She spots me right away; it’s not like she can miss me. The recognition’s in her eyes, but it’s not a particularly happy one.
“Hey,” I say.
“Yeah, hey.”
We just stand there.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Just taking you all in, I guess.”
“Don’t look at the package. Look at what’s inside.”
“That’s easy for you to say. I never change, do I?”
Yes and no, I think. Her body’s the same. But a lot of the time, I feel like I’m meeting a slightly different Rhiannon. As if each mood presents a variation.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“Where to?”
“Well, we’ve been to the ocean and to the mountain and to the woods. So I thought this time we’d try … dinner and a movie.”
This gets a smile.
“That sounds suspiciously like a date,” she says.
“I’ll even buy you flowers if you’d like.”
“Go ahead,” she dares. “Buy me flowers.”
Rhiannon is the only girl in the movie theater with a dozen roses on the seat next to her. She is also the only girl whose companion is spilling over his chair and into hers. I try to make it less awkward by draping my arm around her. But then I’m conscious of my sweat, of how my fleshy arm must feel against the back of her neck. I’m also conscious of my breathing, which wheezes a little if I exhale too much. After the previews are over, I move over a seat. But then I move my hand to the seat in between us, and she takes it. We last like that for at least ten minutes, until she pretends she has an itch, and doesn’t return her hand to mine.
I’ve chosen a nice place for dinner, but that doesn’t guarantee that it will be a nice dinner.
She keeps staring at me—staring at Finn.
“What is it?” I finally ask.
“It’s just that … I can’t see you inside. Usually I can. Some glimmer of you in the eyes. But not tonight.”
In some way, this is flattering. But the way she says it, it’s also disheartening.
“I promise I’m in here.”
“I know. But I can’t help it. I just don’t feel anything. When I see you like this, I don’t. I can’t.”
“That’s okay. The reason you’re not seeing it is because he’s so unlike me. You’re not feeling it because I’m not like this. So in a way, it’s consistent.”
“I guess,” she says, spearing some asparagus.
She doesn’t sound convinced. And I feel I’ve already lost if we’ve gotten to the convincing stage.
It doesn’t feel like a date. It doesn’t feel like friendship. It feels like something that fell off the tightrope but hasn’t yet hit the net.
Our cars are still at the bookstore, so we head back there. Instead of cradling her roses, she dangles them at her side, as if at any moment she might need to use them as a bat.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.