She scans me up and down. “You look good too. I would have thought you’d seem older.”
Um.
I try not to look sad.
I likely don’t succeed because she claps a beautifully manicured hand over her mouth.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant—”
“You expected me to wear the maturity bespeaking my innate gravitas?” I provide, to save her, as she looks like she wants to run off and bury herself in the sand.
I was never able to avoid trying to save her from herself.
Not that it ever worked.
“No, just … I mean, um, you haven’t aged. Or, you have, of course, but not like commensurately with the others here? You look handsome and virile? God, sorry, apologies.”
She still talks like a walking SAT study guide, but she seems genuinely mortified. I take pity on her.
“It’s the Botox,” I joke, “and I have a great surgeon.” She doesn’t laugh, unsurprisingly. She’s always been stingy with her laughter. If you want to crack her up, you have to earn it.
But it’s extremely gratifying when you do.
“Please, have a seat,” I say, making a sweeping, gentlemanly gesture at the empty chair beside me.
It’s empty because I did not bring a date. Or, more accurately, my date canceled at the last minute when she, my girlfriend of nearly four months, broke up with me over text the night before we were scheduled to fly here.
She said, as have the last five or six women I’ve dated, that things were moving too quickly. That I wanted more than she was ready to give.
Perhaps she was right. I tend to throw myself eagerly into courtship, hoping we’ll both fall in love. Why hold back one’s natural zest and affection when any woman might end up being the one? I’m looking for my life partner, my soul mate, my wife.
And I’m certain—certain—I’ll meet her soon.
I do not share any of this with Molly.
“Who else is sitting here?” she asks, looking around the table.
“Marian,” I say with delectation. Molly has always loathed Marian.
“God, she looks the same,” Molly says. “What does she do these days?”
Trust it to Molly to not keep up with anyone from our class.
“She’s an advertising exec,” I say. “Specializes in feminine hygiene brands.”
Molly snorts. “Marian sells tampons and shit?”
I shake my head. “Not shit. Just tampons.”
This time, she does laugh.
“So how are you? What do you do?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she does, because she is, at least in our overlapping circle of high school friends, famous.
She grabs one of the Parmesan twists and idly breaks it in half, like it’s a toy and not a delicious food.
If I’m not mistaken, she’s nervous.
I’m making her nervous.
Delightful.
“I’m a writer,” she says vaguely.
“Oh, that’s so great. What do you write?”
“Films. Rom-coms.”
She says this blandly, in the manner of someone who does not wish to invite further questions. Here is my opportunity to torture her, just a little bit.
“Miss Molly McMarks,” I say, “you must be joking. You, of all people, write kissing movies?”
“Kissing movies gross upward of fifty million dollars opening weekend,” she says. “Or, they used to, before superheroes started dominating the box office.”
“I love superheroes,” I say. “No offense.”
“Of course you do. You always loved a simplistic battle between good and evil.”
This is mean, but true, and I can’t help liking that she’s being catty. It reminds me of our romance. True love at sixteen is hardwired. To this day, I am hopelessly attracted to hostile women.
