Table for Two (6 page)

3

Right after Irene
asks if I’m over you, and I say, “It was a long time ago,” my phone starts
ringing. I deleted your name from my phone book, but I had your number
memorized whether I liked it or not, and I looked at Irene like I was checking
if this was her idea of a joke.

“What?” she says, genuinely as
confused as I am. “Answer it.”

I do. I hear your voice on the
other end of the line, “Hi, Lucas. It’s Bettina.”

I give myself away by saying, “I
know.” But maybe I don’t really care.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Who else would it be?”

You laugh; so you still remember
our first phone conversation. I have to remind myself that this doesn’t give me
license to conjure various possibilities in my head. Not now. Not anymore.

“We’re having lunch,” you tell me.
“Can you meet me now?”

“I just had lunch,” I say.

“Coffee, then. At that café beside
the Korean grocery. That’s not too far from your office.”

A pause. Am I really doing this?
Do I want to do this? And more importantly, why? “Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you
in fifteen.”

I hang up and start putting away
my sandwich wrapper and the oatmeal cookie I was saving for dessert. “Cover for
me first?” I ask Irene.

She nods. “Good luck.”

There is a
certain
amount of preparation that should go into meeting up with an ex, and it occurs
to me that I should be pissed that I do not have the privilege of time right
now. If I had known this was going to happen, I would have gotten a haircut, or
worn a nicer shirt, or at least shaved. I would have been confident, I would
have walked in with a swagger, I would have felt so good about myself that it didn’t
matter how I felt about you.

You are waiting for me by the
door, a huge smile on your face. You throw your arms around me, and one whiff
of your hair and the feel of your cheek pressed against mine bring everything
back: that bottle of beer you shoved into my hands, the sound of your voice
when it’s two
AM
and you’ve had too much to drink, the warmth of your fingers intertwined with
mine, that first and only kiss. You pull away and lead me to a table for two by
the window. As you sit down, I think, Y
ou are always finding ways to get my hopes up.

I say, “It’s been a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” you explain. I
hate how you think this was your decision, how you don’t even consider the fact
that maybe
I’ve
been busy, too.

“How are you?” you ask. You look
great, like you’re happy and satisfied and excited about something, and I want
to give you a rundown of how things have more or less worked out okay for
me—how I am doing well at my job, taking my Masters, thinking of putting
up a food business, trying to go running at least twice a month, spending time
with my family on weekends, and catching up with old friends one at a time when
we do clear up our schedules. How I am, despite your absence, not entirely
miserable. But I don’t want you to think that I am just doing this to prove a
point, so I reply with the standard, “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”

“I’m great,” you tell me. “Except
for one thing, which I finally have the courage to tell you.”

“What’s that?”

You tuck your hair behind one ear
nervously, take a deep breath, and say, “I made a mistake. With an ex. I took
him for granted, and I let something very special go. I want him back. I need
him back.” Your eyes plead with me, and your voice is laced with something that
sounds like regret.

I can’t believe I’m hearing this
from you. I waited for you for months, and now that you are here, pouring your
heart out to me, I don’t know what to tell you. There could be too much damage
between us, and it could be too late. And this is what I want to know: I was
there for you, always, for every single minute of every single day of those
four months. And at the end of it all, the only thing you could tell me was,
“I’m sorry it meant something to you.” Why couldn’t you have wanted and needed
me then? Why couldn’t you have wanted and needed me, period, instead of wanting
and needing me
back
now, when I am already more than willing to move on?

Still, that doesn’t mean I won’t
even consider this. I ask you, “So, this guy, this ex-boyfriend of yours. How
does he feel about you?”

“I think he really cares about
me.”

“And how do you feel about him?”

You pause, but only for the
briefest of seconds. “I’m still in love with him.”

“Then why did you leave in the
first place?”

“I had to. But he hated me for it.
Why couldn’t he have just understood I wasn’t ready?”

“Maybe he could respect that. But
that didn’t change the fact that he loved you. Very much. That didn’t change
the fact that you chose to walk away.”

“I was scared.”

“Everyone’s scared, Bettina.” I
look her straight in the eye, daring her to blink or avoid my gaze. “But not
everyone leaves.”

