The Natural History of Us (6 page)

You
know what would rock? A delete button for life. A magical way to erase memories and unwanted feelings. The tingles, the lingering hope. The little things you never thought you'd miss, like simply talking to the boy you once loved, or
not
talking because you didn't need to. You already know all there is to know. Breakups are crappy any way you slice it, but the worst part, even worse than seeing the boy who once owned your heart now happy with someone else, is going from speaking every day, hanging out, and sharing all aspects of your life, to nothing.

Zip, zilch, nada, thanks for playing.

“Remember that night the mariachi band dragged you onstage?” Justin flashes the lopsided grin that still haunts my dreams as he slides across the cushioned bench. “You shook a mean maraca.”

Sitting down, I squeeze my eyes shut as the night in question floods my mind, along with a dozen others. Of course I remember it. And, of course, the hostess would choose to
seat us in the same booth we sat in that night, our three-month anniversary. I'm at the point where I expect the universe to mess with me now.

“Stop.” I lift my hands and shake my head, needing it
all
just to stop. Taking a deep breath, I crack open my eyes and resort to begging. “Please, whatever it is you're trying to do, can you just… not? This is hard enough without your walks down memory lane, okay?”

I've decided that I must have royally screwed someone over in a past life to deserve this twisted brand of torture. Tonight's game plan? Experiencing the “joys of newlywed dining.”

When your groom happens to be your ex? Not so joyous.

I keep blinking, waiting to wake up to my Bob Marley alarm and have it still be Monday. I'll walk into FACS, ignore Lauren altogether, and this time, Coach will stick to the normal lesson plan.

So far, all that hoping has gone about as well as Gabi Avila's covert spy mission.

The girl's blue-black mane is speckled with bright, candy-apple-red chunks—her fashion sense rivals that of Lady Gaga—and she's wearing thick, dark sunglasses indoors, yet she somehow expects to hide from Carlos and Lauren behind a peeling menu. She's almost as deranged as I am for agreeing to come out here tonight.

“Look,” I say, gaze still glued to the latest “Gablos” drama explosion, “Can we please just stick to the list of questions Coach gave us? That's why we're here, not for whatever weird game you're trying to play.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Hmm. That went over a bit too easily. Shifting my eyes back across the table, I watch as Justin's smile softens. I pretend the sight does nothing to my stomach.

“Peyton.” He lifts a hand as if to cover mine, but, at my raised eyebrow, brings it back to his lap. “I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”

I snort, a totally attractive sound, I know. But hey, it's not as if I'm trying to impress him.

That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

“Moving on.”

Yanking out the sheet detailing tonight's assignment, I scan the list of questions, eager to get this horrific show on the road. Maybe if I'm lucky, we'll fly through the suckers and be done before the waitress even appears.

Some of these I already know the answers to, like
what are your feelings on marriage
? What with Justin cheating on me, his never-ending stream of women, and the heartless stunts his dad and stepmom have pulled through the years, I think it's safe to say his stance is a hard “no” on that one.

“What do you think are the components of a satisfying, successful marriage?” I ask instead, setting the paper down so he won't see how badly my hands are shaking.

I avoided the blatantly obvious question, but this one is every bit as pointless. Based on our prior history, it's almost a given he'll say there's no such thing as a successful marriage. Which makes it surprising when he replies:

“Honesty. Commit—”

“Really?” I interrupt with a laugh. “You're gonna start with honesty?
You
?”

Justin leans forward, the paper tablecloth crinkling as he rests his elbows on the surface. With the way he stares into my eyes, it's like he can see straight through to my soul. Maybe Gabi had the right idea hiding behind the menu.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I am. Look, Peyton, I know you don't believe it, but people change a lot in three years. I'm not the complete asshole you think I am.” I scoff under my breath, and he holds my gaze for another long moment before the thick
knot in his throat bobs and he glances away. “At least not anymore.”

A twinge of guilt hits my stomach. Which, when you think about it, is so stupid.
He
cheated on
me
! But, luckily, before I can do something even more foolish, like apologize for my well-founded doubts, he turns back and continues.

“Honesty,” he says it again, this time emphasizing the word. He holds up a hand and starts listing components on his long fingers. “Commitment. Telling your wife she's the most beautiful girl in the room.” He pauses there, three fingers extended, and my hand clenches beneath the table. With a grin, he adds, “Remembering what a lucky bastard you are that she ever chose you in the first place.”

That's four, according to the tally, and my pulse picks up speed with each uptick.

“Never going to sleep angry.”
Five
. “Getting all your shit out there before it can build.”
Six
. “And kissing her every damn chance you get.”
Seven
.

He leans back, leaving his hands extended in the air, and I just keep staring at his fingers. I chastise myself—
stupid heart, he's not saying these things about YOU
!—but the longer the fingers remain up, the longer the moment stretches, the more the air around us shifts. The cool tickle of awareness races up my spine, and as I shiver, chill bumps prick my skin.

Justin's eyes dip to my arms. The corner of his mouth twitches and as he curls his hands closed, he shrugs. “That's my opinion, anyway. What about you?”

My opinion? I'm discombobulated.

Before dinner = fully combobulated.

Now = completely and totally without combobs.

“Uh.” My head is void of all thought but I clear my throat, grasping to pull
something
out of the air. Another trait to list or quality to check that he didn't already cover.

Since when did the player of Fairfield Academy become a frigging marriage expert?

