My stomach sank, remembering the pictures of Abram and other women I’d found during my initial online searches after Chicago. I rubbed the ache at my sternum. He’d already explained, but still. I was never going to be able to think about Abram with someone else and feel “okay” about it. I wasn’t like my parents that way. I never would be.
“Anyway,” Lisa continued, “Now, it’s clear to me that I was wrong. And I’m sorry I didn’t push you on this, make you listen.”
Frowning, I grunted at my wayward contemplations and silliness. “No. You’re right. I didn’t let you tell me.”
“I could’ve emailed you, then you would’ve read it before you realized what it said.”
“No. I was being a stubborn moron.” I needed to let this go.
Universe, take note: this is me letting this go.
Her gaze moved over me, assessing. “I am sorry.”
“I know. I am too.”
“I’m also sorry I always seem to be making mistakes and doing the wrong thing with you.”
“You’re not.”
She gave me a look, like come on. “Mona. Be honest. I irritate you.”
“No! What? It’s not like that. It’s—”
“What?”
“I want you to—to treat me like—like—”
“Like?”
“Like you like me.” Gah! That sounded trite. Unfortunately, it was also the truth.
She blinked at me, her gaze clouding with confusion. “You don’t think I like you?”
“Do you?”
Lisa opened her mouth, hesitated, and blinked, as though surprised by her own thoughts. Closing her mouth, she frowned at me, swallowing and shaking her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, but she looked ashamed, her gaze shifty, her posture stiff.
Her outward display of guilt helped my own thoughts crystalize. “I think, you and I, we’ve spent a long time not knowing each other. I think we’ve made assumptions about each other that might not be true.”