Didi
He walks toward me, which is good because seeing him again has caused temporary paralysis of all my limbs and my breathing. He keeps his eyes fixed on me as he forces a way through the crowd, and I’m struck all over again by the heart-jarring feeling of being seen by him. And though he’s still too far away from me to hear him speak, he doesn’t need to because the look on his face tells me everything I need to know. I can read the surprise and the joy and the sorrow and the pain and the fear better than if he’d spoken out loud.
He stops in front of me. “Hi,” he says.
For a moment I worry I’ve lost my voice. I’d forgotten what being close to him does to my breathing, to my heart rate. My legs feel hollow. The whole world fades out and it’s just Walker and me, and I’m oblivious to the people pushing past us. The roar of the crowd matches the roar of the blood in my ears.
“Hi,” I finally manage to say.
His eyes haven’t left my face. “What are you doing here?” he asks, and for one horrible moment I wonder if maybe I’ve made a mistake. Maybe he doesn’t want me here. Maybe she’s here. I glance over his shoulder, scanning for a blond head. There are several.
“Um . . .” I stammer. “Isaac invited me.” What I don’t say is that he sent me a photograph of Walker sitting on a boat. A boat bearing my name. What I also don’t say is that I walked out of a premiere, went back to Zac’s, packed my bag and went straight to the airport, still wearing a dress that cost more than my annual college tuition. But Walker’s now frowning at me and I’m wondering if maybe it wasn’t some kind of hoax. “And I couldn’t miss this . . . Dodds’s big show,” I say with a false laugh.
My face is burning. Oh God, how do I get out of this? I cast about for a lifeline and spot Sanchez and Valentina. Maybe I could go and talk to them.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Walker says.
My eyes fly back to his face. His eyes are storm-gray. There’s no light in them. I can’t read him like I used to.
“He would have been glad.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to Dodds.
“I heard your speech,” I tell him.
“You did?”
I nod. “It was beautiful.”
Walker nods back, his gaze grazing the ground. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and rocks backward on his heels. He can’t even stand to look at me.
“So you’ve moved here to Miami?” I ask.
He looks up at me through his lashes. “Yeah. I’m working in a boat yard.”
I can’t stop the smile. “That’s awesome.”
His face lights up with a smile too, and my heart twangs as if someone’s pulled a cord. My own smile fades. Did Miranda move with him? But if so, why did he call the boat Didi?
“What about you?” he asks now, and a frown furrows his forehead. “Did you . . . ?”
I shake my head, blood rushing to my face and other places as the images of our last night together—of us making love in his bed—scream through my head like a freight train.
“Um, no, it’s okay. I’m back at college. My dad didn’t report me. I guess he figured that having a daughter who’d still be talking to him and not living at home for the rest of her life because she was unemployable was a better option than reporting me to the ethics committee. I still have my internship for next summer. Though with a strict warning that I’m not to sleep with any more patients.”
Walker winces. I stare at my feet. That probably wasn’t the best thing to say. Now I can’t look at him.
“That’s good. That’s great,” Walker says. “I’m pleased.”
I glance up and he looks awkwardly away, scratching behind his ear. He’s acting as if he’d rather be anywhere than standing here with me. We always used to be good with silence, but now it feels prickly and uncomfortable.
“So,” I start to say, trying to think of a way to get out of this, to leave without appearing rude or like I care. I want to get out of here with my dignity intact.
“Did you get my letter?” Walker cuts in.
My head flies up. “What letter?”
“I sent it to the center. I didn’t have an address for you.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I, uh . . . wanted to explain, give you my number in case you wanted to get in touch . . . but I guess . . .”
“I didn’t get it. I haven’t been back to the center.” I pause. “What did you want to explain?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Oh.” I look away, glance at the door. I need to go.
“So how’s Zac?” Walker asks.
Oh. I turn back around. He knows. I wonder how. Embarrassed, I shrug. Walker’s eyebrow shoots up. He nods thoughtfully, but his jaw is tensed, pulsing. He’s angry. How’s Miranda? I almost shoot back.
“Right,” he says, glancing over his shoulder again. “Well . . . I should probably mingle . . .”
My insides roil. No, don’t go! I want to yell. I want to reach for him. In fact, standing here an inch away from him and not being able to touch him gives me an idea of what prisoners must feel when they stare through iron bars at blue sky.
“Sure.” I manage to squeeze the word out through a closed-up throat.
“It’s good seeing you again, Didi.” He gives me a terse smile and then turns and starts walking away.
“We broke up.”
Walker turns back around to face me.
“Zac and I.” I close my eyes, scrunch them shut. “We weren’t really together. I just . . . I was mad. And I needed somewhere to go.”
I open my eyes. Walker is studying me with—indifference?
“How are the wedding plans?” I blurt. “Did you set the date yet?”
Walker’s lips edge up into a half smile. My face starts to flame. Why am I asking? I don’t want to hear it.
