The Geography of You and Me (17 page)

Maybe they were never meant to have more than just one night. After all, not everything can last. Not everything is supposed to mean something.

And what other evidence did he need than this? Lucy looking around for the waitress while he played with his napkin under the table, nervously shredding it to pieces. This was the worst date of all time, and it wasn’t even a date.

“So,” he said finally, and she looked at him with slightly panicked eyes.

“So,” she echoed, managing a smile. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” He bobbed his head too hard. “Really good. How are you?”

“Great,” she said. “Everything’s good.”

His stomach dropped so far he could just about feel it in
his toes. It was like moving through sand, this conversation, slow and plodding and full of effort. He could feel them both sinking it. Soon they would be lost.

Lucy was biting her lip, and beneath the table, he could feel her knee jangling up and down. “You like San Francisco?” she asked, and he nodded.

“It’s nice so far,” he said, hating himself.

The waitress arrived to save them, at least for a few seconds. “Can I start you guys off with anything to drink?” she asked, her pen hovering above her notepad.

“Just water,” Lucy said, and Owen held up two fingers.

“Me too.”

The waitress let out a little sigh, then headed off to get their waters, and another silence settled over the table in her wake, this one worse than the last. A woman at the next table threw her head back with laughter, and in the corner, another group erupted into cheers. There were couples on dates and a family celebrating a kid’s birthday; there were people at the bar taking shots and a group of men clinking bottles of beer just behind them. Suddenly, the twangy warbling of the mariachi band felt too loud and the walls felt too close.

Across from him, Lucy leaned forward on the table, her face full of determination. “So have you been here before?” she asked, and before he could stop himself, Owen threw his head back and groaned. When he lowered his gaze again she was looking at him in surprise, and he eyed her right back. Then he stood up.

“This is the worst,” he said, and this time, she smiled for real.

“It’s not the best,” she agreed, rising to her feet so that they were facing each other across the table, the empty basket of chips between them.

“So there’s this taco truck down by the marina,” he said, and her smile widened. “Any interest?” When she didn’t answer right away, he raised his eyebrows. “Unless you’d prefer not to…”

She laughed. “Let’s go, Bartleby,” she said, and so they did.

It was better outside.

They
were better outside.

As they walked toward the harbor, a few inches between them, Lucy could feel the horrible awkwardness beginning to melt away. They were leaving it behind, all of it: the greasy restaurant with its overpowering smells, the too-loud music, the vastness of the table between them, the stilted conversation.

Out here, they could both breathe again. And as they walked past lit restaurants and darkened bars, Lucy couldn’t help glancing sideways at Owen, reassured by the sight of him: his white-blond hair, which had grown longer, curling at the ends; that loping walk of his, which made him bob like a puppet on a string. When he’d looked at her across the table in the restaurant, his eyes had been darting and nervous, but now they met hers with a brightness that matched her memory.

He lifted a long arm, pointing at a street that ran up a
steep hill. “Our place is up there,” he said. “If you look out the bathroom window, you can sort of see the water.”

“No better place for an ocean view.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I can think of a few.”

“But in the bathroom, you can sit in the tub and pretend you’re a pirate,” she explained, as if it were obvious, and he laughed.

“Shiver me timbers,” he said, then steered them toward a square blue truck that was parked outside an Irish pub. Two men in white aprons were taking orders from a large open window that stretched across one side of it, and the striped awning above them flapped in the breezes from the nearby water. “You’re going to love these. I’ve only been here a few days and I’ve already had about a million.”

“I can’t wait,” she said as they joined the small line. “I’m completely in love with everything about Edinburgh except the food.”

“Not even the haggis?” he joked, and she rolled her eyes.

“Especially not the haggis,” she said. “Do you even know what’s in that stuff?”

“Only the best ingredients around,” he said as he dug his wallet from his pocket, his eyes on the menu. “Sheep’s heart, sheep’s liver, sheep’s lungs…”

Lucy wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t know about the lungs.”

“It’s a delicacy,” he said with a grin. “A Scottish delicacy.”

