All at once, my jaw goes slack. What I would have given to hear those words growing up—even once.
I force myself not to stare, focusing instead on the clown fish plushie pressed up against the glass of the claw machine. It’s soft, fuzzy-looking body is pressed so tight the fur is sticking up and—I bet it would feel as soft as a pillow under my fingers.
“Marina?” Gil’s voice is gentle, urging me back to the present moment.
“Hi! Sorry!” I say, shaking my head as if to remove the thoughts. I force my lips up in a smile, a clumsy attempt to mask the feelings I don’t want to process. It’s been years, and I still haven’t been able to tolerate the sound of yelling in any circumstances. Even friends ranting about their favorite television shows or books they’re hate-reading makes me freeze up. Don’t even get me started on “friendly gaming nights.” Getting through the rule book without someone shouting is an impossible task that has me either stress-snacking everything in sight or frozen in my seat, waiting for the night to be over.
“Why do you have to be so sensitive?”
“It was just a joke!”
“You never let me rant about stuff.”
I have heard a few well-earned criticisms I’ve heard over the years, and I know it’s not fair to ask people to quietly walk on eggshells to spend time with me. So, I simply stopped going to game night; the terrible thing is, no one bothered to really ask why.
Maybe that’s my fault. I’ve never been good at asking for help, even when I’m metaphorically drowning. But one day I’d love for someone to care enough to look for me if I disappear.
“Still with me?” Gil’s voice is gentle, another nudge to come back to this plane of existence.
“Yeah, no—just thinking. Sorry, it’s, um... the yelling.” I nod toward the table with the children, and notice there’s an array oftoys laid out alongside a rainbow of crayons. Instead of storming off, the parents are playing. I bite my lip, as relief and sadness fight for a seat at my table of emotions. When I look at Gil, there’s an expression I know all too well. Grams would have this look sometimes too. I remember it from when I was little. She’d be smiling, making silly voices while puppeteering my stuffed animals during a tea party, existing both right in the moment with me and a million miles away. I’d wonder if there was anything I could do to make the people around me less… well, sad.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t need…” he starts. I can’t let one more person tell me I don’t need to apologize for behavior that will drive them away. Especially since I’m getting strangely fond of this particular one.
“Let’s talk more about you!” I pivot because I’ve proven I can’t drive this conversation, and I’d like to save what’s left of this date.
Gil is 23 years old.
He comes from a big family, the second born sibling of four. Goldie, Finn, and Angel—seems like his parents definitely went with an aquatic theme.
I can’t imagine a house that full, but from the smile on his face as he reminisces, it sounds like it was a happy one—despite his father passing when he was young. His memories are bright, colorful, and filled with love. They grew up in these springs; from what it sounds like, they spent most of their time in the water.
His job, on the other hand, removes the joy from his eyes and replaces it with neutrality.
Keeping books for the family business—I hope, for his sake, it’s less drama than shifts at my aunt’s boutique, but I can understand it’s complicated to untangle your life from people you’re related to.
It’s probably even harder when you actually like each other.
“What about you?” he asks, but there’s something cloudy in his eyes, something I can’t quite figure out. “Are you … close with your family?”
“I mean, there’s my Grams. I probably like her more than she likes me,” I say, with a laugh that’s so obviously forced I can’t help but cringe.
“I say this with all the kindness in the world, but your Grams has sent you ten pictures of racoons in a row.”
“You noticed?”
“Couldn’t help it,” he admits with a slightly sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to snoop, but the way you had your phone turned gave me a glimpse.”
“Their names are Coco and Baxter. We’re pretty sure they’re in love and… why are you looking at me like that?”
I pause, noticing the silly grin that’s covering his face; sure, it’s a lot of backstory for some racoons, but when it comes to Grams and me, it’s all pretty run-of-the-mill.
“This ain’t lore you make up with anyone,” Gil insists with his grin still firmly in place.
“I didn’t say that we’re not close or anything, but I do love her more. That’s fine.”
“But is it true?” he asks, seeming annoyingly unconvinced of my statement. It’s not fair. Gil and I have only known each other for barely a day, and sure, we’re hitting it off, but he shouldn’t assume details about my life—or the people in it.
