The Pairing(78)

Adult-sized Theo continues: “I kind of figured you didn’t think of me once you got to Paris. I thought you found better things to care about, and I was, you know. Backstory.”

We’ve come so far from who we were when we met, but some things hold out.

“Theo, you could never be backstory,” I say. “I thought about you every single day. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, and you had disappeared. And it seemed so . . . clean. Like you didn’t even hesitate. And that killed me.”

After a pause, Theo says, “For what it’s worth, it killed me too.”

As much as it hurts to think of Theo in pain, it is worth something. It helps, in some strange, sad way, to know they were as fucked up as me. That I was alone with it not because they didn’t feel it, but because they never told me.

“Can I ask why you did it, then?” I say. “I know why we broke up, and I know you thought I left you, but I still don’t understand why you didn’t just call me when you got home.”

I wait for them to harden, to answer with You didn’t call either, but they rest their fingertips on the stem of their glass and look thoughtful.

“I think I was always waiting for you to outgrow me,” they say. “And it seemed like you finally had. I was humiliated, and angry—I was so angry—and part of me just needed a win. Cutting you off felt like doing something, like—like taking control of what was happening to me. But, Kit, it wasn’t easy for me either. It never could be.”

I try to absorb this, wishing for the words to make Theo understand they’re not someone I could ever outgrow. I settle for making them smile.

“So, like,” I say in the most American strain of my accent, leaning against the bar. “How bad was it?”

Theo smiles.

“Dude, it was so bad,” they say, laughing like they’re talking about a longboarding accident. “Those first six months, the only time I didn’t think about you was when I was working on the bus, so I had, like, blisters in places I never imagined. My stomach was way fucked up, my back hurt all the time, I slept like shit. It was fucking hell, bro.”

I nod gravely. “I feel that, bro.”

“And even after the worst was over, I couldn’t call. I just knew you’d be doing well, and I’d realize I’d been right, that I’d held you back.”

I slide my hand across the bar until our smallest fingers meet.

“You never held me back,” I tell them. “I hope you know that now.”

“I’m working on actually believing it,” they say with a brisk shrug. “But this helps. And it helps to see you doing well and know it doesn’t have to change how much I like myself.”

A twinge in my chest.

“I like you too,” I say.

“Thanks! I like you!” Theo declares, grinning. “Look at us, sitting here in Italy talking about our lives, and it doesn’t even bother me that you’re happy and successful in Paris! I’m happy that you’re happy. That’s growth!”

“Yeah,” I say. Happy and successful—I am, aren’t I? “I’m happy for you too.”

We stay there, drinking and talking and liking each other. The rest of our group trickles out, and new faces replace them. We look on with rapt attention as Dakota leaves with a Calum on each arm, and then delighted confusion as Montana pulls Stig after them by one of his enormous hands.

We should leave too, if only we could find the end of our conversation.

“Fuck,” Theo says as they search their pockets to pay for another Negroni. “I’m out of euros.”

I’m sure I have some coins rattling around the bottom of my bag—except, I don’t. I come up empty.

“Should we call it a night?”

“We . . . could,” Theo says, toying with a plain gold ring on their index finger. They take it off and hold it in the palm of their hand. “Or there’s always the San Francisco Gambit.”

The mischievous gleam in their eye lights up the memory: Theo and I, so in love we didn’t even have to try to sell a faux proposal. Anyone could see we were in it for life.

“You won’t,” I say, half because I’m afraid they’ll do it, half knowing this is the best way to make sure they do.

“I will.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Theo stands up, banging a spoon against a glass to draw attention. When enough people are looking, they drop to one knee on the floor of the bar and gaze up at me, looking like some handsome young wanderer come to take me away from this provincial life.

“Kit Fairfield,” Theo says, presenting me with their ring, “you are the best-looking person in this bar. And you smell so nice all the time. And I like you, and I really missed you. Will you do me the honor of spending the rest of your life with me?”

I’d give absolutely anything for them to mean it.

I put on an easy smile and say, “My love, I thought you’d never ask.”

As the crowd begins to cheer, I stand and pull Theo to their feet. They slide the ring onto my left hand, and it fits. The inside is still warm from their skin. We’re laughing together, swept up in the moment, clutching each other’s hands while the bartender pops a bottle of champagne and someone chants, “Bacio, bacio, bacio!”