Chapter 18 Andrew
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Andrew
She’s right. I’m not playing fair. I’m using every advantage, every cheap shot, I have in my back pocket.
But look at where it’s led us. This is the first time we’re admitting even the slightest murmurings of what lies under this friendship.
Giving it a moment to breathe and be noticed before we continue to pretend this is the extent of whatever this is.
I’ve been getting so good at snuffing away the impulse to stroke her cheek or reach for her hand, this feels completely foreign.
It’s not like I want to think about these things, wondering what it would feel like if I ran my thumb down her side, how she would react to such a sensitive touch.
It goes against our agreement. One I have every intention of upholding.
Like a damn scout leader. But every time I see Grace’s smile or hear her voice or even get an impromptu text message from her lighting up my phone, my restraint withers. It chips away, bit by bit.
For now, breakfast seems like a good distraction.
An effective way to focus on our friendship so what we’ve managed to forge doesn’t crumble due to impulsive mistakes.
Like a plate of warm hazelnut waffles drizzled in syrup with a side of potatoes to fill our stomachs while I pretend I don’t know what she feels like under me.
Or on top of me. Waffles and a frosty round of Coke floats.
To be safe, I ordered two. I didn’t suggest sharing one, two straws dunked into the same vat of soda and cream, making it that much more intimate and date-like.
Kind of like that cartoon with the two dogs sharing a plate of spaghetti while an Italian chef with a thick mustache serenades them.
“So?”
Grace’s tongue darts out, swiping away at a small bit of foam that made it to the corner of her mouth. “Oh my god.”
My mouth splits into a grin. “What did I tell you?”
“Why haven’t I tried these before?” She looks up at me, a look bordering indignance and betrayal on her face. “I’ve been coming here for over a year, and this is the first time I’ve ever had one.”
“Aren’t you glad you ran into me today?”
“Mh-hmm,” she manages to hum in between sips.
We continue to eat, sawing away at the waffle sitting between us.
That one we decided to share. It’s actually the most practical choice considering an order is enough to feed a small family.
One with two small children who most likely prefers mushed peas and not particularly in a famished state, but still.
Grace chomps on a sliver of crispy bacon in between bites, enjoying a little bit of the indulgence I encouraged her to order when she couldn’t decide between that and a side of breakfast potatoes.
We have a decent spread between us. Enough to keep us busy for a while, which was the secret Machiavellian plan I concocted as the server took our order.
Something to occupy the next few hours if by some chance she throws an excuse to leave.
“Do you know about this place because of Teeny? Or…”
She nods, chewing through her food. She does that thing most people do to be polite, covering her mouth with her hand and answering me with a small bulge to one cheek. “She brought me here about a year ago. I think right around the time she and Everett got married.”
“We’ve actually been coming here since I was a kid,” I tell her.
“Really?” She gives me the sweetest smile, the straw from her Coke float dangling from the corner of her mouth. Her head tilts to the side as if she’s attempting to picture me with my awful bowl haircut and gap-toothed smile, making a mess of my meal.
“Is it hard to imagine?”
“A little,” she admits. She taps her finger against her fork and adds, “You sitting here with these utensils too big for your small mouth and some crayons for your paper menu.”
I chuckle, ducking my head. “It was surely a sight I’m willing to forget.”
“No,” she disputes, dragging out the single-syllable word. “It must’ve been adorable.”
“My mom would probably be the only one who would agree with you.”
“Maybe,” she teasingly agrees. “But still. It sounds nice.”
“What about you and your parents? Any fond memories?”
“Nothing that sticks out,” she answers. “Just the usual. Like weekend trips to the beach or the zoo.”
“Are they close by?”
“My sister lives kind of close by,” she tells me. “Up near San Clemente. And my parents too.”
“So, no stories your mom loves embarrassing you with?”
She shakes her head through a giggle. “I don’t think so…”
“Come on,” I protest. “They don’t have any stories? Like you being chased by a chicken or some awkward school performance where you made a complete fool of yourself.”
Her eyes round with intrigue. “A chicken?”
“We have family in Montana,” I explain. “Apparently I don’t do well on farms. Or with poultry.”
