by JD Hawkins
Sure. Dinner sounds great, I text back, when all I really want to write is, Just dump me and get it over with.
Wyatt suggests we go to some new place called Chow that I read about online—supposedly it’s incredible—and I spend the next day working outside the office again, taking another round of Divinity-in-action photos so that Wyatt and I won’t have to deal with the awkwardness of seeing each other in person before the dreaded ‘talk.’
After agonizing for way too long about how dressed up to get, I decide to wear jeans—tight enough to look cute, but not the yoga pants that I know he likes so much—and one of my favorite plaid shirts. Still, I feel underdressed when I get to the restaurant and see Wyatt waiting outside. In his light gray suit and charcoal t-shirt he could just as easily be a star on a red carpet somewhere, or at least that one guy at the bar that every girl is immediately conscious of.
Even as I step toward him, I can feel the looks people are stealing at him switch over to me, that sense of envious judgment when people recognize you’re the girl this incredibly hot guy is waiting for. It feels like a brief glimpse of what it would be like to actually be his girlfriend—though I guess it’ll be my last.
“You look amazing,” he says, as he pulls back from our hug, and I suddenly laugh. Once again, it’s like he can read my thoughts.
“So do you,” I say, then look down at myself. “I feel like I should be wearing a ball gown or something. You sure they’re gonna let me in here?”
“It’s not all about the clothes,” Wyatt smiles, then steps aside for me to walk on. “And I reserved us a table.”
“How’d you swing that?” I say, noticing the line of people waiting to get in as we’re waved through. “I feel like I’ve heard as much about the lines to get into this place as the actual food.”
“I know the owner,” Wyatt says breezily. “She’s an old friend.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare. The restaurant is open and inviting, all reclaimed wood, high ceilings, and open spaces. A live plant wall of succulents and modern paintings on the walls make the restaurant appear alive and vibrant—more like some hipster art-space than an exclusive restaurant.
The clientele are just as diverse, and talk loudly at their tables, feeling no shame in getting up and mingling at the small bar in the corner. Still, despite all the color and noise, there’s a warm, laid-back vibe that makes me feel way more comfortable than such a busy place should.
“Old friend?” I repeat, trying to ignore the wave of jealousy I feel.
“Not as old as you,” Wyatt grins, pulling my chair out. “But yeah, Willow’s the best chef in the city—and she’s married to the second-best.”
He keeps his eyes on me as he sits opposite, as if unwilling to break his attention for even a second. Only when the waiter comes over does he finally pull his eyes away. The smell of fresh seafood wafting over from a nearby table intoxicates me and Wyatt notices.
“Share a seafood platter?” he says.
I can’t help but smile. “Definitely.”
The waiter recommends a craft IPA, Wyatt and I hiding our shared amusement as the waiter espouses how the ‘notes of conifer and citrus rind’ are the perfect accompaniment. My mouth’s watering by the time the waiter leaves, the smells and sounds making my body come alive in a way that has me ultra-sensitive to Wyatt’s keen eyes.
“Listen,” he begins, “I’ve been weighing this in my mind, thinking it over a lot, and the reason I wanted to speak to you tonight is that—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, sighing a little, “I wanted to say sorry—for acting like that yesterday in your office. I know I came off a little prickly, but I guess I was just feeling kinda…stressed. You know, what with the situation at MESS, and having you as my boss, and…all the other stuff. It feels like a lot coming at me at once.”
The words spill out before I can even think about them. An instinctual plea to head off the bad vibes and just enjoy all of this. The pleasure of this restaurant, the comfort I feel just sitting with Wyatt again—even if I know what’s coming later. Even knowing that whatever we had going is all about to end, I’d rather think of it as a positive change than a sad ending.
“I get that,” Wyatt says, nodding, but still looking like he wants to get something out in the open. “And I probably should have slowed things down a little, but ever since we started—”
“Stop. You don’t have to give me the speech, Wyatt,” I interrupt. “Really, it’s cool.”
“What speech?” Wyatt says, frowning.
“The whole ‘it’s been fun but maybe it’s time to call it quits’ thing. There’s no need.”
His face freezes for a moment, but he quickly recovers. “Well. I mean, I guess—”
“I’m a big girl,” I go on hurriedly, desperate to cut him off before he can hurt me first, my heart racing as I fight to keep my voice steady, “even though I know you still think of me as Winnie’s little sister. But it’s cool—we’re cool. And we can just go back to the way it was—old friends.”
Wyatt looks around, avoiding my gaze, then rubs his temple as if he’s trying to make sense of this in his mind. Maybe I’m the first girl who’s ever broken things off with him first. The thought almost has me laughing, except in the end there’s really nothing to laugh about.
“Is that what you want?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I nod vigorously, my panicked adrenaline rush making me frantic. “I mean, it’ll be weird at first—knowing that we’ve done what we’ve done—but hey, we know why it happened, right? I was stressed, you were there—it was a moment. But it’s over now! Time to move on. So don’t worry about me, I’m good.”
