I grill Donovan a little while he finishes cooking:
How does he like working at Lighthouse Medical? Loves it. Is he dating anyone? No. How’s his father? Passed away a few years ago—he’s handling it fine, thanks for asking. Is he still keeping up on Dr. Who? He’s behind a couple seasons, but has a lot of opinions about Matt Smith.
It’s so funny, watching him talk. Here and there, I see the boy I grew up with. But he’s also matured so much. His voice has gone deep, gravelly. No more dyed black hair; he rocks his chestnut waves now. Even his fashion sense has changed; his baggy pants have tightened up, and he’s ditched the hoodie for a maroon button-up. He’s all grown up now—a professional doctor, just like he always said he would be.
Then there’s Jason. Physically, he looks so much like he did when we were young. Even his face retains its boyishness, his mischievous crooked grin intact. He can wear anything—so he does—just a simple cotton shirt and jeans, but he wears the clothes like he’s doing them a favor. When he leans back in his chair and his shirt kisses his skin, it’s hard to miss the definition in his chest, the bulge of his biceps. The only thing that really ages him is the black beard that climbs his jaw.
He’s different, though. His energy is softer, less chaotic. I remember the jock that pounded back beers in one shot. He drinks O’Douls now—nonalcoholic—and when I ask him about it, he says it’s because he’s almost always on call.
Have I changed that much?
I lost twenty pounds in 2015. Got a new job. Got a promotion in 2016. Gained back fifteen pounds in 2017. I let my hair grow long these days—dark waves that tumble down my shoulders. My fashion, I guess, is a little more British than when I left: wool sweaters and fitted trousers.
What do they see when they look at me? The young girl they knew way back then? Or do I look as old as I feel—thirty-one going on eighty?
We sit down at their table to eat. Donovan, as it turns out, makes a banging stir-fry. They want to know more about me, so I regale them with the tale of nearly beheading Santa’s helper with a lamp.
“Pearl’s here?” Donovan asks.
“Apparently. I don’t know how long she’s staying.”
“That’s nice, though. Having your mom here.”
I squint at him. “Didn’t realize you were so sweet on Pearl.”
He shrugs. “I like your family.”
“Are you having a secret affair with my mother? Is that what’s going on?”
“Oh, yeah. Pearl and I are eloping after the holidays.”
His eyes meet mine, and there’s a little smirk at the edge of his mouth. This is the Donovan I remember. The sands of time were kind to Donovan: he grew up hot, no other way to say it. But underneath all that, he’s still a dark soul, snarky to the core. My black-hearted boy.
“What about you?” Jason asks.
“What about me?” I counter.
“Fill us in. All the sordid details.” Jason wraps his hand around his glass and settles into his chair, as though he’s preparing for a long, epic tale. “For starters, you have a kid now.”
“I have a kid now,” I repeat. “Otto.”
“What else?”
“Well…I lived in London for a couple years. Then Bristol, which is like…England’s version of Long Island, I guess. I sort of fell into a job doing PR work for a music group there…the Polaroid Boys…”
“Hold up,” Jason interrupts, “You worked for the Polaroid Boys?”
Donovan lifts a palm. “Am I supposed to know who this is?”
“You know them—hold on…” Jason starts flipping through his phone.
I groan, “Please don’t…”
But it’s too late. He finds their one-hit wonder—a high-octane pop bop—and starts to play it.
Donovan shakes his head. “Still doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Dude! That’s so cool!” Jason looks at me, and the wide grin almost makes it worth it.
I shrug. “Sort of. They’re teenagers, so it was more like…glorified babysitting. I quit my job to come here. Sold most of my belongings. So. There’s that.”
“But you did it,” Donovan presses.
“Did what?”
“You loved music growing up. And you got a job in music. That says something.”
“You’re tenacious,” Jason agrees. “And they are a big deal. You should be proud of it.”
I’m not going to lie—I’m not accustomed to having hype men. The people I hung out with at work were mostly disaffected. Then there were the moms at the park, who always treated me like a black sheep—too young, too American. I had a roommate, for a while, when money got tight, but our conversations barely went beyond rent and who took the trash out last.
It’s strange to have not one, but two guys willing to sing my praises. I feel my face go hot under the attention, and I instinctively duck out of it, dropping my head to slide my hair behind my ear.
“Enough about me,” I say. “Someone else talk.”
Donovan upends the bottle of red into his glass, but there’s only a swallow left. “We need more wine for this conversation.”
“Stay put. I’m on it.” Jason pats Donovan on the shoulder and rises instead. He points to me. “You need a refill, too?”
I lift my glass. “Yes. Thank you, kind sir.”
He bows dramatically in front of me as he takes my glass and steps away to the kitchen.
We’re alone now. Mostly. I turn to Donovan and wiggle my eyebrows.
He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s that look?”
I shrug innocently. “It’s just…cute.”
“What is?”
“The two of you. Being so cozy.”
He scoffs. “Cute isn’t the word I’d use.” He sips from his glass gingerly.
“What word would you use?” I prod.
He looks off, contemplates, and then settles on, “Temporary.”
