Page 55 of All Our Almosts

“The whole Elliot thing.”

He isn’t even looking at me, eyes fixed on his plate like it’s the horizon and the sway of our conversation is making him seasick. “I still don’t actually know what you and Elliot said to each other last night, so I have no idea.”

I shove a bite of pancake into my mouth, buying a few more seconds to figure out how to explain the revelations from my largely sleepless night.

“Well, he definitely said some jerky things, but in hindsight it wasn’t that big of a deal. And he also said some kind of… sweet things.”

Andy puts his fork down with a thwack. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“I mean…” I swallow my food, then continue. “He’s not perfect, but I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what you talked about?”

“Well, he saw us dancing.” I feel myself blushing—hard—at the memory, but I push through, dissecting my pancake into smaller and smaller bits. “So he accused me of being involved with you behind his back and basically tried to blame you for our breakup. And I said you had nothing to do with it, and we broke up because of him. Then he said that he wanted me back, and that he would be better this time and that he loves me. And then he kissed me, which was bad because we’re broken up, but I also get it because he was caught up in the moment. So anyway, I bit him so I could break away from the kiss, and that’s when I hurt my arm. It’s not like he intentionally tried to hurt me. And I kind of hurt him first.”

Andy is silent, and I know that means he’s pissed. So I look up and say, “You’re pissed.”

He exhales. “Yes, I’m pissed.”

“Don’t be. He really didn’t mean any harm.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“Because I don’t know!” I rub my palms over my eyes, realizing this will be harder than I thought.

Andy’s voice is ice cold as he asks, “You’re thinking about getting back together with him, aren’t you?”

“You don’t get it.” I push syrup around my plate, appetite gone. “It’s hard out there. I know people hit on you out in the wild all the time, but it’s not like that for the rest of us. I don’t have infinite options, and it’s not like grad school is a great time to start a relationship. And anyway, he really did sound sorry. I just don’t think it’s realistic to wait around forever for some hypothetically perfect person.”

“That’s bullshit,” he bites. “Anyone would be better than him.”

“Andy, with all due respect, you don’t know what our relationship was like.” I stand from the table in a huff, bringing my dish to the sink and starting to scrub at it forcefully. “Things got bad at the end, but we had some great years before that. His family is great. He wants kids. And besides, even if I wanted to date other people, I have no idea how to even do it anymore.”

I plop my plate onto the drying rack, then cross the kitchen towards the front door, putting more space between myself and Andy. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor and then he’s standing, affronted.

“What are you talking about?”

I try to verbalize the intangible. “It’s like… all I know is what Elliot likes. That’s all I’ve done for three years, and I don’t know if it’s going to translate with other people.” I’m pacing now, wearing a hole into Andy’s pristine hardwood floor. “I don’t know how to, like, signal interest in someone I meet, or make conversation on a date. I don’t even know how to kiss someone who’s not him anymore! I haven’t kissed someone else in years. How does it even work? I don’t remember! You know what I mean? It’s a safer bet to stay with the guy I already know.”

“Don’t say that.” Andy squeezes his eyes shut, hand gripping the edge of the table like this conversation physically pains him.

“Look, I know you don’t like Elliot and don’t want us back together, and I get that. But I’m also serious.” My gestures grow more animated as I speak. “The kissing thing is a perfect example: I’ve only kissed one person for almost half a decade. What if I developed bad habits? What if I misinterpret their body language, or do weird things with my tongue, or—”

Andy is a blur as he rushes towards me, grabbing both sides of my face.

“Sophie,” he says, and the word is a command.

“Yes?”

His dark eyes bore into mine. “Stop talking.”

And then he kisses me.

He kisses me.

And it’s a tidal wave.

Andy crushes his lips to mine. There’s a wildness to his touch, a recklessness in the press of his fingertips against my scalp. And for a moment I can’t move—paralyzed by the soul-shaking novelty of being someone who’s shared everything with him before, but never this.