I’m conscious that Elliot and I are in a bit of a social fishbowl, with Sabrina and Nikki clearly tracking how much time we spend orbiting each other. So, despite feeling constantly aware of him, I don’t really speak to Elliot much at the picnic and it makes me crazy, wondering what he’s thinking about all of this. He spends most of his time talking to Danny, while Nikki, Sabrina, Dave, and I catch up. I get the distinct impression that once Sabrina and Dave get time alone in the car on the way back they’re going to explode in exasperated agreement that Sean is Really The Most Boring.
Based on my own observations, though, I can’t really blame them. Sean is tuned in to Phoebe, but is otherwise fucking around on his phone, or jumping into conversations only to add his thoughts before ducking back out again. I have this weird, bubbling awareness that I’ve never been in this situation with him before—sitting with a group of my friends, rather than a group of art enthusiasts or benefactors dying to get Sean Chen’s attention. And apparently, unless he’s being courted, he retreats, socially. I have a niggling fear that he’s always been this way, it’s just never come up, because we’ve never hung out with friends.
Does Sean even have friends?
Around four, the clouds roll in and it looks like it might rain. Because California is turning into a dustbowl, we clean up happily, as if we are a bunch of busybody relatives getting out of the way for some newlyweds staying over.
Sean carries Phoebe on his shoulders toward the parking lot, and I follow just behind, with Sabrina, pushing Viv in the stroller.
“You have to admit that’s pretty cute,” I tell her, lifting my chin to the duo in front of us. The stab of protectiveness I felt for him earlier has morphed into a strange sense of desperation. Sean and I are a great fit; we were before Elliot, and we are now. I’m hunting for evidence. My fondness for the sight of him and Phoebe is proof.
My appreciation of his ass in those jeans is proof.
She laughs. “He seems like a really great dad.”
Sigh. “Message received.”
Keeping her voice down so others can’t hear us, Sabrina says, “We need to have a serious conversation about this. An intervention.”
“Don’t start.”
“When have I ever talked you out of a relationship?” she say, eyes wide. “Doesn’t that carry some weight?”
I open my mouth to answer when out of the corner of my eye I realize that Elliot is only a few paces behind us, and has probably heard every word.
I give him a knowing look. “Hey.”
He’s been studying something on his phone, but it’s all a ruse. Elliot is about as interested in dicking around on an iPhone as he is in sticking a spoon in his ear. He catches up with two long steps and comes between us, putting an arm around our shoulders. “Ladies.”
“You heard every word of that, didn’t you?” I ask.
He slants his eyes to me, shrugging. “Yes.”
“Snooper.”
This makes him laugh. “I was coming up to thank you for inviting me. It wasn’t like I was hoping to catch you discussing Sean.” In a quieter voice, laden with meaning, he mumbles, “Trust me.”
“The honesty here is a little disarming,” Sabrina interjects. “I’m not sure if I should make an awkward getaway or stay and hear more.” She pauses. “I really want to hear more.”
“It’s always been that way with us,” I tell her.
“It’s true,” Elliot says. “We’ve never been very good at lying to each other. When I was fifteen, Macy told me to change my deodorant. She hinted that the old one might not be working anymore.”
“Elliot pointed out the specific day he noticed I was getting boobs.”
Sabrina stares at us.
“I made Elliot bring Imodium with us when we went to see the Backstreet Boys, because I was having tummy troubles.”
“The embarrassing part of that,” he says, “is that I went to see Backstreet Boys.”
“No,” I correct him, “the embarrassing part was that I caught you dancing.”
He acknowledges this with a little flicker of his eyebrows. “I had moves.”
I laugh. “Yes. Movement is the only way to describe what you were doing.”
Sabrina snorts at us and, when Dave calls to her, jogs ahead, but Elliot stops me with a hand on my arm, and we get a few curious glances as the rest of the group passes us on their way to the parking lot. Luckily, Sean and Phoebe are still ahead of us.
“Hey. So.” Elliot tucks his hands into his pockets. His shoulders rise, pressing into his neck. He is still so angular, so long.
“Hey. So,” I repeat.
“Thanks for inviting me today.” He gives me this smile that I don’t know I can describe. It’s the smile that says, I know we’ve known each other forever, but it still means the world to me that you included me here. How he does that with a simple curve of his lips and some eye contact, I’ll never know.
“Well,” I tell him, “you should probably know that I hosted this entire thing so that I could invite you to meet my friends.” Only when I say it out loud do I realize it’s true. This is what Elliot does to me: he pulls honesty from those scrambled parts of my brain.
His eyes narrow, irises blooming as his pupils become pinpoints in the dim light beneath the clouds. “Is that true?”
“Why did you pull me back?” I ask him instead. I don’t even know what I want him to say here. How will I feel if he says that he’s come to his senses and realizes that I’m right, that we can only be friends? A treasonous part of me hopes I don’t find out.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
My chest is a jungle; my heart is the drum. Am I thrilled or terrified?
“Just wondering when we could get together next,” he says.
“Oh.” I blink over his shoulder to the towering eucalyptus trees swaying in the darkening sky. “I think I have some time off around Thanksgiving.”
He nods, and my heart droops a little. Why did I say that? Thanksgiving feels really far away.
Clearing his throat, he says, “Andreas is getting married in December—”
“December?” It seems an odd month for a wedding. Also, much farther away than Thanksgiving, if that’s when he’s thinking we’ll hang out next.
“New Year’s Eve, actually,” he clarifies, “and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me.”
New Year’s.
New Year’s.
He’s really asking me that.
And from the look in his eyes, I know that he’s aware of the weight of that date.
But instead of addressing that beast, I ask, “You don’t want to hang out until December?”
I watch the thrill of this pass through his hazel eyes. “Of course I do.” He laughs. “I’m free pretty much anytime you want to hang out. But since it’s a holiday I wanted to ask ahead of time if you’d come.”
“I can’t come as your date.”
Elliot shakes his head. “I’m not asking you on a date, Macy, while your fiancé and future stepdaughter are climbing into the car right there.”
“So, just . . .” I flail, searching for words, “to come with you?”
“Yeah,” he says, “to come with me. To Healdsburg.” Then he adds, “For the weekend.”
His shoulders drop back down as if it’s so simple.
Come along.
We’ll carpool.
It’ll be fun.
But the words settle between us, and I hear them in a different tone the longer I fail to reply.
Come away with me for the weekend.
Forty-eight hours with Elliot.
What will things be like between us in two and a half months, when they’re already so muddled now?
I blink over his shoulder to where Sean is buckling Phoebe into the Prius.
“Everyone would love to see you, and I’m the best man so it’d be nice to have a friend there with me,” he says, struggling to pull the conversation back from the brink of death. “Mom and Dad asked about you . . . they’re going insane knowing we’re back in touch.”
“I need to ask Sean what the plans are,” I say lamely. “He might have some art showing or event already in the books.”
Elliot nods. “Of course.”
“Can I let you know?”
“Of course,” he says with a small smile, a rumble of thunder bringing his attention to the sky. When he looks back down at me, I feel about as stable as the billowing rain clouds overhead. For a brief moment I imagine hugging him. I would wrap my arms around his neck and press my face there, breathing him in. He would bend closer, letting out that tiny little grunt of relief he always made. I want it so intensely it makes my mouth water, and I have to force myself to take a step back.
“I better . . .” I say, motioning over my shoulder.
“I know,” he says, watching me, expression tight.
Another rip of thunder.
“Have a good night, Elliot.”
And I finally turn to go.
