Fiction, Lanie Brice

Great Minds

He walks through the front door and turns to put his keys down on a front table that doesn’t exist. There’s a coat hook. But nowhere for the keys. He pauses, confused for a half second before he remembers. He doesn’t know his own apartment. His body might be here, but his mind never moved in. He keeps walking. Puts his keys on the kitchen counter. Turns on the bare overhead light. 

I close the door and put my coat on the hook. His is still on. I sit at the small café table we found at Ikea—called good enough. My chair rocks on the uneven tile floor. He opens a drawer, closes it. Opens another. Removes a lighter. Puts the kettle on. Sits down across from me. 

“It’s bad tonight,” I observe. My words are light, skimming the surface in an open tone. I’m not mad. I’m not here to make it worse. 

He looks out the window and shakes his head. The kettle starts to boil, and the sound engulfs the entire apartment. I watch wrinkles pull around his eyes, in the crease by his nose. There’s a shadow I know only he can see. I want to put my arms over his shoulders, put my face in the crook of his neck. Tell him it won’t hurt like this forever, even if the months are stacking up and the weight is multiplying. 

I get up and grab two mugs, finding the tea bags in the first cabinet I try and pouring the scalding water over top. When I pass him one, he looks surprised I’m there. Then he smiles, small and a little sheepish. Thanks me for the tea. I settle back in my chair across from him, the taste of dinner’s red wine lingering on my tongue. 

His engagement ended, nearly two years ago on a random Tuesday. They sold the house. Went no contact. He moved in here. He said all this on our first date as he wrangled long noodles with chopsticks, sounding impassive.

Then, he didn’t own any of this furniture. I take a survey of this little home I’ve built. The cold space of defeat turned cozy with pillows and charity shop books. A painting we made with splattered sample cans. 

“You’re the best man I’ve ever dated,” I say, bringing my mug to my lips. 

He takes the compliment impassively, staring into my eyes, probing around for the other shoe. We know each other well enough for him to find it before the words congeal on my lips. 

“But you’re clearly not ready to date again. Or, not like this. I know you weren’t looking for anything serious. I think a silly part of me thought I could fix you.” I sputter on the words that sour in the air, not at all what I mean. “Not fix you, but maybe offer…” This isn’t going well. “Some kind of solace. After what happened.” I take another long sip of my drink. I laugh at myself. “I’m terrible.” He laughs too.

He puts out a hand across the table, palm face up open to mine. I give him my hand, and he squeezes. “I kissed you, our first kiss on those stairs. I didn’t know I could do that.” I suck in a sharp breath remembering the impulse. “There’s no bad feelings. But we both know we’re living with a ghost. You’re too scared of hurting me to say it.”

He makes a noise in his throat and turns towards the window again. His eyes track back, staring down the abyss of his now nearly black tea. “You think I’ll never get over her.”

“No.” I draw in a deep breath to hold back the disappointed tears I know are lingering nearby. “You thought you’d marry her. That’s massive. No wonder you’re not there yet. I’m sure you will be. Please call me when you are.”

“You’ll wait for me?” he asks with a joking lightness that floods my body with relief. 

“No, no one should wait around. Either of us. Who knows, though. I might be free.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, hand still in mine. “I wanted this.”

“It doesn’t have to be forever to be good.”

“You can’t actually believe that?”

“I do. I really, really do.”

His hand withdraws, but his arms sit open by his sides, his chair pushed back from the table, enough room for me. 

I go to him, curl into his lap, chin on his shoulder.