Wyatt continues to look dumbfounded, and I wonder for a moment if he understimated me. If maybe he really didn’t expect me to be this far ahead of him, if he thought he had a few more weeks of free play before things came to their inevitable crash-and-burn conclusion.
“Melina, I—”
This time it’s the waiter who interrupts Wyatt, poking our huge seafood appetizer into the middle of our conversation. He lays it down on the table in front of us along with some napkins, a steaming bread basket, and a stack of small plates.
“Enjoy,” the waiter says, gesturing at the spread with a flourish.
“Thanks!” I say, and as he leaves I quickly reach over to pull a wine-soaked mussel from the bed of greens, partly because it looks irresistible, and partly because I want to fill my mouth with food before any more awkward words can come tumbling out.
Before I can grab it, Wyatt’s hand takes mine and gently brings it down to the table, leaning forward as if to seize my attention, thumb stroking my palm as if the physical connection is a lie detector for his words.
“Melina, listen,” he says, in low, firm tones, “I don’t know where your head is at right now, but I want to make it work with you.”
I stare at him blankly for a few seconds, finding a thousand different ways to interpret what he just said. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you and me. Us. Together. I don’t want to go back to being just friends—I want to give it a shot.”
I take another few seconds, unable to convince myself he’s saying what I think he is.
“You mean…just keep on like we have been?”
“No—I mean more than we have been,” Wyatt says, face full of hard conviction, the kind of truth in his eyes that comes only after a lot of hard thinking. “Because if you want me the way that I want you…we should try to make this work.”
As I sit in stunned silence, pulse pounding, Wyatt picks up the mussel I had my eye on and brings it toward my lips playfully. I manage a small smile, allowing him to pour it into my mouth, using the time I spend chewing to consider it all.
Finally, I take a deep breath. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want this, Wyatt,” I say slowly. “I tried to stop myself from wondering ‘what if’, but I couldn’t.”
“So why not make it official?” he says, twisting my han
d to lock his fingers between mine. “We’re clearly great for each other. The way we can talk, the way we work together, the way we understand one another—the way we…”
“Fuck?”
Wyatt laughs gently.
“That word seems inadequate for it.”
Now I laugh.
“Christ, Wyatt. Just when I think I’ve figured you out…”
“I thought I’d figured myself out too,” he says, shaking his head. “But I know what I want now. And it’s you.”
My mind is blown, and all I can do is shake my head and smile. “God, I never thought you’d be interested in something like that… Something serious. Maybe with Winnie, but…”
Wyatt grins and shrugs, screwing his beer into the table a little.
“It was never Winnie,” he says. “It was always you.”
My mouth goes dry, and I freeze. “Me?”
“You know that, right?” he continues, leaning in. “Winnie’s great—but anything we had together was always just the way our parents thought of it.”
“But…you guys went to prom together and everything. I thought—”
“We went as friends—I didn’t even want to go! That whole thing happened because Winnie was being so picky that she ended up without a date. It was more like a ‘duty’ than something I actually wanted to do. She was always like a sister to me. You, though.”
He squeezes my hand, his gaze fierce, as if even this small distance between us is too far to really express how much he means this next part.
“Melina. I never sat up with Winnie until 3 AM looking at the stars. I never felt as close to Winnie as when I saw you wearing my green hoodie day after day. I never felt like myself with Winnie the way I did with you, like I didn’t have to put on this cool, confident act just to measure up. It was always you, Melina. You were always the first person I thought of when I thought about home.”
I smile, and feel my face going warm, but for once I don’t care if Wyatt can see the emotion written on my face, for once I feel like it’s not something I want to hide.
“I had no idea.”
“Neither did I. I mean, I knew you’d always be there, but it took me a long time to figure out what I wanted that to mean.”
The old memories start flooding back too quickly to really take in, and my brain short-circuits as I try to reframe my relationship with Wyatt from this completely new angle.
I shake my head. “That’s a hell of a lot to take in before we’ve even tackled the appetizer. God. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I know exactly what I want.” Wyatt laughs. “We can make this work. Do you trust me?”
“I do.”
We spend the next ten minutes finally getting into that platter, Wyatt leaving the shellfish he knows are my favorite. Either the food is as good as the hype, or everything just tastes and smells better when you’re happy. Once we destroy it, we give our main orders to the waiter, and settle back to look at each other through new eyes as we sip our drinks.
“I was thinking,” Wyatt says, “if we’re gonna do this the right way, we should tell our families. None of that hiding anymore.”
I smile at him over my glass.
“Judging by the way you acted at game night, I thought all that hiding kinda turned you on.”
Wyatt laughs and as it dissipates there’s a new mischief in his eyes.
“Sure, but letting everyone know you’re mine now is a turn-on in itself.”
“They’ll have a seizure when we tell them.”
“They’ll get used to it. The Labor Day party is coming up. Seems as good a time and place as any.”
I think about it for a second.
“Ok. Let’s do it.”
When the main dishes come, we’re halfway through when Wyatt suddenly stops and looks at me—a little less happy now, a slight shadow in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
“Um…there was something else,” he says slowly, eyes shifting away from mine. A different kind of difficulty now.
