Page 63 of Open Water
"You know," I said. "You sound exactly like him."
They both looked at me.
"Like who?" Priya asked.
"Like Noah."
They looked at each other, their eyes did the thing that mine and Alex must do. Noah smirked and Priya blushed then they both looked back to their pasta.
"Made for each other," I said.
They both laughed. And for three seconds the booth at the Spaghetti Palace was the warmest place in Ashford.
And underneath the warmth was the ache. Because this was what it looked like. The easy version. Two people who found each other and didn't have to fight a family dynasty or cross a river in the dark or hide in showers and boathouses. They just sat in a restaurant and held hands under the table and it was the most uncomplicated thing in the world.
I wanted that. For me and Alex. What if we didn't have to have breakfast hidden away in the woods by the river? Or constantly be under threat by his family or how us being together could effect my rowing career. If all of it could just—
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out under the table.
A photo. From Alex. No caption.
A theater marquee. Plastic letters. HARTWICK INDEPENDENT FILM FESTIVAL. Below it, the program board. One of the titles: RECLAIMED — ETHAN GRANT.
My face must have changed because Priya said, "That's him, isn't it?"
I looked up. She was watching me.
"Yeah," I said.
"You should see your face right now. That's not the face of someone whose relationship is falling apart." She said it gently.
"We're not in a relationship," I said.
"What?" Priya set down her fork. "Define it."
"What?"
"Relationship. Define the word. You said you're not in one. So tell me what one is and we'll check."
"Priya," Noah said.
"I'm serious. This is a definitional dispute. Half of all arguments are." She looked at me. "Go."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. The pause was the answer, and she knew it, because she leaned back like she'd already taken the round.
"We never called it anything," I said. "It was a secret. You don't put a label on a thing nobody's allowed to know about."
"Okay. So the label was the problem. Not the thing."
"It wasn't a thing. It was—" I stopped. What was it? Showers and boathouses. Breakfast hidden in the woods by the river. Secret sleep overs. A guy in Vermont sending me a photo of a marquee with no caption because he wanted me in the room with him for it. "We're just sleeping together."
"Just sleeping together."
"Yeah."
"How long?"
I did the math. "Brackett Lake was a year and a half ago. Then nothing. Then since September."
