Page 42 of Wild Devotion
“It’s not awkward.”
“It’s a little awkward.”
“Only because you keep calling it awkward. Ask me something. Anything you want to know.”
She picked at her napkin, her mouth tightening for a second before her eyes lifted to mine. “Why did you drop out?”
“That’s not a light opener.”
“We’re past light.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “You should know that by now.”
She wasn’t wrong. We’d skipped small talk the night we met and never looked back.
“I was on the wrong path. Or maybe it was the right path for the wrong reasons. Either way, it wasn’t what I wanted. So I left.”
“That’s brave.”
“It was impulsive. There’s a difference.”
“Not always.” She traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip. “What do you actually want?”
You. But I wasn’t going to say that over appetizers. “I’m still figuring it out. But I’m closer right here, right now, than I was in Toronto.”
“Your turn,” she said, clearly wanting to redirect.
“What’s your favorite color?”
Her eyebrows shot up and she laughed so loud, people at the nearby tables glanced over. “Seriously? That’s your question?”
“I thought I’d give light a try. To help balance us out.”
“Okay. Red.” Something sparked in her eyes. “I’m obsessed with it. It holds so much in one color—passion, rage, ambition, suffering. It’s the color I reach for first when I paint. It’s the one that feels the most honest.”
The way she said it, like color was a language she spoke fluently and the rest of us were just learning, made me want to watch her work. To sit in a room while she painted and see the world through her lens.
“Why don’t you believe in love?” The question came out before I’d decided to ask it.
Her fork hung in mid-air, halfway to her mouth, but she didn’t say a word.
“What? You said we’re past light.”
“Touché.” She set the fork down and met my eyes. “Kindness, compassion, devotion…I believe in those things. They’re real. But romantic love? Soul mates? I think people convince themselves they’ve found it because the alternative is too lonely. They settle for whatever’s in front of them and call it love because it’s easier than admitting it’s not.”
“That’s bleak.”
“That’s experience. People fall in and out of love so easily. If it’s not equal, if it’s not permanent, then what’s the point?”
That wasn’t cynicism. That was fear. Like she’d been burned too many times to risk it again. Not because she didn’t want love, but because she didn’t trust it to stay.
“Everything in life is a risk, Zadie. Better to take the chance on the wrong thing than miss out on what could’ve been the best.”
She stared at me. “That might be the most hopeful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Or the most naïve.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But you’ve been hogging all the questions. It’s my turn.”
“Go ahead.”
