all over my face.

“Oh, forChrist’ssake.” I wet a washcloth and wipe at my cheeks until the streaks are gone. The skin underneath turns pink, then red. Now I look pissed.

But I am, a little. Theo brushed off that whole thing, and Idowant to believe it, whether it’s ridiculous or not. I want to believe that I’m capable of being brave enough to keep trying. I even want to believe I’m the person he might turn to when he needs help. Isn’t that what people who care about each other do?

And I do care about him, deeply. Has this trip intensified a feeling that would never survive outside of this, or is it real?

Suddenly I’m questioning everything.

I make my way back to the kitchen, slipping out the door to the patio, which Theo left ajar. He’s sitting on a sleek L-shaped couch, facing out toward the dark horizon. When he hears the creak of my footsteps on the deck, he looks over his shoulder.

“I gave you a big-ass pour,” he says, holding the glass above his head as I come up behind him.

I relieve him of the glass, taking such a deep gulp that I’m breathless when I’m done. Theo raises an eyebrow as I skirt the couch and plop down, keeping a few inches of space between us. “Thanks for telling me I had mascara all over my face.”

He double takes at the tone of my voice. “It wasn’t that bad, Shepard, and we were headed home anyway. You looked like a beautiful raccoon.”

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