Thursday

Almost as soon as I got back to San Francisco, I went to a ninety-minute ballet conditioning class, hoping that the familiar ache of quad, hamstring and abdominal muscles would cancel out the unfamiliar ache that has been consuming me.

It didn’t.

I didn’t tell anyone about our fight or the arrangement. I told Callie about the ladies room encounter with Montana Reed, and that kept her busy Googling “crazy Montana Reed” and discovering that #crazyhotMontana is a meme. I told Franklin about the sex stuff, and the concept of not ejaculating broke his brain.

Now I’m back to working lunch shifts at the restaurant.

I didn’t reply to John’s texts asking where I am, or when he wrote to tell me that he was on his way home yesterday. I still don’t know what to say. It feels like we had something that could have been great and we blew it. Maybe fucking each other has made him dumber and me more uptight and socially-inept.

I’m at the bar waiting for a drink order when I see him on the sidewalk. Dark hair the color of my favorite old Led Zeppelin T-shirt, the one I will never get rid of. The first thing I feel is relief. The second thing I feel is butterflies. The third thing I feel is mild rage. He is on the phone, of course. Women turn their heads as they pass by, checking out his butt. I die a little inside, at the thought of anyone else grabbing onto it. I have to retreat to the restroom, to prepare to face him.

Franklin knocks on the door. “Your boyfriend’s waiting for you in your section.” I hear him say “lucky slut” under his breath.

John looks tired. It stops me in my tracks. He’s still wretchedly handsome, but there are dark circles under his eyes. I can see that, despite his glasses. Just when I thought I was used to the idea of being surprised by him, he knocks me on my ass with something totally unexpected. John Brandt looks humbled.

“Hey Tiny Dancer.”

“Hello.”

“Is it okay that I’m here?”

“It’s a public restaurant, I can’t stop you from coming here. Did you hire the matchmaking service?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t you have meetings and work stuff?”

“I had Sanjay reschedule everything.”

“You did not.”

“I did. We pushed everything back a week.”

“Why?”

“So I can be around for you.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything.

“I’m sorry.”

“Good.”

“I miss you.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“Okay. Can I come back tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

He leaves a twenty-dollar bill on the table, kisses my cheek, and leaves.

Friday

He’s back.

He looks really tired.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“I miss you.”

“You look like shit.”

“You’re still mad at me.”

“Are you sick?”

“I don’t get sick. Are you still mad?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Should I leave?”

“I guess.”

“Are you going to come with me to the wedding?”

“When do I have to decide by?”

“Next week, I suppose.”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s fate. Maybe you should go to that wedding by yourself and meet the love of your life there.”

He looks like he’s fighting back tears. Or maybe he’s angry. “I don’t believe in fate.”

“What do you believe in? Contracts?”

He reaches out for my hand, his lower lip quivering.

I am this close to falling apart.

“I believe in us,” he says, softly. “I’m sorry I fucked up. I was scared.”

“I know.”

“Should I leave?”

“Yes. I have to work.”

“What about after work?”

“I have to go to a class.”

“Can I come back tomorrow?”

“If you want to.”

“Okay.”

He reaches for his wallet.

“Do not leave me a tip.”

He puts his wallet back in his pocket. He kisses me on the cheek.

I start to say something, to tell him I hope he does come back tomorrow, but he brings his phone to his ear and starts talking to Sanjay. Business as usual, I guess.

Saturday

He hasn’t come back.

He didn’t come back.

I can’t believe he didn’t come back.

He hasn’t sent a text or called.

But then again, neither have I.

Both Callie and Franklin think I’m blowing it. It’s all too obvious that we’ve had a fight and that I’m being stubborn, but I refuse to discuss it with them. They assume I’m just getting bored of him because that’s what I usually do. God, I wish I were bored of him.

When I get home from the restaurant, I call my brother. He had sent an ominous text that simply said: Call me when you can.

Shit, he’s breaking up with me. That’s the first thing that came to my mind when I read the text. My devilish brain almost believes that John has asked my brother to tell me that it’s over. Or—he told my brother about the agreement. If he told him about it then it is over. If he didn’t then I guess there’s still hope. For what, I’m not sure.

“Hey,” says my brother when he answers.

“Hi,” I say hesitantly. “What’s up?”

