“But you didn’t tell me what you did.”
“Have you ever heard a joke before? Sarcasm? I thought I was pretty obvious. And you even shit-talked back at lunch.” Her voice had risen, and pain pinched at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She rubbed just below her left shoulder.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t easy for me.”
“And you think it’s a cakewalk for me?” She let out a laugh filled with bitterness. “I’m out here, Mo, thousands of miles outside of my comfort zone. And I thought…” Monique sucked in a quivering breath. The lights outside the window shimmered in her now wet eyes.
She shook her head and sat up taller. “I’m not gonna do this.” She stood. “Enjoy the food. We’re done here.” She grabbed her camera bag from the empty seat between them and stood, her back to him.
Why did everything have to be so complicated?
All the hours of counseling and training he’d had, but at the moment, he couldn’t recall any of it.
“God, I was so stupid. I knew better.” Although she was talking to herself, the words hit Maurice like fists. “I don’t do half-truths and whatever the fuck he does whenever I open my goddamned mouth.”
The fluorescent lights above them flickered, and everything around him pressed in. His fingers went into his beard. He scratched and tugged.Think. Speak. Do something real, something honest, or she walks away.
He counted his breaths. Name the feeling.Shame.Name the trigger.Being seen as a liar, a manipulator, an abuser.Name the response.Deflection. Silence. Withdrawal.
How about responding with the truth?his therapist persona challenged. It was the same system he used with his team. The same tools used on him.
“You’re right,” he finally said.
She turned around, blinking at him sitting there with his head hung low. Like she wasn’t expecting that response, or much of a response at all.
“I’m right about what? About being an idiot?”
His attention whipped to her face. “Of course not. You’re right about me asking you to let me in and me not reciprocating.”
Her laugh was rueful. “Whatever this game is, I’m done playing. I’ve had enough people take from me and give nothing back. I’m tired.”
He watched Monique step out into the night, her head high. In less than twenty-four hours of meeting her, he’d made a mess of things.
Maurice stood, the chair scraping loud against the floor. The family at the counter turned to look. He didn’t care.
He caught up to her half a block down, near a closed shop with Christmas lights still blinking in the window.
“Monique.”
She didn’t stop. Kept walking, camera bag bouncing against her hip.
“Monique, please.”
“Go back and eat your food, Maurice.”
“Not until you hear me out.”
She spun on him. “Hear you out? You haven’t said anything worth hearing.”
The words landed, sharp and true. He deserved them.
“Everything’s complicated. And I want to tell you. I will tell you everything you want to know. But not—” He looked around at the street, at the people passing, at the noise and light and movement. “Not here. Not like this. Not now. Not with you already halfway to hating me.”
Monique scoffed. “I don’t hate you.”
“You should.” He stepped closer. Not crowding, just closing the distance she’d put between them. “I asked you to let me in. Asked you to show me who you are. Then locked my own door when you tried to do the same. That’s not fair. You’re right about that.”
Monique shifted her camera bag to her other shoulder, and looked past him toward the lights of the plaza. “So, what’s next?” She pulled in a long breath. “When?”