Chapter 10 #3
“That’s not what I meant, though,” I say. “About what happened back there.”
“What else could you possibly have meant?” Harrison says. He clearly intends it to be playful, but it doesn’t quite come out that way.
“Why didn’t you tell her you broke up with Stephanie?”
He traces a finger along a seam on the armrest and doesn’t respond.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not. “It’s not my business.”
He picks at the seam again, then returns his hands to his lap and lets his head fall back against the back of the couch. “No, I’m sorry. I’m giving you a hard time for no reason. I just didn’t want you to witness that.”
I just didn’t want you to witness that is a far cry from the correct response, which is, Let me explain to you why I lied to my mom about my relationship status.
A couple enters the pseudo-room and immediately starts arguing about the merits of throw pillows. The man points at the pillow Harrison is leaning on, which we take as our cue to keep moving.
We wander into the chair room—dining, lounge, reclining, etc.—and take turns sitting. We test neighboring wooden (well, “wooden”) chairs, and I rock back and forth, the chair creaking slightly.
“So, are you and Stephanie actually maybe getting back together?” I ask, and he looks confused.
“No.”
He doesn’t provide any additional information, so I keep going. “Because you just told your mom you would try to fix things with her.”
“Well.” There’s a loaded pause. “I’m just trying to let her down easy, I guess. She doesn’t need bad news right now.”
I cannot possibly fathom lying to your mom about your relationship status because you think that’s what’s keeping her sane.
But—You’re a pushover, and she’s always pushing you.
I shiver at the memory as if she placed a multigenerational curse on my bloodline.
I do not push back. Instead, I switch gears. “Seems like it was serious,” I say.
“What?”
“With Stephanie.”
Harrison rocks backward, tilting the chair, then leans forward and gently sets the front legs back on the ground. “I tried to think it was, but now I don’t think so.”
I blink at him. “I have no idea what that means.”
“I don’t, either.”
“Well. Your mom seemed serious about it.”
He stands up, waving his hand. “She’s always like that.”
Got it. She’s always like that when he dates someone. Which he apparently does now. Which makes sense, because he’s a fully fledged adult and attractive and a good person, so surely he’s in high demand with the women of Boston. He’s definitely cleaning up on the dating apps.
Maybe I should get on a dating app. Just to dip my toes in the water.
If Harrison saw me on a dating app, would he match with me?
I gesture toward a sign for the cafeteria. “Break for meatballs?”
He nods, and we weave our way back through the living room mock-ups.
I don’t think I actually want to know, but I ask anyway, because the otherworldly experience that is IKEA is making me forget real-life consequences, like the overthinking I know will ensue if he actually answers the question. “So did you guys just break up because it wasn’t that serious, or…?”
Harrison appears to be so focused on navigating the maze of furniture he forgets he’s not supposed to trust me enough to answer questions like that. “No, it wasn’t that serious. I shouldn’t be seriously dating right now.”
“Why?”
He opens his mouth once, then closes it, then opens it again. “Well. I’m dealing with a lot with my mom, and most of my attention is taken up by that.”
“Well, people multitask. Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes, please,” I say to the IKEA employee behind the counter as I take a step forward. I turn my eyes back to Harrison. “See? I’m thinking about two things at once right now.”
Actually, I’m thinking multiple things. Like, even a little bit of Harrison’s attention seems like a sweet deal to me. And how many girlfriends has Harrison had since college? Also, what exactly are lingonberries?
“I’ll have the same,” Harrison says to the man, then turns to me. “Maybe some people can. But I shouldn’t. I didn’t…I wasn’t in the right headspace anymore. It’s complicated.”
“You guys seemed fine at dinner,” I say, even though they did not, in fact, seem fine at dinner. “Yes, I’ll take the gravy and the lingonberry sauce, please.”
He turns back to me. “We were fine at dinner, actually. We had some tough conversations after, and that’s when…” He pauses, as if he needs to collect himself before continuing. “When I realized it needed to end.”
“Shit,” I murmur under my breath. “That’s really sudden. I’m sorry to hear that.”
He nods, then picks up his plate. “Thanks. I think it was for the best. She deserves more.”
It’s hard to imagine someone “deserving more” than a kind-hearted man like Harrison, but what do I know about relationships?
We eat our Swedish meatballs in silence.
Skip Notes
*1 Wide eyes · Tense jaw · Shallow breathing | Facial expression | Frequency: low
Flustered shock.
*2 Lips pulled to the left · Biting the right side of lip | Facial expression | Frequency: medium
Actively thoughtful.
Signals internal debate.