She cackles a laugh. Her entire face lights up, and I genuinely can’t remember the last time I enjoyed someone’s company this much.
I cross my arms in front of me, resting my elbows on the table, and observe her in what seems like a new light.
She’s not in her pajamas, hair a bundled mess on the top of her head wearing my oversized shirt.
She’s not in her tight work clothes, all wound up in wool or linen.
She’s wearing a large hoodie despite the fact that it’s the middle of summer.
It’s a light sand color with long sleeves she has bunched up to her forearms. Not a hint of makeup touches her face, and her hair is braided along the back with the end slung over her shoulder.
She looks sweet and uncomplicated. Like she’s just here to enjoy my company while we spend the next few hours pouring our hearts to each other.
Just like last time. Only this time it’ll be over sweet diner food and not tequila.
“More coffee?”
“Sure,” Grace tells our server as she brings the carafe to Grace’s mug. When she moves to my mug, silently asking if I’d like to be topped off, I nod and thank her.
Grace lifts her coffee mug to her lips, ditching her Coke float, and takes a careful sip. When she sets it down, she looks at me with a sideways tilt of her head and an inquisitive nibble on her lower lip.
“Can I ask you something personal?”
I set down my fork, linking my fingers in front of me. A silent gesture of my undivided attention. “Sure.”
“Why no girlfriends?”
“What?”
She looks away, seeming suddenly shy after asking such a bold question. But I want to know what she means. What the intention of her question is and why such details of my personal life matter to her.
“Never mind,” she responds, shrugging a shoulder as if she didn’t really mean to ask the question in the first place.
“No,” I press. “Why did you ask me that?”
“Because…you’re my friend,” she finally answers, her eyes focused on a perfectly cut triangular piece of waffle doused in a puddle of syrup. “And, as your friend, I guess I want to know.”
“Friend,” I mutter under my breath.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” If it weren’t for the figurative elephant that seems to come and go as it pleases, I’d probably believe her. I’d take her answer at face value and ignore the swirl of assumptions making my brain murky.
She drops the fork in her hand and looks at me. She gives me her full attention, a soft amicable look of unreserved interest in her eyes. “So, are you going to answer my question?”
“I guess…” I huff a sigh. The difficulty finding the right words clog up my throat.
Talking about Star Wars or my hatred for my boss or even a detailed, step-by-step LEGO set instructional feels easy.
But discussing in fine detail what my fears and doubts are?
That’s going to require a more gracious approach.
And Grace’s gentle, affectionate smile seems to do the trick. “It’s a little scary.”
“What is?”
“Being that vulnerable with someone,” I tell her. “Letting someone into my life. It’s a big deal.”
She nods in agreement.
“When you make a commitment to someone and create a life they’re naturally a part of, it isn’t something that should be taken lightly,” I continue.
“And I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone who I can fully let in that way.
To be completely myself without hiding a single part of me. Who can I do that with?”
More silence from her, and I can see how my words are making the gears churn in her head.
“You know, my friends recently told me about my commitment issues, and I’m beginning to see what they mean.”
“I mean, it is a big deal,” she says in agreement.
“Committing to someone and being open and vulnerable. And if it doesn’t work out, you end up feeling like such a failure.
” The look in her eyes is vacant. This failure we’re talking about set her down in a place she’s familiar with.
Somewhere she once walked away from and has no plans to walk back to.
“Have you ever…felt that vulnerable with anyone?” I ask carefully.
“Yeah,” she answers with a sad smile. “My husband.”
A stretch of silence settles between us, and it feels like a small moment of grief. A paused in memoriam for a slice of her life that was all happiness and hope, now only reminding her of what could have been and what never will be.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I say, throwing back the same question she asked me. “Since we’re friends and all.”
She smirks. “Sure.”
“What happened?”
She pauses again, this time, the quiet feeling heavy and burdensome. “You know,” she starts. “In the beginning, it was really good. We were young and still figuring ourselves out, but we were doing it together. The thought of growing old with him made me happy. It was good until…”
“It wasn’t?”
She nods. “He gradually turned into someone entirely different. Our needs and wants started to change, and it was like I married a complete stranger, not the Frankie I fell in love with.”
I nod. “So, you decided to end things?”