"A lot of people?"
"Enough."
"People are assholes."
I nod.
"Other times?"
"Yeah." I take another bite. "You know Divya. She's really modern. She doesn't go around wearing saris and talking about Hinduism. But there are things that matter to her."
He nods.
"And they matter to me too. Because they matter to her. But if I try to participate anywhere else… people act like I'm some dumb white girl trying to earn style points."
"You're still close though."
"I thought so." I play with my fork. "But she didn't tell me about this."
"Maybe she didn't know."
My eyes meet his. "You really think so?"
"Fuck if I know. Who understands parents?"
"Yeah." I swallow another spoonful of curry. "I keep thinking this might be it. Maybe last Christmas was the last Christmas we'll ever spend together. And tomorrow is Saturday and we're not going to our favorite brunch spot on Abbot-Kinney. And Divya isn't going to complain the place has a weak chai. And Allison isn't going to ask for three refills of her coffee. And they aren't going to look at each other like they're sharing some secret about me. About how proud they are. About how much I can accomplish."
"Fuck, Luna."
"They won't be there to marvel at my Halloween costume. I won't help Divya make Thanksgiving dinner and bring it to the table where Allison is picking out the best wine. And getting ready to deal with her parents." I stick my tongue out. "They always say something about how the food is too different. Too spicy. Too untraditional. But Divya just smiles and says we like it that way. She lets it roll off her back. I always admired that about her."
He nods.
"What will it be instead? I make dinner with Divya and Allison is off her with her twenty-eight-year-old at some fancy wine bar? Drinking instead of eating?"
"Doesn't sound so bad."
"I guess not." I stab a green bean. "But it's not the same."
"It's not."
"I know it's nothing. Compared to your parents."
He shakes his head. "You thought they were happy." His voice softens. "They were happy. I saw them. They were in love. My parents… I vaguely remember Dad playing Every Little Thing She Does is Magic. Telling me the song perfectly defined love. Then playing it for Mom." He motions to the living room. "Taking her arm. Dancing the whole time."
"The Police, huh?" I bite my green bean in half. "I see that."
He motions they're okay. "I kind of remember weekends at the beach. Mom sitting on a blanket with a book. Dad gushing over her swimsuit. I didn't get it then. But the way he looked at her… it was love. I knew it. I didn't know what it meant, I still thought girls were icky, but I knew it."
"I know that look."
"They had it."
"Until recently." I try to remember the last time either of my parents looked at the other with love. Everything blurs together. A dinner alone. A quiet night. A smile as they wished me goodbye. Was that it? When they dropped me off at the airport? They had a look, but was it love? Or did they already know it was the end?
"It sucks. And…"
"It's going to keep sucking?"
He nods. "Until everything is final. And after that…" He looks into my eyes. Looks for something. "It takes a long time to feel normal. After shit changes."
"Yeah."
"Maybe… if you want to talk, I can listen. Or… if you'd rather not think about it, I can find you a distraction."
"You can?"
"Yeah. I know just the thing too."
"You do?"
He nods hell yeah. "The perfect way to keep your mind occupied."
Okay, I'll bite. "What is it?"
Chapter Eighteen
Luna
Without a word, Oliver sets his fork on the table, stands, motions to the stairs.
Uh. Okay.
There's no way he's about to take my hand, lead me to his room, throw me on his bed.
That's totally ridiculous.
So what if we almost kissed at Ikea?
Maybe I imagined that. Maybe he tries to make all his friends' exes jealous. Maybe he teases everyone about the color of their lipstick.
I should ask. To make sure.
To keep myself from crossing the line.
But I don't.
I follow him across the room, up the stairs, down the hallway.
He turns the knob, presses his door open, motions after you.
Really. This is a good place to ask.
To stop.
To say something that convinces him I don't want him to throw me on his bed.
I mean, I do want him to throw me on his bed.
And he wants to throw me on his bed.
Is it really so bad?
Will it really ruin everything?
He's so tall and broad and handsome. All shirtless and tan and tattooed.
"Let me find it." He motions one minute. Turns to his desk. Scans the neat array of art books, pens, paperbacks.
Sketchpads.
Something in the drawer.
"Here." He grabs a sketchbook. It's bright yellow with a tiny date penciled in the corner. "This is it."