“I think I’ll be sticking with tea and biscuits.”

When it was their turn, Owen insisted on paying and Lucy let him, even though she wasn’t sure if his dad had
found a job yet and guessed that money might still be tight. But there was something endearing about the way he waved her off, and now that they’d finally found a kind of hard-won rhythm again, she didn’t have the heart to spoil things over a few dollars.

As they strolled down toward the harbor, they could hear the boats knocking against the docks and the slap of the waves. A few gulls circled lazily overhead, and when they were closer, Lucy could see the tall masts of the many sailboats, which made a series of zigzags across the horizon. They found an empty bench along a path filled with bikers and joggers, and they sat on either end of it, the bag of tacos between them.

“Much better,” Owen said, leaning back with a happy sigh.

“I think we’re better suited to picnics, you and me.”

“Apparently,” he said, handing her a taco wrapped in tinfoil, which was warm against her half-numb hands. The cold here wasn’t like Scotland, with its raw, battering winds, but the evening air still had a bite to it. Lucy was grateful for this. It was the middle of the night in Scotland right now, and the chilly weather was helping to keep her awake.

She hadn’t slept much on the long flight, and when they’d arrived at the hotel a few hours ago, she’d been too anxious to nap. Her parents had immediately disappeared into their room across the hall, insisting they were ready to pass out, but she knew that wasn’t true. Dad’s phone had
been glued to his ear ever since the plane landed. Even as they’d waited for their luggage, he was pacing along the serpentine perimeter of the conveyor belt, and he spent the whole limo ride into the city bent over his phone, furiously typing e-mails. Lucy had raised her eyebrows at Mom in an unspoken question, but she only shook her head.

At the hotel, they’d waved to her before ducking into their room, which was right across the hall from Lucy’s. “Have fun with your friend,” Dad said, and just before the door closed, she could hear the sound of his phone ringing again.

Lucy had told them she was having dinner with an old friend who’d moved to San Francisco, and it was a measure of how distracted they’d been lately that they hadn’t even questioned this. They should have known as well as anyone that Lucy didn’t have any friends from New York.

Still, she wasn’t exactly sure why she’d lied, or why it seemed to be coming so naturally these days. Two nights ago, back in Edinburgh, she’d done the same thing to Liam when they’d gone to see a movie.

“It’s a
film
,” he was correcting her as they walked in.

“A movie,” she persisted. “Which you see at a mooooovie theater.”

He rolled his eyes. “A
cinema
,” he said, then pointed to the counter. “Would you like some sweets?”

“I’d like some
candy
,” she said with a grin, and he threw his hands up in defeat.

In the half-darkened theater, they talked while they
waited for the movie to start. Liam’s family was going to see some relatives in Ireland over the break, and Lucy was busy peppering him with deliberately silly questions about shamrocks and rainbows, when he finally managed to get a word in edgewise.

“So what about your trip?” he asked, rattling the bag of chocolates, then offering it to her. “You must be excited to see your brothers.”

“I am,” she said. “It’s been way too long.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to San Francisco.”

“The wedding’s in Napa, actually.”

“Ah,” he said, glancing over at her. “So you won’t get to see any of the city while you’re out there?”

They’d been angled toward each other, but now Lucy turned to the screen with a shrug. “Not really,” she said, and left it at that.

But throughout the movie, she found herself sneaking sideways glances at him, studying the sharp line of his jaw and his neatly trimmed hair, his steady, straightforward gaze. Deep down, she knew she was comparing him to Owen, but the differences were so obvious there hardly seemed to be a point. Besides, Liam was right here. With Owen, the details were a bit foggier. He was a voice in the dark. A presence beside her on a kitchen floor. A series of letters across the back of a postcard.

Liam was a possibility. Owen was just a memory.

So why was she still thinking about him?

Even now, sitting beside him on the bench, she couldn’t
seem to keep hold of her thoughts, which were skittering around in her head like marbles. It was only when their eyes met that everything went still again, and a familiar ease settled over her. Just being with him like this again—it was almost enough to make her forget it was only temporary.