“I’m engaged.”

“What?!”

“Did you really not hear me?”

“To Katie?!”

“Yes, genius, I’m engaged to my girlfriend.”

“Uh, she’s your fiancée now, genius.”

“Right. She is.”

He’s smiling. For the first time in days, I remember what happiness feels like.

“Congratulations. I’m so happy for you. She’s really great.”

“Yeah. She is.”

“Mom and Dad must be thrilled.”

“They are…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just talked to Johnny.”

“Oh shit.” He’s breaking up with me. My brother just softened the blow with this engagement news.

“What?”

“You what—just tell me. Tell me why he called you, just get it over with.”

“What are you—I called him. To tell him that I’m engaged.”

“You called him before you called me?!”

“Can you not…What is wrong with you right now?”

“Nothing. Everything.”

“John’s going to be my best man, I needed to ask him about his schedule. Just shut up and listen to me. He’s a mess right now.”

“Who?”

“Johnny Brandt.”

“He’s never a mess.”

“He tried to hide it, but I think he’s really sick. I’ve never heard him like this before.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said he has the flu, but I think he’s messed up about you. He told me about the fake-fake relationship thing.”

“Shit.” I can’t believe he told him.

“I’m not saying it’s normal or even that it makes sense, I just get how it would make sense to Johnny. Shortest distance between two points and all that. It doesn’t make the point that he’s trying to get to any less important to him.”

I sigh.

“You’re being stubborn.”

Oh so it’s going to be this kind of call. “There’s no scenario where you actually try to look at things from my perspective instead of his, is there?”

“I get your perspective. We don’t need to discuss your perspective. I’m trying to give you my perspective. On my best friend. Are you listening?”

I sigh again. “Yes.”

“Johnny is the only true romantic I’ve ever met. Not in the lovey-dovey way, but the way he views the world. He has this universe of ideas and emotions inside of him, he just doesn’t feel confident that he knows how to get them out and into other people’s heads—and no, he’s not anywhere on the autistic spectrum, he’s just…You think he’s ever told me that he cares about me with words? I’ve had a thousand conversations with him where it’s like he’s not even aware that I’m in the room, but he hears everything, he responds when necessary. If I need him, if I ask for anything, he’s there. He’s always been there, whether I ask for help or not, actually. That job I took with the startup, in Austin? They didn’t offer me moving expenses or enough to cover first and last month’s rent. Johnny wired me the money immediately, I never would have asked. Did you know he offered to buy Mom and Dad a house? Of course they wouldn’t let him, but.”

I can’t believe he didn’t tell me that.

“He’s the best possible version of a child of two workaholics. I mean, Mom had to teach him how to make a sandwich.”

“Come on.”

“Well. She had to teach him how to make a decent sandwich, with vegetables in it. Dad taught him how to ride a bike. I taught him about sex…”

I inadvertently snort-laugh.

“I mean I told him about the basics, I know he’s surpassed me in that department by now, shut up. I think he learned about girls from being around you.”

I scoff at that, even though I am quietly bawling my eyes out.

“We’re so different. We don’t understand each other.”

“Yeah. You do. It’s just that you’re both trying to understand each other the wrong way.”

I finally find a Kleenex and blow my nose. “Maybe you should marry John and I’ll marry Katie.”

“You stay away from my woman. I know I’ve always been protective of you, because you’re my little sister and I don’t want you to get hurt. But I think you’re being overprotective of yourself right now, and if anyone’s going to hurt you, it should be Johnny, because it’ll make you stronger and he will do whatever it takes to make things right.”

“He might not want to see me.”

“I don’t care if he wants to see you or not. Go check on him. As a friend. He sounded…lonely.”

The Lyft driver is outside my apartment building within ten minutes. I text Callie to let her know where I’m going. I text John to know that I’m coming. I don’t hear back from him. I have the driver wait for me at a Whole Foods while I buy ingredients for my mom’s special soup.

I ring the doorbell, expecting someone to answer the door—Gracia or Sanjay or Richard or some tech nerd employee whose name I do not know. I knock three times, the way Johnny always did when he came to our house. No answer. I panic. Because inside the brain where it makes sense that John would ask my brother to call and break up with me, it also makes sense that John isn’t answering his door because he’s dead.