“There is no wedding, Didi.”
“Miranda was my ex, emphasis on the ex. She broke up with me straight after I got injured.”
“What?” I ask, dumbfounded.
Walker shrugs. “It was the best thing that could ever have happened to me.”
“But—” I start to ask.
“She found out I got my sight back and wanted to pick up where things left off.”
My mouth falls open. She did what? Walker nods, seeing my expression.
“Yeah, I told her I wasn’t interested, that things were over, and then you walked in.”
“Oh,” I manage to say. “It just . . . it looked . . .”
“I know how it looked. I tried to explain. You didn’t want to hear. And I don’t blame you,” he adds quickly.
“But you left,” I say quietly. “You went with her.”
“I was discharged. I was a mess. Dodds, the whole thing with you, knowing I’d screwed up your life. I tried calling you, but you wouldn’t answer. I left messages and you didn’t respond.”
“I lost my phone,” I say.
He looks surprised.
“And I left a note with José. Or rather, I left it at the desk for him, but I guess . . . maybe he never got it?” He frowns. “I thought that if you wanted to call me, you would call me. But you didn’t. I was going to try again a few weeks ago . . . but then I found out you were dating that Zac guy.”
Oh my God. The cogs turn. This whole thing has been one big chain of miscommunication from end to end.
“So . . . then . . .” I can’t stop hope flaring hot in my chest.
Walker takes a step closer. I stop breathing.
“Didi,” he says, and the way he says it is a caress, a whisper of fingers across my skin. My stomach flutters in response. His eyes flit over my face, taking me in, and though his jaw is still pulsing, I see the storm front in his eyes lift a little. But then he shakes his head, softly and a little sadly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t give you what you want.”
The hope fizzles out, my stomach turns to lead. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”
“The love you want,” he answers simply.
I draw in a breath that feels like a punch to the solar plexus. What’s he saying? I don’t understand. He doesn’t love me. Didn’t love me? Ever?
“I—”
“Didi!”
I turn around in a daze. My parents are right behind me, looking at me with expressions of ecstatic surprise on their faces.
“Hi,” I stammer.
“What are you . . . ?” my mom asks.
I turn back around, my head spinning, but Walker is gone, heading through the crowd toward the back of the gallery. My shoulders slump.
“Didi?” my mom says. She pulls me around, and the next thing I know I’m in her arms and she’s hugging me and I cling to her, having to suppress a sob, and I register my dad has his arm around my shoulder too and that we’re blocking the doorway, and then I remember why I’m not talking to my parents and reel backward out of my mom’s arms.
“What’s the matter?” she asks. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. Are you okay? Are you doing okay? We’ve been so worried.”
“We wanted to respect your need for space,” my dad explains, “but you could have called and let us know you were coming to Miami. We could have caught the same flight.”
I look at my mom. They came together? Has she told my dad? Does he know about José?
“He knows,” my mom says as though she’s read my mind. “He’s always known. That’s what I was trying to tell you. I guess you haven’t been listening to your messages?”
I look at my dad. He gives me a tight smile and a tense shrug. I look back at my mom. “I don’t get it.”
My mom bites her bottom lip. “Shall we move inside and get a drink, find somewhere to talk?”
I look between her and my dad. My dad smiles at me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and starts steering me to the bar. “Come on,” he says.
• • •
“We all make mistakes,” my dad says five minutes later when, wine glasses in hand, we stand in a quietish corner. “It’s how you learn from them that matters. You never burned down a kitchen again, did you?”
“You’ve forgiven her?” I ask him in amazement, ignoring his reference to my childhood arson and glancing at my mom, who frowns at me.
“We were on a break, Didi.”
“A break?”
“Yes. We’d decided we needed some time apart to assess how we felt about each other.”
“And?” I ask.
“And after some reflection, we’ve decided we want to stay married and work our issues out.”
“But . . . but . . .” I shake my head. I can’t comprehend what she’s saying. “What do you mean issues?”
My mother smiles again. “A lot of relationships flounder when the kids go off to college. It’s normal. Your father and I were going through a bad patch.”
“A bad patch?” I ask, still stunned.
“Yes, a bad patch. We do have them. All couples do.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head angrily. “You two don’t. This whole time I’ve been thinking you have a perfect relationship . . .” They can’t possibly know what this means to me. It’s like discovering that I’m the daughter of the Goblin King or that I’ve been living in The Truman Show. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because they were our problems to sort out,” my mom explains, stroking my cheek. “And we didn’t want to involve you.”
“It was a stupid thing to do,” my father cuts in. “We see that now. We should have been open and honest with you. We just didn’t want you to be anxious or upset.”
I shake my head. I can’t believe they lied to me about something so huge. “You’re therapists! You should know how to parent better,” I hiss.
My mom nods. “I’m a sex therapist, not a parenting expert, but yes, you’re right. We made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“So you still love each other?” I ask skeptically.
