Page 88 of My Fault
“Your turn,” I said.
He seemed to be thinking it over and then asked, “What’s your favorite color?”
I laughed.
“Out of all the questions in the world, you ask that one?”
He grinned as he waited for a response.
“Yellow.”
“Your favorite food?”
“Macaroni and cheese.”
“We’ve got something in common then,” he said, resting his hand on my forearm. Being with him like that…was wonderful. Wonderful and so, so new.
“Why do you like Thomas Hardy?” he asked. That one surprised me. It meant he’d been watching me and knew what I was reading.
“I guess…I guess I like books that don’t necessarily have a happy ending. They’re more real, more like the way life is. Happiness is something you have to look for, you don’t just find it so easily.”
“You don’t believe people can be happy?” he asked. Now the questions were getting personal, and my body began to stiffen.
“I think you can be less unhappy. Let’s put it that way.”
He scrutinized me, as if trying to grasp what was passing through my mind. It made me uncomfortable, being looked at in that way.
“Are you unhappy?” he said, stroking my cheek with one of his fingers.
“Not right now,” I said, and he smiled back at me sadly.
“Me neither.”
Was I just imagining it, or were we crossing an invisible line to reach our real feelings?
“What do you want to study when you’re done with high school?”
Okay, that was easy.
“English literature. In Canada. But I want to be a writer,” I said. Just then I realized maybe Canada was no longer such a good idea.
“A writer…” He seemed to be thinking it over. “Have you already written anything?”
I nodded. “I’ve written some stuff, but I’ve never let anyone read anything.”
“Would you let me read something you wrote?”
I shook my head. I’d die from shame. Plus, the things I’d written were more like diaries than stuff you could just share with people.
“Next question,” I said before he could push me on that point.
He looked at me attentively, hesitant at first but then resolute, choosing every one of his words carefully.
“Why are you afraid of the dark?”
That I didn’t want to answer. Not just did I not want to—I couldn’t. Thousands of memories bunched together in my mind.
“Pass,” I said with a trembling voice.
