“Nothing,” he murmured softly to the unspoken question in my face, and looked away, a thoughtful look about him.
The crickets hidden in nearby hedges played a joyful chorus tonight. Their strident melody pierced the night air, arcing over our heavy breathing. Still early enough in March, the temperature was low enough to reveal panting, forming hazy clouds of vapor before vanishing into nothingness. Dominic set a brisk pace for us that left me struggling to keep up; though I didn’t blame him, he was much wetter than I. Coming to the last gate before entering the house, his sneakers gave a noisy squeak. He reached up and unlatched the lock, then turned to me with a snort.
“I should know better by now than to be surprised by the things you say—or don’t say, but . . . well, I am. You are constantly surprising me.”
He studied me as I did him, working to decode the cryptic message. Though he smiled, there was something disconcerting him—almost flustered. Lines of both bewilderment and stress appeared on his forehead as he struggled to puzzle something out. I bit back the urge to apologize for flummoxing him, unsure of what qualified as an adequate response to such a statement. A good surprise or a bad surprise? I wondered. I trembled, taken by another involuntary shiver. Dominic saw it and frowned, his dark brows drawing together.
“Come on,” he said, laying a hand on my lower back, “let’s get you inside.”
~
“Is everything all right?” I looked up to find Dominic studying, a small smile quirked on his lips.
“Yes!” I said, throwing a bright smile on my face. “You?” I asked, instantly realizing my return question didn’t fit.
He didn’t point it out, only nodded, looking me over solicitously. “Are you sure you don’t want to change?” he asked for the second time.
“I’m sure,” I said. “Really, I’m not all that wet.” It was true; the thick sweater had offered a sturdy shield against the mist. The shiver outside had not been one of chill, yes, but more so in response to the way he had been looking at me—as if he might want to slip into my head and see my thoughts. The feeling was incredibly mutual.
“What about you?” I asked, reaching for the bowl of chips and hummus, this ensuring I wouldn’t be tempted to peek at him. I noticed for the first time that my mother had taken care of the wild flowers, arranging them inside a copper pitcher. “Are you certain you don’t want to borrow a sweatshirt? My dad has plenty of them.” I decided not to mention that none would likely fit him, or if they did, likely not much better than the clingy shirt. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind and you could wear it home and return it whenever.” I secretly hoped he would accept my offer. Snug or not, reminding myself not to look beyond his neck was already proving more difficult than it should have been, and a sweatshirt would at least provide a little more coverage.
He didn’t.
Plucking the damp fabric from his chest, he gave it a few airing tugs, assuring me that it would dry quickly. I sincerely hoped so. We sat side by side on the couch, talking, while I kept a judicious eye on the gravitational pull of the crevice between us, determined not to be prey. I also made a valiant effort to not let my mind wander back to the greenhouse, to the moments before the misters had come on cut Dominic short. The moment was long gone, and trying to resurrect it now would only have felt forced and insincere. It was more than a little disheartening to think of how close we had come to . . . something, but after a while I no longer dwelled on it.
A moment later my mom came in to the room, a glass in each hand. Dominic’s back was to her and we communicated silently for a brief second over his head. She cleared her throat for his sake only, announcing her presence, though was unable to clear the happier-than-the-occasion-called-for look from her face.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said brightly. “I just made a fresh pitcher of lemonade with all those lemons falling off the trees, and thought maybe you guys could use a beverage to go with your snack.” The ice clinked inside as she strode toward us, Rhoda loping behind her, presumably remembering what had happened the last time she was in here, hoping for a spilled snack.
Dominic angled his body. “Lemonade sounds great.”
“Thank you, Mom,” I said, following his appreciation.
“Hand me two of those, will you, Fost?” She used her chin to gesture to the coasters. I put one down on the table in front of Dominic first, then another on the other side of the chip bowl. She set them down, admiring the flowers. “Don’t those just look perfect with the copper?” she said, standing back up.
“Perfect,” Dominic and I answered in unison, both of us nodding our heads. He turned and we shared a glance as we laughed.
“Well that settles it, I guess,” my mom said. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything else, okay?” Before turning to leave, she swiped a chip, calling for Rhoda to follow. “Oh—” She turned. “If either if you get hungry, there’s some left over sweet and sour tempeh in the fridge, just under the container of melon,” she said, looking at me.
Dominic followed her with his eyes, waiting until she was out of earshot before turning back to me, a glint in his eyes. “So,” he drawled, giving me a narrowed eye. “How long do you plan on keeping it a secret?”
I leaned forward and reached for the glass. “Secret?”
He did the same, then he whispered one word. “Carnivore.”
I flinched, missing the glass entirely. “Oh.” I had forgotten about the tofu burrito from so many mornings ago. “Well, I’m not—I haven’t decided—you’ll think it’s ridiculous,” I said finally, exasperated.
He scooted closer, keeping his eyes on me. “Try me.” I took a deep breath, as all the familiar urges recommending I answer with a half-truth, rose up to greet me like an old friend. I ignored them. I stayed hunched forward, but didn’t reclaim the glass.