As they ate, they filled in the gaps.

From him: stories of the road trip (the cities getting smaller as the spaces between them got bigger; the cheap motels and fast food restaurants; the endless cornfields and far-flung skies; him and his dad and the ribbon of highway and a good song on the radio), and of Tahoe (the blue lake and the ring of mountains; the tiny apartment and the restaurant below; the luckless job search; the short and unremarkable stint at a school there); and, finally, of San Francisco (where things might be different).

And from her: stories of New York (the packing and the leaving and the strange mix of feelings that came along with it), and of Edinburgh (the foggy mornings and the fairy-tale castle; her father’s new job and their family’s new town house; the smell of stew and the early darkness; the constant presence of the sea, which was not so very different from the one laid out before them, sprinkled with boats and the occasional bird).

As they talked, the sky went from pink to purple to navy, and the empty tinfoil husks on the bench between them had to be pinned down when the wind picked up. Lucy pulled her cold fingers into the sleeves of her jacket,
listening to Owen tell the story of Bartleby, the stray turtle they’d picked up on the way here.

“I keep trying to teach him to fetch,” he was saying, “or at least come when he’s called, but he doesn’t do a whole lot of tricks.”

Lucy smiled. ‘He’d prefer not to.”

“Exactly.”

“And your dad doesn’t mind having him around?”

“He’s always tripping over him,” Owen said with a shrug, “but it’s kind of nice for it to be more than just the two of us, you know?”

Lucy swallowed hard before managing a small nod.

“Even if it
is
just a turtle.”

“Turtles count,” she said. “And it’ll be nice for your dad to have some company next year. Have you heard from any schools yet?”

He shook his head. “It’s too early.”

“Where’d you end up applying?”

“Everywhere,” he said with a hint of a smile, but there was something behind his eyes that didn’t quite match up. “But I’m not sure I’m going.”

“Why?” Lucy asked. “Because of missing so much school this year?”

“Nothing like that,” he said. “I’ve got plenty of credits. It’s just…”

She twisted her mouth. “Your dad?”

He nodded.

“But I’m sure he’d want you to go.…”

“I can defer a year,” he said. “Wait till we’re more settled.”

Lucy gave him a long look. “And he’s okay with that?”

“He doesn’t know,” Owen said, and his voice cracked over the next words. “But how can I leave him, too?”

He looked so sad, sitting there, folded over like a comma, his eyes dark and his face pale. Lucy had no idea what to say. For her family, separation was as normal as togetherness, though if it really came down to it, and if you really needed them, she knew they would be there. Still, how could she possibly tell a boy without a mother that it was okay to walk away from his father, too?

“I don’t know for sure yet,” he said, before she could think of a response. “I guess there’s still time to figure it out.”

“Yes,” she said, because it was all she could manage.

He gave her an uneven smile. “Thanks.”

“For what?” she asked, surprised.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But just… thanks.”

At some point, they’d moved closer to each other on the bench, and she realized only now that their knees were touching. Between them, someone had carved the word
MAYBE
into the wood in uneven letters, and she wondered if Owen saw it, too. She closed her eyes for a moment and let the word expand in her head:
maybe
. Maybe it was the cold, or maybe it was the conversation, or maybe it was something else that had pulled them so close. But here they were, angled together like this, their
faces suddenly too near, and she lowered her eyes, afraid to meet his gaze. The quiet between them had gone on for too long now to pretend it was anything other than what it was. There were no more words; all that was left were two faintly beating hearts.

For a moment, as they leaned toward each other, Lucy forgot about Liam so completely it was as if he’d never existed at all, as if he hadn’t kissed her hundreds of times, as if it didn’t mean a thing. Her mind was muddled and blurry, wiped clean by the boy on the bench with the magnetic eyes.

But somewhere in the midst of it all—the steady tilt toward each other and the sudden flutter of anticipation—she remembered herself, and almost without meaning to, she found herself leaning back, just slightly. It was barely noticeable, only a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to shift everything from slow-motion back into the awful, mundane speed of the everyday, and just as suddenly, Owen pulled back, too.