“Thank God.” The words come out rougher than I mean. “Sorry. Long history.”
She studies me. “Twenty years of it?”
“Twenty-eight.” I run a hand through my hair. “He’s been competing with me since we could walk. Always had to have thebetter everything. Better grades, better sports equipment, better car…” I snort. “Better girl.”
Her eyes sharpen at that, but she doesn’t call me out on it. Instead, she says, “That must be exhausting.”
“For him.”
“You stopped playing the game?”
“College. When I realized I didn’t care if he won.”
“Do you really think he won?”
Instead of answering, I signal Marcy again. “Two slices of apple pie, please. A la mode.”
“I didn’t agree to pie.”
“Trust me.”
When it arrives, she takes one bite and groans. “Oh, my God. This is awful.” Another bite. “Why is it so good?”
Probably not the best idea to tell her that more than one woman has said that about me. “Mike burns the crust just enough to make it crunch, uses too much cinnamon, and the apples are always a little raw. It shouldn’t work. Must be the fact it’s still homemade.”
She looks down, hiding her smile. We eat in silence for a moment—only the rain against the glass and the hiss of the espresso machine between us. Oh, never mind. Someone’s come in and ordered some kind of coffee that requires thatGRINDthat never ends until you’ve lost half your teeth from smashing them against each other. Like homebrew TMJ.
It doesn’t stop me from conversing with the prettiest girl I know.
She asks about my bikes, and I tell her. About the pre-law path that nearly killed me, about fixing a busted Mazda and realizing I’d never go back, even if Nick himself gave me a million bucks he thinks he’s going to have someday, the wily bastard.
“You must’ve scared your family,” she says, half-teasing. “Your Dad’s a lawyer, right?”
“My father didn’t speak to me for months. Mom cried. Nick said I was wasting my potential.” I meet her gaze. “But it’s the happiest I’ve ever been.”
She tilts her head. “Are you happy now?”
“Closer,” I admit. “Getting there.”
Her eyes linger on me like she’s trying to read what I’ve put into the subtext of a chapter book page. I know, I know. She’s a kindergarten teacher… but I know that look. My high school English teacher did the same thing.
“What about you?” I ask. “Always wanted to teach?”
“Always. Even when I was little, I’d line up my stuffed animals and teach them the alphabet.” She laughs, one hand smacking the table as the other holds on to her fork. “Nick said it was cute at first. You know, the kind of thing that everyone can agree is great for society. Like donating to animal shelters or funding cancer research. Later, he called it my ‘little job.’”
“Asshole.”
“Yeah.” She picks at the crust. “He wanted me to be… shinier. Someone he could show off. Wanted me to go back to school myself to get more credentials for ‘higher aspirations.’” She sticks her fingers into scare quotes to drive the point home.
“‘My girlfriend teaches kindergarten’ doesn’t sound as impressive as ‘my girlfriend lectures at the university,’ huh?”
“Exactly.” She sighs. “He was always trying to make memore. But I liked who I was.”
“You should,” I say. “You don’t need upgrading. You’ve gotta follow your dreams and do what’s right for your life.”
The way she looks at me… as if I’m touching on a sore spot. Well, she’s right. I intend on no sore spot poking. Should I have an apology locked and loaded in my chamber?
“I’m not perfect,” she says.
