I tell him about me and Little River and Margo and my dad. I tell him about squatting in vacation homes in Florida, and Ray, Justin, and how Matty doesn’t love me anymore. I tell him about Adam and Carly and pancake-shaped pancakes, Rosemary and why I had to leave Ithaca. I say that it’s amazing how much you can miss people you only got to be with for one tiny little perfect bit of time; how a place where you barely got to live can be the closest thing you’ve ever had to home. Ethan listens to all of it and he still likes me when I’m done talking. He’s the only person I’ve ever told everything to.
— Chapter 50 —
“So, just because you and Robert are all lovey dovey and whatnot doesn’t mean you can’t be my date for the Pride costume ball, right?” Ethan says.
He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom while I get ready for a shift waiting tables at the restaurant. Robert is short-staffed for lunch and I promised I’d fill in.
“Of course not,” I say, leaning into the mirror to put mascara on. I didn’t realize he knew about me and Robert. It’s not that I specifically wanted to hide it from Ethan, it’s just that no one wants to feel like the odd man out, and he’s still sad about Ivan. He puts on this brave face and thinks I don’t notice, but he’s working on a new painting and it’s all dark mean blues and crashes of red. Even though it’s abstract, I know what it’s about. Plus, I have no idea if Robert feels the same way I do.
“Of course not, you can’t be my date?” Ethan asks. “Or of course it doesn’t mean you can’t be my date?”
This, I know from experience, could go on forever. It’s a game we play, talking ourselves in circles. Normally I love to twist words with him, but I’m in a hurry. I fell back to sleep with wet hair after my shower this morning and now it’s sticking out in weird directions. I stop the game by saying, “Ethan Turner, my dearest darling, there is nothing in the world I would love more than to be your date. In fact, being your date would make me the happiest girl in the whole wide world.”
“Good,” he says. “Me too.”
“You’re the happiest girl in the whole wide world?” I say, grinning.
“Yes,” Ethan says. “It’s a date.”
“Deal. But only if you buy me a corsage.” I quit trying to make my hair look right and just pull it all up in a ponytail. “Hey, who says Robert and I are all lovey dovey?”
“Robert,” Ethan says, smiling big.
My face flushes and I know Ethan can see me turning red.
“Yeah,” he says, tugging my ponytail. “He’s got it bad for you.”
* * *
When I get home from my shift, there’s a blond wig and a silver beaded dress with tags from the vintage store artfully arranged on my bed, even though the ball is still two weeks away. I try the dress on. It hangs tight at my waist; the skirt swishes and twirls. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever worn. It fits perfectly.
— Chapter 51 —
Robert makes me dinner at his place. I think Ethan is a little miffed he’s not invited, but he’s trying hard not to let it show. He says it’s good that I’m going to Robert’s, because he can use the time to paint. He likes to work on his canvases at different times of day so he can get all the layers just right. I think he burned the blue and red one. I came home one day and there were ashes in the fireplace and the house stunk of burnt plastic. He didn’t say anything about it, so I didn’t ask, in case it was something he needed to keep private.
The new painting he’s working on is abstract too. Full of brown curves and squiggles. It doesn’t really look like anything, so I don’t get how he’ll know when he’s done. I don’t ask, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I like it, even if I don’t understand what it’s supposed to be. Something about it is soft and sweet.
When I get to Robert’s, he opens the door before I even knock, hands me a plate loaded with lasagna, and says, “Do me a favor. Run this to Ethan. He never remembers to stop painting to feed himself.” I bring the plate back to Ethan and we swoon over Robert and how kind he is.
Ethan plasters a kiss on my cheek. “Go on your date already, silly girl! I won’t wait up.” He sits down with his plate of lasagna to study his painting while he eats.
* * *
Robert has a stillness to him. Even when he’s moving around the kitchen, chopping cucumbers for the salad, or pouring wine in my glass, there’s nothing frantic about it. Everything is purposeful, like what he’s doing at that moment is the only thing he could possibly want to be doing.