Free Where We Belong by Emily Giffin

thing I thought was missing was a proposal from Peter.
    “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I say instead, although I’m fairly certain that this is an overstatement if not an outright lie.
    She swallows and waits as we both stare at each other awkwardly then look away in unison.
    “Okay. How about this,” I say, focusing on a fleck of gold in the marble counter. “I ask you a question. Then you ask me one. We’ll take turns. Anything goes.”
    She nods, as I realize that it is a dangerous game for me. What will I tell her when she asks about him? The truth, of course, but there are so many gradations and interpretations of the truth that such a thing, in its pure form, practically doesn’t exist. At least it hasn’t in my life—and maybe that is true for everyone.
    “Okay. Let’s see … Do you have any siblings?” I say.
    “One sister,” she says, and then tells me that her parents thought they couldn’t have children but then got pregnant right after they adopted her. “Her name is Charlotte. She was a miracle,” Kirby adds, expressionless.
    “Are you close?”
    She shrugs. “Yeah, Charlotte’s cool. Really nice. And she’s a crazy good swimmer with the best butterfly time in the city’s history. She has Olympic potential—she’s that good.” She gives me a telltale eye roll and says, “Everyone loves her.”
    “Wow. Maybe a little too perfect?” I guess.
    “You could say that.”
    I smile, but she remains stone-faced.
    “Your turn,” I say.
    She bites her lip, then copies my question and asks if I have any siblings.
    “No. I’m an only child. My parents love to travel and thought it was easier with one child,” I say, the explanation I’ve always accepted at face value suddenly sounding ridiculous.
    She nods, then whispers. “Your turn.”
    I glance up at the pair of chrome pendant light fixtures above the island and remember watching Peter change the bulbs last week. It is the extent of his handiness. “Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask, hoping the answer is no.
    She shakes her head and fires back, “No. Do you?”
    I nod, thinking of my conversation with Peter, one that now feels as if it took place at least two weeks ago rather than less than two hours ago. “Yes. We’ve been together a few years.” I stop there, deciding that anything else is too much information, at least for now. Then I swallow and ask her about her favorite subject in school.
    “I don’t have one,” she says.
    “Fair enough,” I say, then wait for her turn.
    “Okay. I know this is sort of a rude question,” she finally says. “But how old are you?”
    I smile and say, “It’s not rude for another four years. I’m thirty-six.”
    I can see her doing the math in her head as I give her the answer. “I was eighteen when I had you. Your age.”
    She inhales sharply. “Oh,” she says, glancing away again. I study her profile, deciding that while our chins are similar, hers is better, slightly stronger than mine but still feminine. Her cheekbones are more defined, too, and I know where she gets them. I think of him now, again, in a rush of visual memories, wondering how many more questions until we get to him. I feel myself start to yawn, try to stifle it and lose the fight. She yawns back, as I remember reading that the urge to sleep is a powerful biological response to stress and pain, both of which I’m feeling now.
    “I should go,” she says, as I notice dark, bluish circles under her eyes. “I know it’s really late.”
    My heart sinks, yet a larger part of me is relieved that she won’t be staying. That his name hasn’t come up—and that maybe it never will. Maybe I’ll never have to tell her the painful memories that I’ve spent eighteen years trying to bury.
    She stands, making a slow move toward the doorway.
    “Where are you going?” I ask, expecting her to tell me she has a friend or relative in the city.
    She removes a wrinkled piece of paper from her back pocket and reads off