“I was breaking up with my father. He lives around the corner.”
He nods. “That was always kind of in the cards. Who was that greasy-haired guy you were shouting at?”
“Just some asshole.”
He smiles. “So, not your boyfriend?”
“Funny,” I say, and slide into the booth across from him. “I can’t believe it’s you. You got old.”
“I always told you I would, but you refused to believe me.” Under his ratty wool overcoat, he’s wearing a faded work shirt and jeans, stained everywhere with thick blobs of colored paint.
“You look like an insane person,” I say. But if I’m being honest, he looks amazing.
“You look good,” he says.
“I look like shit and we both know it.” I pull a few paper napkins out of the metal dispenser on the table and blow my nose. I look at him, trying to take in what I am seeing. He stares back at me, expression wide-open—that same vaguely unnerving look he had the very first time we ever met—an old man’s eyes in a young man’s face.
“I heard you were living in England,” he says.
“I am. London.”
Jonas points to a bland tenement building on the corner. “I live there.”
“You hate the city.”
“I’m at Cooper Union. Studying painting. I have one more year.”
The waitress comes over and hovers until we acknowledge her.
“Coffee?” Jonas asks me. “Or are you a tea person now?”
“Coffee.”
“We’ll have two coffees,” he tells her. “And two sugar donuts.”
“No donut.”
“K. One donut,” he tells the waitress. “We’ll split it. So. What’s in London?”
“Grad school. French lit.”
“Why there? Why not here?”
“Farther away.”
Jonas nods.
“So,” I say. “Seven years.”
“Seven years.”
“You never came back to the Woods. You disappeared.”
“I liked camp.”
“Don’t do that. You’ve never been good at glib.”
He takes my hand, touches my ring. “You still have it.”
I tug the ring from my finger, put it down on the table. The silver plate has worn off in places, and the prongs are barely holding the green glass in place. “This is the first time I’ve taken it off since you gave it to me.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t died of gangrene.”
“I got mugged last year. In London. By a skinhead. He tried to take it, but I refused. I told him it was worthless. He punched me in the stomach.”
“Christ.”
“There was a man there. He saved me. He’s the reason I still have it.”
The waitress drops two cups of coffee on the table between us. “He’s out of sugar donuts. We have a cinnamon cruller or a Boston cream.”
“I think we’re good,” I say. “Can I have some milk?”
She reaches across to an empty booth. Grabs a bowl of fake creamers.
“Cinnamon cruller,” Jonas says.
I watch her walk away. “I’m with him now. The ring guy. Peter. He’s here. Well, at Mum’s.”
“Cool.” Jonas seems unconcerned. He takes a little creamer from the bowl, peels off the foil top, dumps it in his coffee. “So, what does he do?”
“He’s a journalist.”
“Is it serious?”
“I guess so.”
Jonas takes a bite of his cruller. It leaves a dusting of cinnamon on his lips. “Well, I hope you made it clear to him you’re already engaged to me.”
I laugh, but when I look at him, his face is completely serious.
“I should probably go. He’s waiting for me.”
“Stay. If he loves you he’ll wait. I did. I have.”
“Jonas, don’t.”
“It’s true.”
“You didn’t wait. You left.”
“What was I supposed to do, Elle? Come back the next summer and pretend nothing had happened? Take sailing lessons? Put a lie between us? You know I couldn’t do that.”
All these years I’ve thought about him, missed him, wanted to walk next to him on the quiet paths, souls twinned together. But now that he is here with me, all I see is how far apart our lives have grown.
“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. Except that now there is no us.” And the truth of it is almost unbearable. “We don’t even know each other. I don’t even know where you live.”