“At home is the only place where I feel as if I entirely belong,” I said quickly, before I could change my mind. “Other than The House of Hope, of course—but that’s different.” I shook my head. I was already making this more complicated than necessary. “What I mean is, my parents know me, they understand . . . and it’s okay.”
His eyebrows slid together. “I’m not sure I’m following,” he conceded.
I wasn’t surprised. I was hardly following myself, and I knew what I was trying to say. “Being vegetarian is a very big deal to them,” I said blatantly. “I can’t tell them I have made another choice for myself—not with breaking their hearts.”
“Maybe,” he concurred gently, and took a sip of lemonade. “But you do understand how much worse it will be, right? When they find out you’ve been lying this whole time. And that you didn’t trust them enough to be honest from the start.”
I sighed, pulling my sleeves over my hands. “It’s not about being honest,” I disagreed.
“Isn’t it?” he said, his tone dubious. “Are you not worried they’ll think less of you? That you will have failed them, caused them grief and disappointment?” I said nothing in reply. “So it is, then?” he confirmed, faintly smug. Immediately, a wince crossed his face. He breathed in strongly through his nose and sat back against the couch. “I’m sorry,” he sighed wearily, “I have absolutely no right to say things like that to you.”
“You’re right,” I said softly.
“I shou—what?”
I raised my head and repeated myself, looking him directly in the eyes. “You’re right; those are the things I am most fearful of.”
“Foster . . .” His expression was tender and brought the familiar sting to the backs of my eyes. I heard him inhale sharply. “Are you?”
“No,” I said quickly, and lowered my head, staring into my lap.
“You are,” he said gravely, and sighed again. “Look at me, please.”
I did, though it wasn’t without effort. I could feel my armor clawing at my arms and legs, but mostly wrapping proprietarily around my heart. Mine. You can’t have it. With one look at him, its grip loosened.
“Fi
rst of all, I never should have joked about that.” He angled back toward me, laying clenched fists on his knees. “It was out of line and I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“But, you’re right—about everything,” I confirmed.
He was already shaking his head, eyebrows hanging low over eyes filled with regret.
“It hardly matters whether I am right or wrong, if I don’t go about helping you with sensitivity.” He snorted, staring down as he continued. “My dad’s been trying to teach me this for years, but said I wouldn’t get it until I hurt people with impulsivity. He’s right, and I know it. I’m working on it.” Breathing deeply, he raised his head, then reached for one of my hands. Only the tips of my fingers were visible, resting over my calf. He touched each finger, one at a time. “Foster . . . I know I don’t know them—or even you, for that matter—well enough to make assumptions on how they might react, but can I at least tell you what I think? Or maybe I’ve talked enough.”
“No,” I interjected.
He glanced down, a tiny smile curving the side of his mouth. I looked and saw that I had reached back for him, the tips of my fingers clasped tightly around his. Embarrassed, I was about to let go when his thumb came around to hold me back. My heart ricocheted inside my chest and it felt like an eternity until I could meet his eyes. When I did, his were waiting.
“They’re not going be disappointed in you,” he said earnestly. “At least not for very long. Initially it might be an adjustment, but”—he laughed and the laughter colored his cheeks—“do you know you and your mom do this thing?” He narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips, then blew a burst of air through them. “I don’t really know what to call it. You two . . .” He trailed off searching for words. “You talk with your eyes.” I smiled, but said nothing, feeling it disingenuous to feign disbelief. I did know this.
He laughed, musing. “It’s the craziest thing to watch—like you’re having a conversation without any need for actual words. I feel like I’m missing something huge whenever you two are in the same room.” My thoughts must have showed on my face because he stopped short, shaking his head. “No—not in bad way. It’s really cool, honestly. It reminds me a little bit of friend back home.” Something wistful crossed his face, but he was quick to capture and restrain it. “What I’m saying is, she knows you. And you know her. You’ve already told me you and your dad are frighteningly alike. So, let’s say the situation were reversed, and one of them was keeping something from you—something for your own good, or so they believed. But it was a heavy burden and caused them a certain amount of guilt holding onto it. Would you rather they tell you, and there be some hurt and disappointment, or would you prefer they keep the secret, a wedge between you?”
I, of course, knew the answer to the question and felt no need to answer it. “I’ve come close a few times.” I stopped and sighed. “Well, maybe not that close,” I admitted, “but I have considered telling them—more than once. But each time I get to the part where I picture their faces . . . I lose all nerve, convinced that deception is for the best.”
So caught up in our discussion, I had forgotten about our hands. He moved his thumb, circling lightly over my skin.
“You need to have a little grace for yourself, Foster,” Dominic said quietly, raising an eyebrow. “Your intentions aren’t to be deceitful; you do it to protect their feelings. There is such thing as a gray area.” There was something resolute in his face, but also something supplicating. He urged me to understand, to believe what he said, but as much as I didn’t want to hurt or disappoint him, my face was already answering him before my words were.
I shook my head slowly. “Doing the right thing can’t be about how it makes you feel. Feelings lie,” I said and blushed, a discursive thought storming its way into my mind. “It has to be about doing what you know. Intentions, as noble as they might be, don’t count.”
