“Careful,” I said, adjusting it in the car mirror. “It took me a long time to get it just right.”
You seemed about to say something else, then stopped abruptly and focused on the road. You’d been doing that more often. Silencing yourself or deciding something wasn’t worth telling me after all. It bothered me, but I didn’t want to be a pest.
It wasn’t until we were sitting across from each other at one of our usual restaurants that I realized there wasn’t much on the menu I could eat.
“Something I forgot to tell you. I’m a vegetarian now.”
Your eyebrows rose half an inch. That was it. Dad threw a fit about it—said I was just making things more difficult—and even Papa wasn’t thrilled since his cooking tended to be pretty meat-centric. They compared it to the times when I was younger, and I went into “cat-mode,” convinced it was a phase and that I’d move past it.
“Tell me more about your decision,” you said.
I shrugged. “Just doesn’t feel right to eat animals.”
“Perhaps it’s because of your relationship with your cats?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t seem fair to treat my cats like kings and queens while other animals are being tortured.”
“What about animals that are hunted?”
“That’s better. At least they have a chance at survival. And they’re not being mistreated up until their death. It’s like we’re eating their pain and suffering.”
You nodded and I relaxed. My answers seemed to satisfy you.
“I’m afraid there’s not a lot here for you to choose from. Would you like to go somewhere else?”
We didn’t have time to find another restaurant and still make it to the theater before the curtains opened. And this was your favorite place.
“It’s fine. I can just order a baked potato and salad.”
You frowned and studied the menu. When our server came by, you very charmingly asked if the chef could provide something vegetarian for the both of us, and our server said he would ask. A few minutes later he returned to tell us your request had been granted. I wasn’t surprised. You usually got what you wanted.
“Fixed,” you said happily. I smiled. You made everything easy.
Well, almost everything.
“So, how did you and Bruno meet?” I asked. Since our first encounter at the pool, I’d been trying to determine the nature of your relationship with him. You only ever referred to him as your friend. When I’d come out to you in middle school, you seemed pretty unfazed by it, so I didn’t think you were trying to hide your sexuality from me. But then, you never really talked about that either.
My question prompted another one of those sudden silences. You studied my face so intently that I had to replay my words back in my head.
“Is that inappropriate to ask?” Papa was always getting on me about what was appropriate or not. I didn’t always know when I was being rude.
“No, not at all.” You took a sip of wine and swilled it around your mouth before sucking it down. Stalling. “Bruno and I met through a mutual friend. Someone who was very dear to both of us.”
“Oh. That’s cool. What’s their name?”
You pressed your lips together so tightly that the normally pink flesh paled.
“His name was Orlando.”
Orlando. The name rippled through me like an electric current. There was power in names, you’d told me. Mater had said the same, had taught me how to summon her in dreams by name alone. This name—Orlando—was sacred to you. I could tell just by the way you’d said it.
“Was?” I asked. It sounded grim. And why had you never mentioned him to me before? “Where is he now?”
You closed your eyes. When you opened them again, they were full of pain. Old pain. Deep too. Another swallow. Another long look.
“He passed away before you were born.”
You’d loved him. I didn’t know how I knew it, but I did.
“How did he die?” I asked softly. I wanted to be respectful, but I was curious. You didn’t talk very much about your friends, at least not with me.
You took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He was a beautiful dancer,” you said, as if that answered my question.
“A ballet dancer?” I asked and you nodded. “Is that why you love the ballet so much?”
“Yes.” You stared at your hands folded in front of you. There was so much more you weren’t telling me, but I didn’t know the right questions to ask or where to even begin. “Can we talk about something