You shake your head at me sadly,
and I immediately feel guilty—after everything you’ve put me through, I
still cannot bring myself to hurt you. “Sorry,” I mutter. You shake your head
again, this time to brush off my apology.

“Anyway, I talked to Eric last
night,” you say. “He’s visiting for a couple of weeks, for his sister’s
eighteenth birthday. I explained everything to him. I think he can forgive me.”

“Who’s Eric?”

“My ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

You stare at me. “
Oh
? What does that mean?”

 
“I thought...”
I thought what? I thought we were only speaking
about it in the third person to be cute? I thought you were trying to get back
together with me? I thought you were meeting up with me because you saw me last
night and realized you’ve wanted me all this time?

Eric, the “brand-new boyfriend”
from last night, was Swimming Champ, the ex who flew off to Switzerland to get
away from you and your commitment issues, the one who wanted to marry you, the
one you were heartbroken over when you first met me, the one I supposedly
deleted out of the picture with the touch of a button. That’s why he seemed
vaguely familiar.

You look even more embarrassed
than I feel. “Lucas, come on. I wasn’t leading you on. I said I made a mistake
with my
ex
. You and I, we were never... we were always just
friends.”

“You think?” I snarl. I wish I
weren’t so angry with you. I wish I could just shake my head and shake you out
of my life.

You take my hand and my heart
leaps to my throat. You tell me, “I know you think that nobody else will ever
love me the way you can. I know you think you can love me so much more than he
does.” I don’t like where this is going. I want to stop you from talking. You
don’t really believe what you’re saying, do you? You know better, or at least
you should. “But we’ve built a life together. I started loving him in high
school, and I don’t think I ever stopped.”

But he
was gone for months. He let you go. Doesn’t that discount everything else?

“I don’t want to start over from
scratch,” you say. This registers in my mind as, “I don’t want to start over
with you.”

“Just because he’s here doesn’t
mean he came back for you,” I say. I hope this stings, I hope this makes you
feel like you are dispensable and replaceable, unless you exhaust yourself by
trying and trying and trying. I hope this makes you feel the way you make me
feel.

“He might have,” you say. “We kept
in touch the whole time; I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d want to protect
me.”
No, if I
had known, I probably would have wanted to protect myself.
“I’m following him to Switzerland. We’ll see how it
goes from there. I’m here to say goodbye.”

Goodbye is a strange
concept—if the person being left behind resents it and refuses to accept
it, is it still goodbye, or simply a departure? I know now why you left. It
wasn’t because of anything I said or did, or anything I didn’t say or didn’t
do. It wasn’t my fault; perhaps, if I succumb to my unfailing instinct to be
the bigger person, it wasn’t even yours, either. You left because I wasn’t a
part of your past or your future—I was only a part of your present, and
that wasn’t enough. You never saw me as anything else or anything more. You
left because you could. And you’re leaving because you can.

I say, “I think you should go,”
and this comes as a surprise to you. Your fingers, still grasping mine,
carefully uncurl themselves until we are no longer touching. You nod, like you
can comprehend that this meeting is not about your disclosure about you and
Eric, but about me and this closure I am finally getting. You nod like you
understand completely, and I’d like to believe you do.

As you stand up, I think,
You are always finding
ways to let me down.
I am left with
two empty cups and an empty chair and an empty silence—a silence that, if
I fill up at the right time and in the right way, could result in something
close to peace. You don’t look back. Minutes later, I get up, too.

If someone—a childhood
friend, a college classmate—sees me now, coming out of this café with one
hand in my pocket searching for my keys and the other shading my eyes against
the harsh midday sun, he’d say he knew me, but maybe he wouldn’t quite remember
how. He’d notice my hair is shorter, darker, and decide it suits me better.
He’d see that I am dressed differently too, and it is a good different. I am
not laughing, but he’d be able to tell that the way I smile has also changed.
He wouldn’t be sure that I am perfectly happy—maybe I am, or maybe I’m
not, or maybe I’m not yet—but he would say, with utter certainty, that I
look like I am headed somewhere I am meant to be, towards somebody I am meant
to be with. Behind me, the open door slowly swings shut, and stays closed until
someone else comes along.