“Yes, of course we love each other,” my dad explains. “We just have some work to do. All relationships take work. The biggest lie is thinking that they don’t.”
My mom takes my dad’s hand and squeezes it, and they look at each other all dewy-eyed, and for a moment I’m fifteen again, wanting to make hurling noises, but I can’t because my heart is too heavy in my chest. There’s no room for laughter.
“And what about you?” my mom asks, nodding her head over my shoulder at Walker. “Did you two sort things out? Aren’t you dating Zac now?”
“I . . .” I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes.
“For what it’s worth,” my dad says with a slight wince, “though I may have seen a little more of Walker than I’d ever have wanted to, I like him. You two obviously have a connection.”
“Obviously not, actually,” I answer.
I blink furiously to stop the tears from coming. I don’t want to cry here and I don’t want to have to explain to my parents what’s just happened, because then I really will cry and I might not be able to stop. I’ll save it until we’re back at the hotel. I’m hoping I can crash their room, because I never booked one. I had a fantasy that I’d get here and Walker would sweep me into his arms and carry me off to the boat he named after me. Hah. How stupid am I?
“Um,” I say. “I just need to go to the bathroom.” I’ll lock myself in a stall until I calm down or until everyone has left. Everyone being Walker. It’s the only way through this.
My mom tilts her head at me. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, it’s okay,” I tell her.
She nods, clearly not buying my attempt at a smile. “Okay,” she says, “we’ll take a look at the art while you’re gone. I quite like that one over there.” She points at the exploding love heart. I recognize it from my date with Walker. If only I’d known it was prophetic back then.
I stumble toward the bathroom sign, head down, trying to bash my way through a sea of pointed elbows and ear-splitting art speak. I don’t notice him until he’s standing right in front of me and I almost crash into him.
I look up. Walker’s scowling down at me. “I didn’t get to finish,” he tells me, blocking my path with his body.
I shake my head at him. I don’t want to hear any more. I need to get into the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. I can’t bear being this near to him.
“I can’t give you the kind of love you want,” he goes on.
Yeah, I got that the first time, my expression tells him. I try to step around him.
“You want a lobster. You want guarantees,” he goes on, sidestepping me and blocking my path again. “You want a fairy tale.”
I stare at him, breathing hard, angry now.
“And fairy tales don’t exist,” he tells me, shaking his head sadly.
Have he and Sanchez been exchanging philosophies on love?
Walker takes a step closer, and the static charge between us roars to life. His hand brushes the back of mine, taking me by surprise, muting my anger.
“But this does,” he says in a low voice that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He gestures at the inch of space separating us. “What’s between us . . . this exists. It’s real. It’s not always perfect, and I can’t promise you it won’t sometimes go wrong, like it just did, or that we’ll last forever. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to plan for the future, and I know you want that. I’ve seen too much, witnessed too much, to be able to put stock in the future anymore. But what I can promise you is that every single moment of the present I’ll be with you. And I know this—that what we have means something. It’s significant. It’s not ‘I can’t live without you’ love. It’s ‘I don’t want to live without you’ love.”
I can’t stop myself. The tears start to fall.
Seeing me cry, Walker’s face falls. His hand comes up. He brushes away a tear with his thumb.
“Didi,” he murmurs, his voice as gentle as his touch. “Just because the fairy tale doesn’t exist doesn’t mean the happily-ever-after doesn’t either.”
I stare into his eyes and see the softening in them, the dark clouds parting.
“I see you,” he tells me, his hands already holding my face, his thumbs stroking my jaw. He takes his time, his eyes locked on mine, until the very last moment before he kisses me.
I don’t hear the clapping at first because I’ve fallen so hard into that kiss that my body is reacting like a power station being switched on for the first time. Walker pulls away first, and that’s when I hear it. I open my eyes and turn around and find the whole gallery has formed a circle around us and is clapping and whooping, led of course by Sanchez and Valentina, who’s wiping away tears.
“So romantic,” she mouths at me, clutching a hand to her heart.
I grin at them, and see my parents with their arms wrapped around each other laughing too. And then I see Isaac, smiling grimly, walk over to Sanchez while checking his wristwatch.
“Pay up!” Sanchez hollers, slapping Isaac on the back.
Walker puts his arm around my shoulders and laughs, a belly laugh, a new laugh I’ve never heard from him before.
Isaac shakes his head, still smiling, and takes a thick wedge of cash out of his wallet while Valentina looks on disapprovingly. He hands it to Sanchez, who waves it in our direction, grinning like a clown on crack.
“What was the bet?” Walker calls.
“That you two would get it on before midnight. Isaac here thought it might take a couple of days. But I know what a charmer you are underneath all that manly gruffness.”
I look at the clock. It’s two minutes to midnight.
“You better kiss her quick before she turns into a pumpkin,” Sanchez jokes.
Walker turns to me. “I better,” he says.