“Those are good,” I say, stalling as I think about my parents who have, hands down, the most incredible marriage ever. They support each other, they listen, and they make room for daily bouts of silliness. Remembering a few of their more gooberific moments I add, “Laughter.” Justin looks at me. “I think it's important to laugh with the person you're in love with.”

He nods as a small smile plays on his lips. “I like that one. You should write it down.”

Oh, right
.

We're not just sitting here, dredging up our pain-filled past for kicks. We're actually supposed to turn these answers in and use them to begin our joint paper. Grateful for the excuse to break eye contact, I grab my oversized purse and dig for something to write on other than the tiny margin of the question sheet or the butcher-paper tablecloth. Usually I'm much more prepared.

And much more combobulated.

“Here.”

I glance up to find Justin holding out a pocket-sized notebook. The same kind he always used to scribble in, filling the pages with his secret thoughts. Thoughts I once felt honored to read.

He jiggles it, both daring and telling me to take it, so I reach across the table and grab it, meeting his eyes as I do.

“Hey guys, welcome to Carmela's.”

I jump, wrenching my hand back.

“I'm Francine, and I'll be your server tonight.”

As my pounding heart leaves my throat, the waitress reaches for a crayon. She writes her name upside down and backwards in the middle of the tablecloth along with a drawing of a sun. “Sorry for the wait. They sat you guys all at once.”

I give a closed-mouth smile as she grabs an overflowing bowl of chips and bright red salsa from the tray behind her and plops it on the table. This girl has impeccable timing.

Blowing a fringe of bangs from her forehead, Francine reaches into an apron adorned with impressive anime flair. “The school's pre-approved menu is on the insert,” she says, hoisting an order pad. “If you want to pay separately, tonight's special is chicken fajitas for two. What can I get y'all to drink?”

I go to answer, but Justin beats me to it. “I'll have a Coke, and she'll have a Sprite along with a glass of water with lemon.”

He glances at me, obviously proud at knowing one of my many odd little quirks, and lifts an eyebrow as if to say, “I remember everything about you.”

Swallowing hard, I force myself to look away, watching our waitress instead as she grins, taps a black-painted fingernail on the corner of her cute frames, and then skips off for the kitchen with seemingly no more pressing concerns than a bunch of high school kids stiffing her on tips. I stare at the bowl of salsa she left behind, wondering when was the last time I felt
free
.

I snag a chip from the bowl and scoop a large glob of the red stuff. “We should get back to the assignment.”

If Justin is disappointed I didn't take his bait with the drinks, I can't tell. He simply reaches over and slides the sheet across the table before reading, “A strong marriage depends on the ability to share with each other at the deepest levels. One of the foundational elements to a strong relationship is to let your partner know you appreciate them. Think of three positive characteristics that your partner embodies and tell them in a statement that says, ‘I appreciate…'”

He looks up. “Does this remind you of that time we played three questions?”

I snatch the paper from his hand.

“I'll start,” I say, determined to focus on the here and now and take this assignment seriously. Even if it bloody kills me.

My fingers hesitate only for a moment before opening the spiral notebook. It requires Hulk-like strength to beat back the impulse to read the words Justin has tucked within the pages, but I do it, turning to a clean one near the middle.

“Justin, I appreciate what a leader you are on the team,” I say, staring at the page and not the confounding boy in front of me. It's been three years since we were together, but some things I can't escape. Listening to my dad praise his favorite catcher and watching the results myself from the bleachers are two of them. “The other guys listen to you, they respect how hard you play, and Dad relies on your work ethic to set an example.”

The bench seat groans as he shifts his weight. “It's not that big a deal.”

“But it is.” I glance up to meet his eyes. For all of Justin's bravado and confidence, he's never been able to take a sincere compliment. And although he's my ex and deserves to roast in the fiery pits of hell, or at the very least a really hot sauna, he's not without his strengths.

When his eyes fill with what appears to be cautious optimism, I quickly look down again and continue. “I appreciate your sense of humor. Even in the most stressful of situations, you can always make people smile.”

“Carlos is the clown,” he mutters, drumming his knuckles on the table. If I weren't so eager to complete this assignment, I'd sort of enjoy seeing him sweat.

“
Carlos
gets laughs by acting up and pulling stunts,” I say, for reasons unknown, needing him to believe I mean it. Clearly, I'm a glutton for punishment. “
You
make a self-effacing joke, say something unexpected, or even flirt, making people feel good. You distract them.”

When Justin doesn't argue again, I write down the third and final trait. “I appreciate the way you listen. If someone has your attention, they have all of you.” I swallow hard as my eyes
bore into the thin paper. “They're the only thing on the planet that matters for those brief precious moments.”

Snapshot images flash in my mind. Us talking in his room, at the ranch… in the doghouse.

“You listen without always needing to give advice,” I tell him, “but you offer it when asked. You look them in the eye and you remember everything.”

Even when it's annoying
.

I finish writing and when I have nothing left to do, I lift my head. Soft brown eyes drill into me, almost pleading with an expression that wavers between disbelief and hope. The hope confuses me, and for his sake, I pray the disbelief fades once he gets away from his parents. Either way, I have to force myself to hold still under his scrutiny, not to flinch or look away.

Finally, he asks softly, “Do you really mean that?”

Clenching my hand underneath the table, I nod.

Because the truth is, as torturous as being here with him is and as revealing as that question was, I
did
mean it. And I'm glad I answered. With my own broken heart and embarrassment, it's easy to forget that Justin doesn't have people to tell him these things. There's the guys, I guess, and his brother, Chase. His housekeeper, and my dad… but that's it.