TABLE FOR TWO

1

Tonight is going
to
be a good night, or at least that’s what The Black Eyed Peas would like Mandy
to believe. She isn’t the slightest bit convinced, at least not while she’s
squished in the backseat of a black car between her cousin Gio and her friend
Penny. Gio is Penny’s ex-boyfriend, and their unspoken tension reaches over
Mandy and tries to grab at each other’s hair and clothes and throat. She wishes
she could tell Penny to pull up her tube dress a bit—her lacey red bra is
already peeking out, and her outfit has sped right past the boundary of sexy
and straight into Slut City. She wishes she could tell Gio to stop talking
about his new girlfriend Yas, who is, of course, gorgeous in a sophisticated,
wholesome way Penny will never be. She wishes, more than anything, that she
could go back in time and tell her college senior self that consoling a
heartbroken Penny (then her seatmate in Theology class) by setting her up on a
seemingly harmless date with Gio (who always made sure none of his strings were
attached, and therefore made the perfect rebound guy) was a very, very bad
idea. The driver cranks the stereo volume up, and Mandy wonders if this is his
subtle way of helping ease her burden.

She is trying to remember why she
even thought any good would come out of this night when her best friend Diane,
completely plastered at nine-thirty
PM
, pipes up from the passenger seat,
“You guys, thank you sooo much for bringing me to dinner tonight! This is the
best birthday ever!”

“You’re welcome,” Mandy says,
knowing this wasn’t anywhere close to being Diane’s best birthday ever—it
was the five glasses of red wine talking, the five glasses of red wine she
consumed with exactly three and a half pieces of ravioli in a span of two
hours. Still, Mandy decides to humor her. “Why is this the best birthday ever?”

“Because!
You’re all here! And I love you guys! To bits!” Diane yells, all those
unnecessary exclamation points puncturing the air and temporarily replacing Gio
and Penny’s animosity with amusement. Mandy can feel the tension deflating, and
she wants Diane to keep filling the silence.

“Maybe we should stop for coffee
first?” Mandy suggests. “And probably something to eat?”

“But I’m not sleepy!” Diane slurs.
“Or hungry!”

“Yeah, but
you’re like, really wasted,” Penny says.

“I’m not drunk!” Diane protests,
whipping around to glare at Penny accusingly. “Tell her, Mandy! I’m not drunk!
I’m not!”

“She’s not drunk,” Mandy tells
Penny, keeping a straight face. Gio snorts and presses his forehead to the
window, his shoulders shaking.

“Why are you laughing, Gio?” Diane
asks. “Do you think I’m funny? Do you like funny girls? You know, I bet Penny
here is
way
funnier than Yas. You guys should get back together.”

“Oh, shut up,” Penny says, but she
is smiling, almost pleasantly. She has been briefed about the situation:
Earlier that night, after four glasses of wine, Diane turned to Mandy and said,
“Hey, we should invite Penny to go clubbing with us later! I miss her! It’s
been ages! We used to have so much fun in college!”

“But you already invited Gio,
remember?” Mandy reminded her.

“Yeah, but Yas isn’t in town, so
it won’t be weird!”

“Oh, trust me, it will be.”

Diane raised her hand to signal
the waiter, who had been eavesdropping the whole time. He came over, looking
thoroughly entertained. “Yes, Ma’am?”

Diane jabbed her finger at Mandy’s
upper arm and told the waiter, “My best friend does not want me to have other
friends! Is that selfish or what?!” The old couple at the other side of the
restaurant turned to stare.

“That’s not true,” Mandy muttered,
her cheeks burning.

Diane shoved her phone in Mandy’s
face. “Call Penny, then! Tell her my car will be in front of her gate in ten
minutes!”

“But we’re picking Gio up,” Mandy
said. “He needs a ride, his car is in the shop.”

“So?!” Diane demanded. “What, you
don’t think they can be in the same car? They’re grown-ups, Mandy! We all are!”

