“Sounds like we need a very unhealthy appetizer. Carbs and cheese?”
“You know me too well.”
She signals the waiter, and in short time he brings us a plate of breads, oils, and cheeses.
“How’s the book coming? What’s your next assignment?” Carol’s questions make me ashamed of how much I’ve kept her at a distance these last months.
“Curtain call,” I say in a pathetic attempt to catch her up to speed. “The book is done, the house is closed, the unemployment line is in the offing.”
“I see,” she says, not really needing much more of an explanation.
Good friends are like that.
I don’t mention Oliver. She knows all too well the way things unfolded with Jack, having heard about it enough times already. Maybe I feel silly and cliché. Maybe I just want something sacred.
Carol breaks off rosemary focaccia and dips it in some avocado oil. She nibbles on her food, giving me time to continue.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “These past months have been a bit more than I’m used to.”
“Ok,” she says, pushing away the bread and the menu—piecing my life together as best she can with the bits of information I’ve given her. “The house got bought out and you didn’t get bought with it?”
“Bingo.” I slide the bread plate closer to me.
“You thought you were in far enough with them to be safely shuttled to the next phase.”
“I did,” I say, admitting my own arrogance. “Right now, it just seems like another piece of my life that I had wrong. And something else I have to figure out how to fix. It’s the least of my problems actually.”
“I get the feeling there’s more to this than I know,” she says.
There’s always more to it than anyone knows. I’m tired of compartmentalizing my life and having to keep track of who knows what and who doesn’t. It makes everything feel fake. I’m tired of being locked up in the Nina-box. It’s cramped and lonely in here.
The waiter comes to check if we are ready to order. We look quickly at the menu and give him our decisions.
“So, you need a job?” Carol asks, knowing when to change the subject.
“You got one?”
“I don’t think there’s much demand for photos of hospital cafeteria food,” she says. “You’re good, sweetie, but I don’t think anyone could make that stuff look appetizing.”
I fiddle with my silverware and the last of the cheese and try not to breathe in too deeply. I’m afraid the intake of air will be followed by an outpouring of tears.
“What about teaching?” she says. “Isn’t that what you wanted to do way back when?”
“Back when we were in school,” I say. “And the world was ours.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” she says, looking fondly into the past.
“I didn’t plan to have to reinvent myself at this age,” I say, moving the bread plate away as our entrees are set in front of us.
“The whole concept of reinvention is unintentional,” she says, arranging her side of the table as well. “No one would need to reinvent anything if they could have seen the right way to do it in the first place.”
“You get smarter every time I see you.”
“I just know you well enough to know that you can start over and be happy.”
“Why don’t I know that?”
“Don’t you?” she asks in direct challenge.
I look out the window and across the street, prepared to contemplate that notion for a while. But then, there he is.
Oliver, two other young guys, and a girl take seats around an outdoor table at another restaurant across the narrow, downtown street.
It shouldn’t surprise me to see him on the side of town he frequents. It shouldn’t, but it does. I instinctively slump in my chair. I doubt he could see me, even if he looked. The restaurant we’re in is shaded by an awning and masked with tinted windows.
Carol clears her throat, drawing my attention back. “Lost you there for a second,” she says, peering down my line of sight. “Do you know those kids?”
Kids.
“What?” I stall. “No, I just thought I saw someone. Sorry.”
I take a bite of walnut-crusted salmon and try to appear normal.
“Someone you hoped didn’t see you?” she correctly questions, knowing me too well. Our friendship has often paused for periods of time while each of us carries on the lives we’ve grown into, but it has never disappeared.
I ignore the question, so she continues to talk about other things, things I can’t focus on, because across the street I watch the girl nudge one of the guys out of the way and take a seat next to Oliver. Is this what he’s been hiding? My heart plummets, but then rebounds when Oliver doesn’t seem to pay notice to the girl’s continuing advances.
Carol keeps talking about her schedule at the hospital or someone being in the hospital, I’m not sure. I try to look at her as she speaks, but I keep stealing glances out the window whenever she sips her drink or looks at a passerby.
Through the glass, I watch Oliver like he’s in a silent play. With no textual cues, I focus on his actions. I study everything about him. Some things I’ve come to know already, like the way he tugs at his hair while listening to someone else talk. I notice new things, that I haven’t seen before, like the way he circles his finger around the top of his glass between sips.
A waitress brings them a basket of chips, and while everyone grabs for a handful, Oliver excuses himself to a bench along the street. He pulls out his phone and places a call.
My phone rings. I thrash around in my bag for the phone. The call screen lights up with a picture of Oliver laughing and biting into a lemon—a silly shot I’d taken weeks ago. I don’t answer.
“Not who you were expecting?” Carol asks. I’m sure she noted how quickly I grabbed my phone.
“No,” I say, gripping the thin silver case in my hand.
