“Don’t sell yourself short, Everlynne Bellatrix Soon-to-Be-Graves. I’m sure you’ll come up with interesting names for our kids too.”
“You know, statistically speaking, there’s a ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent chance that won’t happen.” I slip into the passenger seat of his car. I feel lighter than I’ve felt in six years.
Dom shrugs. “But point oh one percent is more than zero chance, and that’s good news for me.”
“Where to now?” I ask. I have a feeling tonight is not over yet. It won’t be over until he kisses me. Dom is the kind of man who knows what he wants, and he’s been staring at my lips all night. I’m ready to kiss him back, just to try to see if I’m not broken. If I can still feel something.
He kicks his car into drive. “You’ll see.”
His smile tells me what his mouth doesn’t. That the best is yet to come.
We get to the Pickering Wharf Marina. Dom parks, rounds the car, pops the trunk open, and produces an elaborate, beautifully wrapped charcuterie. My initial reaction is that it is yet another sign he is so much more mature than me. I don’t necessarily dislike it. It would actually be nice to have a responsible adult in my life, since it doesn’t look like my dad and I are on our way to reconciliation. He takes out individually boxed wine and saunters to a picnic table of a clam shack.
When we get to the benches, he wipes the condensation off so our butts won’t be cold, which is an epic boyfriend-material move.
The cold is more pronounced near the ocean. There’s something about the scent of brine and salt that brings me back to San Francisco.
To Mom.
Dom must pick up on it, because his next question stuns me.
“So. How did she die?” He pops a grape into his mouth as he sits across from me.
I don’t want to talk about it. To be fair, this has nothing to do with him. I never share details about what happened. Even Nora doesn’t know the details. The only person who might know, other than Dad and Renn, is Pippa. But that’s because of what she saw in the local news.
“Is it okay if I don’t want to talk about it?” I smile weakly and take a sip of my wine. It’s red and subtle.
He gives me a thumbs-up. “Of course. Only share what you are comfortable sharing.”
So I tell him how Mom had a gallery. How the theme was gothic, and how much I loved it. I tell him she was a free spirit, a great dancer. How she didn’t know how to cook but still made the best pancakes ever. How my life changed after she died. I dropped out of college before starting the year, before I even set foot on campus at Berkeley, and moved to Boston to get away.
“It’s not too late to go back,” Dom says. Maybe he is right. Maybe he is wrong. I don’t have the guts to go back there and face the damage I did.
I pop a piece of cheddar into my mouth. “What about you? Any screwed-up family situations you want to brag about?”
“Afraid not. The majority of drama in my family surrounded my illness. My mom is a retired elementary school teacher, and my dad owned a construction company, which he later sold for a nice profit since neither I nor my brother wanted to take over. They live in the burbs. My brother and I visit them often.”
“And he lives nearby?” I ask, remembering they were supposed to watch a game together a couple of weeks ago.
Dom nods. “In the same building, actually. On the second floor. We leased our places at the same time. Seph is a longshoreman. He works at the docks, loading and unloading ships. It’s crazy hours, but the pay is great and he is built like a Transformer, so manual labor doesn’t faze him. What about Renn?”
I like that he remembered my brother’s name. “Renn just turned twenty. He goes to college, but his real passion is surfing and taking big, juicy bites of this thing called life. Traveling, partying, stuff like that. I bet he’s still what teenage girls’ dreams are made of.”
At least from what I can remember. Renn and I haven’t spoken about anything personal in six years. It’s all “Happy birthday” and “Merry Christmas” these days, usually delivered by laconic text messages.
We polish off the charcuterie and most of the wine, then go for a walk. My hand slides along the banisters as we stroll. There’s a thin layer of ice on them.
“Are you cold?” Dom asks.
“No,” I say, which is a lie. I don’t know why I’m lying to him. I guess my default is to say what I think should be said in a specific moment. It’s not like with Joe, where I said whatever was on my mind.