I’m
not so sure about that
, Mandy
thought, but she took the phone and dialed Penny’s number anyway.
Please don’t pick up,
please be unavailable, please don’t say yes,
she prayed, but Penny was eager to go out with them and even more
eager to prove that she can be normal around Gio, never mind that a) after
their first date, he dodged her hints and held off commitment for two years, b)
he finally made things official three months ago but only managed to stay in
the relationship for six weeks, c) he was spotted with someone new—some
local celebrity whose career was going nowhere—the day after he broke up
with her, and d) she probably wasn’t ready to hang out with him and was probably
still at the stage where the only thing she wants to do is punch him in the
face or dye all his preppy white
polo
shirts a scandalous shade of pink.

On Mandy’s right, Gio is still
laughing; on her left, Penny is hissing, “Coffee! She needs coffee.”

“No coffee!” Diane interrupts. “I
want to partayyy! Right now!” Mandy does not understand how she can possibly
hear anything above the blaring music. Also, she does not understand how
anyone, degree of intoxication notwithstanding, can pronounce
party
as
partayyy.

“Okay,” Mandy says. “Party it is.”

2

Tonight is going
to
be a good night, or at least that’s what Lucas’s brother Franco would like him
to believe. He isn’t the slightest bit convinced, at least not while Franco
keeps blowing smoke in his face and checking out everything female within a
fifteen-meter radius. It is ten
PM
, and the bar is starting to fill up with college
students and twenty-somethings looking for great food, cheap drinks, and maybe
someone adequately attractive to hook up with. Lucas and Franco have been
sitting in a tiny corner booth since eight, and have already downed five beers
each. Lucas thinks—
knows
—he’s had enough and is actually willing to call
it a night regardless of how early it is. Franco wants to do tequila shots with
a college girl (a freshman, presumably) who just walked in with her friends.
“Come on, man,” Franco says. “I can’t go up to that chick alone. It’ll look
sleazy. I need backup.”

“Oh, and it’s not sleazy to hit on
someone who is not only jailbait, but could be a whole decade younger than
you?” Lucas asks. Franco is twenty-seven, four and a half years older, and
Lucas often wonders if it’s wrong to wish his older brother would set a better
example than this. Lucas wonders if the problem is that he’s just not cool
enough to keep up; for instance, tonight, he was planning to hole up in his
room to finish writing a short story for a magazine, and Franco practically had
to drag him out of the house.

“Lighten up,” Franco says. He is
always telling Lucas to lighten up, and Lucas does not understand exactly what
this means: does any form of debauchery count as lightening up, or is there a
specific level one should be aiming for?

Lucas asks, “Aren’t you dating
that girl you met here last week? Jenny? Ginny?”

“Janey,” Franco corrects. “Dating,
yes. But casually. I’m not going to marry her.”

“I sure hope not. It would be kind
of difficult to explain to your kids that you met their mother by getting her
drunk and taking advantage of her.”

“I did not take advantage of her.
She was sad. I was consoling her.”

“That’s what it’s called now? You
should really stop consoling these girls.”

“Why?” Franco asks. “You should
try it. That’s what makes me popular with the ladies.”

“No,” Lucas says. “That’s what
makes you a man-whore.”

Franco regards Lucas with
something close to pity. “Look at you. You’ve been a mess since Bettina ran off
to Switzerland with her boyfriend. You used to be so much fun.”

“Seriously,
Kuya
,” Lucas says. “I’ve never been ‘so much fun.’ You
should know.”

“Yeah, well, you used to be a bit
more fun than this, my dear little brother,” Franco replies. “You work long
hours at the office on weekdays, then you stay home on Friday and Saturday
nights writing your stories. When you do leave the house, you bury your nose in
a novel and park your butt in that deserted coffee shop for hours. You haven’t
been on a date in a year—”

“Eleven months, technically,”
Lucas interrupts.

“You haven’t been on a date
in a year
,” Franco repeats. “And you probably have a knitting
set stashed in your room somewhere. Doesn’t being a...loner ever get
exhausting?”

Lucas detects the pause before the
word
loner
and thinks his brother should have gone right ahead
and said
loser
, because that’s what most people thought he was
anyway. But Lucas doesn’t care, because the way he saw it, falling in love and
trying to make someone fall in love with you and working to stay in love and
forcing yourself to fall out of love with someone who will never love you back
is much, much more exhausting than being alone.