Dream On: A Rom Com

The Idiot

LUCY

The blood starts pulsing in my head so hard I am unable to leave. Instead, I return to the table, drag over the chair, and hunker close to Deon, whose hair falls across his forehead. He wears the forlorn, collapsed expression of a homeless man on a park bench in the rain.

The other diners have resumed chatting.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as the words tumble out. "Do you know what it was like for me to go back to being friends––just friends––after that weekend we spent together?" My voice is grim because I am dead serious. The need to straighten Deon out hangs over me, a bit of unfinished business I should have tackled months ago. I poke my finger in his arm as hard as I can, but he doesn't flinch. "You're lucky we were ever on speaking terms again, much less friends. Think about that."

The look on his face tightens as my laser stare shrinks his testicles to half their size.

"Whatever happened?" My question is long overdue. "I never could work it out. Was it a climate change?" A pause to gird my loins, Deon's favorite expression when he wants to lighten the mood. In my case, it serves to strengthen my resolve.

I lay out my grievances in chronological order. "First, the trip to the beach, then a great make-out session. Dinner." And I sigh a little on the inside, thinking back.

"I've done nothing but regret how I handled the whole thing," he says, but before he can continue, I resume my list of wrongs.

"Think about us practically living together the whole weekend. Three days. Three days and we barely came up for air." My throat is a puddle as I recite our history, our failure to maintain the most perfect connection ever. I take a long gulp and add, "And then you don't talk to me, put me on ignore. What was that about?"

He swallows hard and I'm so close I can see the hairs growing in since his morning shave. I have the urge to reach over and brush a hand along his chin, even though I'd like to drive a fist into his face at the same time.

"I'm an idiot," he stammers. "I'm an idiot, please––"

"What you said was I'm not ready. Is that an explanation?"

The waves collapse against the deck supports, and for a few short moments this calms me, allows me to accept what is obvious. Our evening together has deteriorated beyond any possibility of repair.

"Lucy?" His voice has no strength behind it.

"You ignored me. For five and a half days. I texted you. Called you once or was it twice? Very shitty behavior."

My wine glass languishes next to the bread plate and I reach for it, finish the contents, contemplate pouring myself another, but decide against it.

"And pretending we never happened so Phoebe wouldn't know?"

"What choice did I have?" he says. He's uncomfortable, but I don't care. "You didn't want Phoebe to know."

"No," and I duck my head. "I was embarrassed. Mortified. There I was, hanging out with you like we never happened, never got together..."

Deon hangs his head, stares at the deck. "I'm so sorry."

"I should have told her. Phoebe thinks you're a nice guy." I look straight at him. "Nice guys don't hide behind their widowhood." Widowerhood?

We sit like that, Deon's head hanging, me aiming my laser hatred bolt straight between his eyes. Figuring I have overstepped the boundaries of friendship this time. This was a crappy friendship, though, riddled with resentment on my side, and who knows what on Deon's side.

"You really hurt me and it took a long time to get over it, but I did. Because guess what? I didn't want to lose my best friend."

"Oh, thank God," and his breath gushes, the relief on his face transparent. "So you're not cutting me––"

"I'm not taking a chance this time." I suck in my stomach. "We were TWT. Totally Wrong Together. So leave me alone." My voice rises, and although I don't look around, I can feel eyes on my back as the chattering around us ceases once again. "Leave me the hell alone. I'll work on my Instagram and my cakes and my lesson plans and you do whatever it is you do when you're not working. God knows what that is," and I swallow an intake of air, "since you're always working.

"And don't go confiding in Phoebe. Don't you dare. She was my friend way before she was yours."

Thinking I'll be the first to break the news to her, outrage her on my behalf before Deon has a chance.

I stand, sling my bag onto my shoulder.

"Don't call. Don't text...and on second thought, I don't care if Phoebe knows. Tell her whatever you want. I'm sure she'll wonder what's up soon enough." I pause. "I may tell her myself after all."

Deon looks as if I've neutered him without anesthetic.

Outside the restaurant, I trot to the corner, and call for an Uber, glancing back at the restaurant after giving my address to the driver. I settle in for the short drive behind a stone wall of certainty, hardly believing I have said such horrible things to Deon.

At home I take a shower, and as I scrub I think back to that time on the beach, the slow burn, going from throwing seaweed at Deon to kissing him, not believing how good it felt to have his arms wrapped around me. Running my hand through his hair for the first time ever, such a silly thing and yet I'd wanted to do that for a long while, even if I didn't admit it to myself. Wondering why now? Thinking why not now? Later that night, making love in his king size bed, thinking he'd somehow passed a milestone in his grieving process.

Only he hadn't.

In the kitchen, I pull out a loaf of bread, raisins, chocolate, eggs, cream, the ingredients for a New Orleans style bread pudding. Comfort food, not that I am hungry.

The movement of the knife soothes, and I slice the bread, chop it into squares. Switch on my phone, search for the Zydeco playlist, and when it kicks in, my feet move to the beat.

I'll make a large pan of pudding––my father loves it, so I'll take it over to my parents' tomorrow morning for breakfast.

It's only when I've gotten everything together and in the oven, and the delicious scent rises, permeating the whole house, that my mind goes to Deon.

What will life be like without him?