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“Yes,” I say.
He fidgets with the strap of his backpack and sends me a look of pure disbelief.
“You’d want to have lunch with your mother while her dead husband’s ex-wife’s son tags along. Wow. Sounds like a great time for everybody involved. Sign me up.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asks.
“Don’t be a sarcastic asshole.”
He lifts both his hands in front of himself and pastes a grin on his face that goes nowhere near his eyes. “Bad news. That’s, like, two-thirds of my personality.”
I shake my head. “That’s a front you put on when you’re scared.”
“Well that is just…” But he doesn’t seem to be able to articulate what the that just is.
“I’m going to tell her about us,” I say.
He barks out a laugh, which quickly dies down, and then he’s left just gaping at me.
“You’re not serious.”
I drag my hand through my hair and let out a deep breath. “I know I don’t have the right to ask this, and I don’t expect you to push everything that’s happened under the carpet, but maybe just think about giving her a chance to try and do better.” I eye him warily. “She’s going to learn the truth about us. Maybe not right away, but sooner rather than later.”
He seems frozen in place.
“You really want to tell her about this?” he asks in a strange, harsh whisper, like he’s afraid saying it out loud will make it… I don’t even know what. Real?
“By ‘this’ I assume you mean our relationship?”
“We’re not…” His voice trails off.
I knew it was coming. The denial still stings, but I ignore it.
“We are,” I say calmly. “We are in a relationship.”
His eyes dart left and right like he’s trying to find an escape route. I step closer, and his eyes snap to me.
“You and me? There’s nothing casual about us. Hasn’t been in a long time, and you know it.”
He shakes his head silently for a long time before he crosses his arms over his chest.
“I just…” he says, but he seems to be at a complete loss about where he’s going with it.
“Would it really be that bad?” I ask. “To be something more with me. Something other than casual and fun. Would it really be so bad to be us?”
“You’re leaving,” he says.
His shoulders hunch. Something about the way he’s holding himself is painfully reminiscent of that boy I found sitting on my doorstep all those years ago. Down to the haunted expression on his face.
I blow out a breath.
“I’m not saying it will be easy, but New York is not on the other side of the planet.”
His eyes snap to mine. Wide, bottomless pits of fear. I’m not sure what I said, but I continue anyway.
“It’s not. There are planes. And trains. And cars. And I’ll have days off, and I can come stay with you, and you can come stay with me. There’ll be the summer. It’s a year. Don’t tell me we can’t do a year.”