I feel my stomach drop and I force a smile. Of course there’s a catch. How could I be so stupid? “Yeah. Go on.”
“You ever think about leaving MESS?”
“You wanted to give me career advice?” I laugh, relief flooding through me. “I mean yeah, the pay sucks, and the job sucks, and the bosses suck—but it’s still about as good as I can get right now. And the last thing I want is to have to move back in with my parents—which is what I’d have to do if I lose the job at MESS. Maybe I’ll leave in another year or so, once my resume is a little more built-up, but for now? No. I’m sitting tight.”
“You don’t have other options? Even freelance work?”
I shake my head. “It’s really tough for artists in this economy,” I sigh wistfully. “I’ve got friends I studied with working at Starbucks now. And there are so many people doing stuff for free. I can’t compete with that. I need a living wage. Well, mostly living.”
“They might work for free,” Wyatt says, “but you’re a million times better than them. You should be doing stuff for a company that’s got its shit together—or better, doing stuff for yourself, artistic stuff.”
I laugh nonchalantly.
“Should is very far away from could in the photography world,” I say. Then, noticing how glum Wyatt suddenly looks I frown at him. “Why? Is there something I should know?”
Wyatt looks lost in thought for a moment, then shakes his head.
“No…no. I was just thinking.”
I watch him look confusedly at a forkful of spaghetti.
“Hey,” I say. “You said you had a surprise for me. Yesterday at the office. What was it?”
“Oh, that?” Wyatt replies, then brightens a little. “Not yet. Let me get the timing right.”
I laugh.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Wyatt nods, but that little hint of doubt in his eyes is still there. Before I can worry about it too much, he shifts his chair around the table, puts his hand on the back of my neck, and kisses me—a kiss like he’s got something to prove, like he’s never going to let me go—a kiss that makes it easy to forget every doubt I have.
16
Wyatt
Melina locks her arm in mine as we leave the restaurant and it feels like something new and different, a marker for a new life. A display of affection that hints at an entirely novel world opening up. We’ve walked arm-in-arm before, but still, walking back to our cars, beneath a starry sky and through a cool breeze, there’s an altered energy between us.
She stops us, mid-way between my car and hers, then looks up at me playfully.
“So what now?” she asks. “Should I…call you?”
I pretend to think about it for a few moments. Then look down the curved perfection of her body, enough to make my thoughts dirty even in those tight jeans, even under that loose shirt.
I put my hands on her waist and pull her to me, bring our bodies close so that we can feel each other’s heat, the way I’ve done so many times since I came back, but suddenly there’s another ingredient in the mix that makes me feel intoxicated.
It’s not just lust anymore. Not just the glistening pout of those lips and the sweep of her back that triggers animal instincts in me. And it’s not just the fact that it’s Melina, either; maybe the only girl that ever saw more than one side of me, a friendship that took my entire life to build, and would probably take two to break apart.
It’s the fact that now, she’s mine. It’s the fact that I’ve just shut the door on a lifetime of casual flings and the countless women I used to fill up the empty places inside of me. An end to a lifestyle that I’d become so used to, that I was so good at. A new beginning, and a whole new set of rules, requiring me to be a whole new person.
I should feel overwhelmed, and scared, and anxious—but I don’t. Somehow this just feels natural. It feels right.
I bring my lips to hers, her eyes closing already, her chest arching ag
ainst me. The kiss is soft and light. A tender exploration of who we are now when we’re together. No longer the stolen, hurried passion of before; it’s a kiss that tells both of us that we’ve got time now, that there’s no need to rush anymore.
Melina pulls back and looks up at me with an expression of happy surprise, as if she could read my thoughts through our lips, and knows all the things that are spinning through my mind.
“So…” she repeats through her smile. “What now?”
I run my hand down the curve of her back, fingers tucking into the back pocket of her jeans.
“Well…we have to make it official.”
“How do we do that?” Melina asks, her fingers teasing between my shirt buttons.
“I’m not sure. Maybe we should go back to my place and figure it out,” I say, pulling out my car keys and laughing along with her.
From the moment we get to my building and leave the car, until the moment we step through the door of my apartment, we don’t take our hands off each other. We spin in and out of each other’s arms, kissing every few steps like some kind of intimate tango, until I’m kissing her up against my door, pressing her body into it with mine even as I fumble the keys out of my pocket and unlock it.
She stumbles back through the open door playfully laughing, and I follow the teasing sway of her hips as she walks backwards into my living room.
I’m mesmerized by her, by every little movement of her body, by the dark promise in her lidded eyes, by the way her messy hair frames her delicate face. In love with every inch of her, obsessed with everything she does.
And now she’s mine.
She moves into the center of the room and I look away for a second to move toward the stereo. I push a few buttons and a slow, melodic song starts. One that I know she knows as well as me—another intimate thing we share, another meeting point for our lives. But now all those things we shared seem to take on a new purpose, a new meaning.
“I love this song,” she says, and when I look up she’s already moving, a slow dance with closed eyes.
I walk toward her, unable to stay away from her for even this long anymore.