“Drawing huh? Are you good at it?” he asks curiously. And now I’m having déjà vu.
“What do you mean?” I joke.
He laughs. “Well are you drawing stick figures,” he asks, crumpling up the plastic that his sandwiches were wrapped in and shooting it in the nearby garbage can. His shot is successful.
“Impressive,” I joke.
“That’s my talent, making trash shots.”
“I can do a little more than stick figures.” I laugh.
“What about you? Is trash ball really your talent?” I ask, making use of the excuse to really look at him. He looks like Cal, he has his voice but he doesn’t necessarily sound like him. This guy, that wears a t-shirt and jeans, plays with kids, and jokes around, is different. And today, unlike the day we talked in my hotel room, he seems care-free and unburdened. It’s refreshing.
“Well, I play the guitar,” he says, leaning on his elbows. “But you probably already know that.” When he runs his hand through his messy hair I remember when he’d let me do that.
Wait, what?
“You…play the guitar?” I ask in disbelief, and his eyebrows raise.
“Yeah…I never…umm, Cal he never…?” he asks awkwardly.
“No!”
“I used to be in a band,” he says with a shrug, and my mouth drops open.
“You’re kidding?” I can’t believe this.
He nods shyly. “We played a few gigs here and there. It’s not like I was selling out concerts or anything,” he says modestly.
“You’re in a band?” I’m completely shocked.
He smiles, then sighs. “Used to be,” he adds. “It’s a little hard to stay in the band when you never know if you’re available.” His playful smile is completely gone. I nod my head and think about the fact that every moment Cal was with me was an interruption to his life. I can’t help but feel a little guilty about that.
“Can I ask you a question?” He leans forward on the table.
I bite my lip. Usually that means a really awkward question will follow. “Sure,” I say preparing myself.
“Well,” he says, running his hand through his hair again. Cal used to do it as a flirtation; I think Chris does it when he’s nervous. “Do you come from money or something?”
I let out an amused gasp. “Uhm, no. Why do you think that?” I ask hesitantly.
“It’s just, well the car you’re driving isn’t exactly a base model and then, uhm…the ring you threw at me the other day looks pretty expensive, and Chicago isn’t exactly the cheapest place to live, and you haven’t mentioned having a job…” he says, letting out a nervous laugh and rubbing the back of his head.
“Oh no. Well…” I try to think of how to explain this.
“You—uh—Cal made good money working for the Crestfields.” I see his hand tighten around his drink.
“Do you know exactly what did I there?” he asks tensely. I know his dad didn’t have an obvious affection for them. It would seem Chris’ opinion of them must not be much better.
“I don’t know much. The details of your job were mostly confidential,” I say, clearing my throat. Now I wonder what his job was. I can’t imagine him being entrusted with such a valuable position knowing he could become Chris at any time.
He sighs angrily and shakes his head.
“The only thing you told me was that you were a liaison for Public Relations and Research and Development,” I say with a shrug. There’s another round of silence. I reach in the bag Mrs. Scott packed and hand him a juice box. He smiles gratefully and takes it.
“A shot of Tequila would be a little better but grape juice should work just as well,” I joke. He nods as he opens it and drains the little box. I’ve been trying to restrain myself this entire time but there’s so much I want to know, and I know he wants to know about me. We’re like two polite strangers with a kid. Anything too personal would be going into the realm of intimacy, or maybe that’s my own paranoia.
“Now is it my turn to ask a question?” I say quietly, playing with my empty sandwich bag.
“Go for it.”
“You don’t remember anything?” I ask, folding my hands together. His head tilts a little to the side.
“Not just about me or our—my life with Cal, but before me?” I ask. I’m waiting with bated breath. If he could just remember something about us, about me, about our life together. I know it’s pathetic but it would be some consolation. If Cal loved me and he’s a part of him, he should feel something. Even if it’s locked away in another part of his mind, he should remember something. His eyes lock into mine. For a second, he looks at me the way Cal used to, with an intensity that overwhelmed me, that used to consume me. This time it spits me back out.
“I’m sorry, Lauren, but I don’t remember anything,” he apologizes and stares down at the table. I try to pretend like the words aren’t a knife through my heart. I can’t do this. I can’t cry and feel sorry for myself every time I’m around him and things don’t go my way. This isn’t about me or him.
It’s about Caylen.
“No it’s okay. It’s nothing to be sorry over.” I plaster my practiced smile on my face. I really hope he buys it. So what? Even if he remembered something, it wouldn’t matter anyway. It’d just leave the single thread of hope more time to catch fire, the fanning of a flame I need to stomp out fast.
“It looks like rain,” he mutters, and at first, I think it’s an attempt to fill the increasingly awkward silence that has followed this discussion. But I know it’s not when I look up at the previously sunny sky that’s now overshadowed by darkening clouds.
“It does.” I sigh. At least Mother Nature is doing us a favor, excusing us from our uncomfortable little outing. We grab our items and throw them in the trash. I push the stroller as we make our way to the parking lot, ending what started as a nice trip to the zoo. Thankfully, Caylen was sleep before her mommy managed to suck all the fun out of it.
Chapter 28
Chris
When I was six years old, my aunt had come to stay with us for a few days. She sucked as a cook, but always insisted on doing it. She told me one morning that she’d have my favorite cake waiting for me when I got back from school. Like any six year-old kid, I was stoked. Cake was one of my favorite things. Who am I kidding? It still is. I told all my friends about it, thought about it all day at school, and when I got home, I ran straight to the kitchen. There it was on the counter. A two-tier cake with blue icing. My favorite color. She was so excited for me to try it. She cut me a huge piece, but before I could take a bite, my mom sent her to get something out of the kitchen. The moment I took a bite, I spit it out. I can only imagine the face that I must have made. I told my mom how bad it tasted and that I didn’t want anymore.
My mother sat next to me and told me that when my aunt asked how I liked it, I had to tell her it was really good. I was confused. It wasn’t good. It was awful and I told my mom that. She then explained to me that my aunt worked really hard to make the cake for me and it’d make her really sad if I told her I didn’t like it. As a six year-old, I reminded her that I would be lying and that she had told me lying was wrong. She sat me on her lap and said sometimes lying was okay if it was for a good reason. She told me it was just a little white lie and would make my aunt happy. When my aunt came back into the kitchen and asked me how the cake was, I told her it was good. She was happy. I felt good about making her happy even if I didn’t really like the cake. I had told my first white lie. Sometimes I wonder, if I had told my aunt the truth all those years ago, that she couldn’t cook, would she have actually learned how to cook and not completely suck at it to this day?