Dominic stared, then with effort released a patient breath through his nose, speaking low and firm. “I completely disagree—about the intentions part,” he added for clarity. I expected him at this point to let go of my hand, but he didn’t. “They do count. They count when you selflessly withhold information solely for another’s benefit.” I met his eyes, saw the will and determination there, and almost didn’t respond. “What?” he said, not unkindly. “Please. Say it.” I thought briefly of making something up, something other than what had originally come to mind. Then with a sharp astonishment, I realized the irony in being less than completely truthful. How easy and natural it had become for me, compounding lies.
“Do you truly believe there is such a thing as a selfless lie?” I asked, hoping I did not offend him with this question.
He smiled, begrudgingly. “When you put it in those terms, it sounds fairly immoral and dissolute, but again,” he said, adamant, “you need to give yourself just a little grace. From others, you don’t expect anything; no compassion, no understanding, no mercy. But when it comes to you, it’s like you’re judging yourself on a completely different scale—a ruthlessly rigid scale, with standards no one could ever live up to. You set the expectations so high that the only thing possible to do with them is fail.” His voice softened, and if not for being so deep would have been a whisper. “You look for the good in people, focusing on that rather than their flaws. Without one bit of resentment, you forgive those who mean to hurt you, and every single time you choose kindness. All of this you do for others, Foster. Why won’t you allow anyone to do it for you?” And softer still, “Why won’t you let me?”
The pressure he exuded while holding my hand increased, though it was not at all uncomfortable. The intensity in his eyes increased as well, as they flicked side-to-side, staring into mine and waiting for an answer I wasn’t sure I could give him.
“Foster.” He stopped, finally breaking eye contact and looked down at our hands. “I keep waiting.” He was silent for a moment, breathing hard. “I keep waiting for you to realize that I don’t deserve your friendship,” he said, his voice controlled and even. I sucked in a sharp breath, but at the same second he blew one out and didn’t hear. “Knowing that you forgave me. . .” He looked up, anguished. “I know I should just be glad you did, but honestly”—he groaned—“honestly, it makes me ill.”
He opened his eyes then, and it was like having the wind knocked out of me. The tone of his voice was sharp, harsh even, but it meant nothing because of the way he looked at me. Stroked or singed, I couldn’t quite figure it out, but it consumed me; it built and brought warmth from within me.
“Watching you torment yourself over this thing with your parents, listening to you pick yourself apart, I’m so frustrated I could scream,” he said almost casually. “I feel like I’m trying to convince a rainbow she’s not a rock, but she’s stubbornly determined to believe she’s a rock. You have absolutely no idea how special you are—how rare. It’s, ah—” He groaned again, reaching up in his scalp with his free hand. “All I want to do is be with you, Foster,” he blurted.
My mouth, at that point, literally fell open and stayed open. Dominic began laughing the moment it did, his glances split between my lips and eyes.
“Shocked you, have I?”
“I—I—”
Dominic laughed again, appearing amused by my incoherency, but he didn’t say anything. The longer I made him wait as I tried to wrap my head around what he just said to me—struggling prodigiously—I thought I saw him begin to grow a little anxious, and justifiably impatient with my reticence.
“I’m s-sorry,” I said floundering, and began to fan myself. I was extremely hot. “I—I—”
“You’ve covered that part, I think,” he interjected, a lopsided smile pulling at his mouth.
“Right.” I nodded and apologized again. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”
I watched as he attempted to interpret some hidden meaning. With effort he smiled. “So I gathered by your reaction,” he replied, slightly subdued. “Foster . . . if I made you uncomfortable, I didn’t�
��”
“No!” I put my other hand on his, shaking my head in broad sweeping gestures. “Just—just give me a second to . . . process.”
Processing helped very little, and seeing that my refusal to supply him with a response only worsened Dominic’s anxiety, I carelessly blurted out something I never, ever should have said. The sentence was crudely pieced together, bombarding from my lips with haste and indecorum. My voice gradually decreased in volume as my mistake became all the more obvious with each word. Long before I finished I was regretting my precipitance, wanting only to take it back and rethink through the errant remark.
Dominic, staring at me like I had just stabbed him in the heart, made me all the more upset with myself.
“Guilty? You thought I was spending time with you because I felt guilty?”
“I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t have enough time to think. I shouldn’t have said that.” I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers into my temple. I was certain he was seconds away from getting up, leaving, and never looking back. What a horrible thing I insinuated, slandering both his motives and character with the ill-thought comment. “That isn’t what I meant.”
And then my hand was being gently pulled away from my face. “Maybe you could tell me what it is you do mean,” he said softly. Not only was he still here, but he wasn’t angry with me.
“Yes—I’ll try,” I answered, my voice raspy.
Surely, when he said, “All I want to do is be with you,” this was meant in purely a platonic way. Repeatedly, the words friend and friendship had come up during our conversations, but never anything beyond that. And although I heard something different in his voice, I was certain I must be mistaken, and the touch on the bridge, of course I misinterpreted that, too. Emily couldn’t have been right; it wasn’t possible. Was it possible?
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