I am so glad I still have his house key. And then I pause before pressing down on the thumbpiece of the door handle, because the sassy black lady in my brain is all: Wait, girl, just wait! What if this is all some kind of ruse to get you to come to his house? Some surprise grand gesture is waiting for you behind that door. Take a breath, get your shit together and make sure you look hot and lovable when you enter.

Okay, thanks brain, I’ll do that.

I shake off the panic and open the door.

I am not met with a surprise grand gesture.

I am met with a series of very sophisticated-sounding beeps.

The security system.

I drop my shopping bag and go to the security keypad. I guess now we’ll know if John really remembered my birth date. I punch in a six-digit code, plus the “off” button.

The system turns off. He got my birth date right. Of course.

“John?”

A few table lamps are on in the living room and foyer, the kitchen lights are set to dim.

The first room that I check is his office, because it occurs to me that he could be working with his headphones on, but he’s not in there.

When I get to the master bedroom door, after cursing my brain for presenting me with the imagined image of John in bed with crazy Montana, I poke my head in and see him in bed, alone, still.

“John?”

He grunts.

He’s alive.

I go over to the side of the bed and kneel on the floor. He’s like an infant, so sound asleep. I place my hand on his forehead, and the shock of my cool skin against his hot skin wakes him.

“You’re burning up.”

“You’re here.” He holds onto my hand with a weak grip.

“I’m here. You’re sick.”

“It’s not the flu. It’s you.”

“Well that’s just rude.”

“It’s not having you.”

“Who says you don’t have me?”

“I took TheraFlu to knock me out.”

“You sound dehydrated.”

“You sound like you’re not mad anymore.”

“I just want to say one thing, and then I’m going to make soup.”

“Okay.”

I try to formulate the words in my head, so I get it right.

“Did you say it yet?”

“No. I just want to say that I don’t need to understand Giselle with my brain in order to dance the part.”

“I’m sorry I said that.”

“But what I’m saying is—I think I know what you meant. I think I know what the story means. A part of us has to die before we can really fall in love. The person we fall in love with protects us and brings us back from the parts that are dead or broken, even if we can’t be together on the same plane of existence. Even if we’re different. That’s what makes love real. I hate that you understood that before I did. I hate that you can understand that, but you can’t understand me. But I don’t need you to understand me. I just want to be with you. I love you. I’m here for you. I’m going to make you soup. Don’t get up.”

He squeezes my hand and mumbles something. I only understand the words “swan” and “time.” He is delirious. He is asleep.

* * *

I am asleep in John’s bed when I wake up and realize that he’s sitting next to me, watching me. His eyes are clear. I reach up to touch his face. He is no longer feverish.

“Damn, that soup really works.”

Last night I made him sit up in bed and spoon-fed him Steph’s Sickie-poo Soup and then he went right back to sleep.

“I think something was leaving my system. I think it was fear.”

“Or you were sick.”

“Don’t be cynical.”

“Okay.”

He holds my hand. “I love you.”

Damn, that soup really really works.

He holds my hand and strokes my arm. “I’ve been falling in love with you for most of my life, but I didn’t know it until two years ago when I saw you dance in Pittsburgh. I made a last-minute decision to go to Swan Lake. I didn’t tell anyone. I had a meeting with my parents, in Cleveland, I was supposed to return to Palo Alto that night, but I just…wanted to see you. But I didn’t know if you’d want to see me, so. That’s when I realized that I wanted to marry you. That’s when I realized how beautiful and important ballet is and how important it is for you to do it. It was an epiphany. I was going to go say ‘hi’ to you backstage, but Julian was there. I figured it just wasn’t the right time. Yet.”

Gasp. “The lavender bouquet.”

He smiles, surprised that I remember. “Yes.”

Of course I remember. I thought about that lavender bouquet for a long time. I kept it until long after it had dried out and gathered dust. I had fantasies about the mystery man who left me that bouquet. “That was you?...Of course that was you. Todd, the guy who was at the backstage door that night, told me I had a handsome secret admirer. I had no idea who it could be. I kept hoping the guy would come back, or make himself known.”

He shrugs. “I’m the guy. Here I am.”

I pull him down to me and kiss his beautiful face. “I’m your girl. Here I am.”