Page 23 of All Our Almosts

“Sophie, it’s fine.” He opens the fridge and peers inside. “People like you have to get mad once in a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how you are,” he replies. It’s almost dismissive, as he starts to pile pizza ingredients onto the counter.

“No, I don’t,” I insist, and I don’t know if I should be worried or offended about wherever this conversation is going. I turn my body towards him—chest pressing into the couch cushions—in time to see him shrug.

“The way your emotions are, you’re barely human. You feel maybe half the normal range of human things.” When I don’t reply, he adds, “It’s a compliment.”

“A compliment,” I repeat. “It’s a compliment that I feel half the human range of emotions? Thanks. I’ll keep that one in my heart right next to my other favorite compliment from today: I could’ve had a real science career if I wanted.”

“No, I mean—” He turns and sees something on my face that changes his tone immediately. “No. Shit, I’m sorry, I said that wrong. I mean—fuck.” He crosses the room, coming up to the couch until we’re face to face. His hands hover near my shoulders for a moment but then pull back, never making contact. “I just meant that you’re so understanding. You’re too understanding. You almost never let things upset you and always find the best in people. For fuck’s sake, you found the best in Elliot for three years. So if you get mad sometimes, it just means you’re human like the rest of us. That’s what I meant.”

His pleading expression lets the air out of my anger.

“You never liked Elliot, did you?”

He shakes his head. “No. I didn’t.”

I’m tempted to ask him why, but have a suspicion the answer will only hurt my feelings more. Instead I just say, “Okay.”

“You know,” he probes tentatively, “I still don’t know why you broke up.”

But at this point I’m too exhausted to unpack it all. I haven’t even unpacked it for myself yet, really. So I ask, “Another time?”

He nods.

Twenty minutes later, the pizza is hot and sliced and plated on the coffee table as the opening title for Arrival plays. Andy’s on the far right side of the couch, and my place is on the far left, but about halfway through the movie I abandon sitting in favor of lying down, and Andy benevolently lets me rest my feet on his legs. I suspect he’s still making amends for telling me I have 50% of the normal human capacity for emotion earlier, but I’ll take it.

“If you were Amy Adams, would you do it?” I ask, pointing with my pizza slice towards the TV. “Would you go try to talk to the aliens?”

Andy half-shrugs. “I doubt I’d be anyone’s first choice for it.”

“Yeah okay, but if for some reason the FBI showed up at our door and said it has to be you. Would you do it?”

He thinks for a few seconds. “I don’t know. I’m not a particularly brave person. And I can barely make conversation with humans, I doubt the aliens would like talking to me.”

“I love talking to you,” I say, because it’s the truth. “Actually, sometimes you’re too easy to talk to and I say things I mean to keep to myself. Like the Jeff story today. It’s like I have no self-control around you.”

“Well, if the FBI needs a Sophie interpreter I’ll volunteer.”

“You better,” I say, smiling as I roll onto my side. “But I know what you mean. Connecting with people is hard.”

“Are you kidding?”

“What?”

“It’s not hard for you at all. You can start a conversation with anyone. I’ve seen you make a friend in ten seconds flat.”

“That’s not true.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re so wrong that I’m not even having this discussion with you.”

“Well okay, I guess making conversation can be easy if you’re willing to just say whatever pops into your head. But making real friends is hard. I’ve always found it hard.”

He doesn’t argue.

The movie plays on for a few more seconds before my mind catches on something else he said.