He laughed. “I date, sometimes. Go out for a month or two before it fizzles. The biggest complaint I get is that I’m not a good boyfriend.”
Meena poured more wine in both their glasses. “Why not?”
“I can be forgetful,” he said. “If I’m on a project, I can be in it for days, only stopping to sleep. I throw myself into it, and my brain only refocuses on the rest of the world after I’m done.”
Guilt and embarrassment shamed her. Meena had assumed his distance, his distraction, had been about her, that she’d left, and he’d been upset. But he was telling her it was the way he worked, his process. “I mull. When I’m putting together a story, trying to find the right angle, I let it all swirl around in my head. Even when I was young, I’d have a history paper due or an essay to write and I’d wait until the very last minute, until the whole thing was laid out in my head, before I’d start writing it. Usually in the middle of the night.”
“Your parents must have been thrilled.”
“My mom would get frustrated. She would nag me to get started. She would say, Don’t think. Do. I tried, but it’s not how it works for me. I write down notes, but if I need to put pieces together, it has to connect in my head.”
“And your dad?”
Meena’s heart expanded with her love for him. “Whenever he saw the light on in my room late into the night, he would bring me a cup of hot chocolate and two cookies, give me a kiss on the top of my head, and tell me I was writing an A paper.”
“You don’t talk about them,” Sam said.
“For a long time, I didn’t even allow myself to think about them. I was afraid that if I did, it would be too painful.” She leaned back and toyed with the handle of her spoon. “I was in geometry class, second period. They both worked for Smith College. I was learning to calculate the volume of a trapezoid. Funny, the details you remember. I got called to the principal’s office. There was an underground gas leak that caused my home to explode. It was quick, they told me. My parents wouldn’t have even known. They were there, then they weren’t.”
He reached over and took the spoon out of her clenched hand, rubbed her fingers straight.
“That afternoon, I was sent to a foster residence a town over,” Meena said. “They brought me a paper bag with a couple of pairs of jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters. The only things I had left were what had been in my backpack when I’d left the house that morning.”
“How did you handle it?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I just kept going to sleep in the bottom bunk and waking up. Then time took over. A week, a month, a year. Eighteen years. I have some strong memories, but I’ve also forgotten a lot. A Roma person once told me tears are wounds of the heart. I had stopped shedding them a few months after their death. I guess I didn’t want to spend any more time with a wounded heart. My mom was a big believer in dusting off and moving on. She hated wallowing.”
“I don’t think she would have faulted you for grieving,” Sam said.
“I guess I’ll never know. Let’s not talk about this. Tonight is for hearts and chocolate.”
He grinned. “How did you know about my sweet tooth?”
“Tanvi let it slip when I told her we were going out,” Meena said, “told me to bring you homemade cookies. I didn’t tell her I’d already done that. You weren’t impressed.”
“I did finish them off.”
Meena ate the little pat of goat cheese. The saltiness hit just right.
On the way back to the house, he held her hand, and Meena was happy. It was good to just be with him on this one night. His palm was warm against hers. She leaned closer, and her jacket brushed his wool coat. Couples passed them, in their own personal worlds.