All Played Out

Dinner. Like an actual dinner date. With conversation. And awkward silences. And more awkward silences. I pick up a fork and push at my food, trying to think of what we could possibly talk about. Then he groans.

“Good?” I ask hopefully.

He gestures with his fork while making another series of appreciative noises that despite not being words somehow read as Oh my God, yes.

“It’s my mother’s recipe.”

“It’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

I look down at my plate, hiding a small, satisfied smile. “Thank you. But it’s just pasta. It’s not as if I made the tortellini from scratch.”

“None of that,” he says, pointing his fork at me. “This is excellent. The end. Full stop.”

“Okay. Thank you,” I say again.

“One thing, though. You have to promise me never to cook for any of our friends.”

My stomach clenches at the word “our.” I still haven’t checked off that particular item—“Make new friends”—despite the Frisbee game and the party. I’m waiting for it to feel right. For it to feel like I belong to them and they belong to me. But I realize then that Torres counts. Whatever else he might be . . . we’re friends.

“Why can’t I cook for them?”

“Because then they’ll always want you to cook. And this . . .” He circles his fork over his plate. “This is mine.”

I smile and shake my head. “So selfish.”

“With you? Hell yes.”

“With my food, you mean.”

He suddenly looks serious. “With you. No more calling that ginger dude to help you with your list. I don’t like him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“Sure, I do. Matty something or other. He came to a few parties earlier this year with Dylan. And what kind of name is Matty anyway?”

“Selfish and jealous. You’re not doing so hot tonight.” I lift my eyebrows in mock disapproval. “Anyway, Matty is just a friend. And it’s not like you have to do everything on the list with me.”

“It is like that.”

“No, Mateo. It isn’t. Besides, you’re busy. You have practice and games and classes. You might not always be around. School is out in about a month, and then . . .”

“ And then what?”

“And then I graduate.”

When a stunned silence follows, I realize I maybe should have broached that particular topic with a bit more finesse. Until now, he’d been continually shoving pasta into his mouth and still managing to hold up his end of the conversation. Now he does neither.

“You’re twenty,” he says finally. “You can’t be graduating.”

“I am. I came in with all my requirements pretty much out of the way. And since I don’t have a job, I petitioned to take more than eighteen hours each semester.”

“So that’s what the list is. One last hurrah. And then what?” He fiddles with the napkin beside his plate for a second, and then continues: “You leave?”

Am I imagining the tension around his mouth and his shoulders?

“Not immediately. None of the graduate programs I’m applying to allow me to start in the spring semester, so I got a job as a research assistant for one of my professors. That will last me through the end of the school year. I’ve applied for a few summer internships, and hopefully one of them will work out, and then after that, theoretically, graduate school.”

“Damn. You never stop, do you? It’s one thing after another. Now I get why . . .”

He trails off, and all my worst fears are coming true. We’ve barely been at the table for ten minutes and the differences between us are already abundantly clear. We do fine when we’re just joking or flirting or kissing, but beyond that? What do we have?

“Now you get why I need a list just to have a life?” I finish for him. “I did warn you that I’m usually pretty boring.”

“No, that’s not it at all. And you’re not boring. Stop saying that.” He places his fork down on the table forcefully enough to make a thud. After a pause, he continues, “I was going to say that now I get why you’re . . . starving.”

I squint at him and shake my head in confusion. “I’m starving?”

“Yeah. For adventure. For connection. I saw your face when you were sitting up on the Rusk statue. It was such a little thing, but your expression was like you were on top of a mountain, like you were taking a break and opening your eyes for the very first time in your life. I get it now. I understand. That list? I don’t think you’re doing it to have a life. I think you’re doing it as a last resort, like those shock paddles they use at hospitals. I think you’re trying to wake yourself up. Before it’s too late.”

It’s as if he’s just reached into my chest and handed my heart to me, and all I can think is . . . touché. I tore him down when we first met, pinpointed his flaws, so I suppose turnabout is fair play.

“You’re giving me too much credit. You’re right . . . I have missed out on a lot, and it has made me eager to make up for what I’ve lost. But that list is just a list. It’s a challenge to myself to explore a different side of life. Not a cry for help.”

“You’re a smart girl, Nell. You don’t think it’s possible that you latched on to that list as a lifeline because a part of you needed it? Otherwise, if it was just about having a little fun before you graduated, why step so far outside of your comfort zone? You could have just made more of an effort to hang out with Dylan and stupid-name Matty. You could have done things you already know you enjoy. There’s a middle ground here, and you jumped right over it into the deep end. No one does that unless they’re already drowning in some other way.”