Page 26 of Square Waves (Big Fan #2)
XXV
I spend the next four weeks busy. Planning. Packing. Having goodbye brunches with friends I haven’t kept up with nearly as well as I should have. Freaking out about whether or not I’m making the right call.
But most of all, I think about Leon. At first I try to resist it, to shut out the thoughts of his capable ease and quiet confidence.
Images of his dimple and his laugh and his forearms. Memories of his hands in my hair and his mouth on mine.
But after a while, I give up. There’s no use in pretending that I’m over him.
At first the memories just feel cruel, like evidence of everything I was too broken to fix or keep.
But once I stop fighting them, they take on a different quality.
Slowly, gradually, they become something else: a story about how I tried to change and grow.
About allowing myself to feel something thrilling and challenging for the first time in a long time.
When I finally tell Tilly about Leon, we agree that that night, I needed to turn him down.
I needed this time to myself, away from him, to sort through things on my own terms. But as my time in DC draws to a close and I get closer and closer to something new, I keep wanting him to be a part of it.
As I shed so many things, he’s the one I don’t want to shake.
When I arrive back in Berkeley, early Halloween decorations are up, houses outfitted with twelve-foot skeletons in Niners jerseys and yard signs campaigning for the upcoming election.
Cooper’s wedding has come and gone, and I was mostly able to avoid coverage of it.
Yesterday I ignored a request for an interview with Vanity Fair , a piece about the afterlives of political mistresses.
“A chance to tell your story,” the email said, and I actually laughed.
I’m trying not to make too many decisions too quickly, but I have a loose plan in place: I’ll stay with my parents for a semester while I take classes at a local community college and see if psychology is something I might be interested in pursuing more seriously.
I’ll work part-time for Willa, save up money, and hope to figure out the next steps by the spring.
When I told Tilly that I might maybe follow in her footsteps, she chuckled. Encouragingly.
As soon as I drop my bags, I head straight to Willa’s shop, eager to see it in action on a regular afternoon.
There’s one customer idly browsing the mugs and a couple inquiring about hand-building workshops.
I introduce myself to the guy working the register and then head toward the back in search of Willa.
But three strides later, I see them. The paintings.
I know immediately they’re Leon’s work. Simple wooden frames hold representations of the coast that emanate his particular energy.
Views of the city as seen from a skateboard, a bike, a surfboard.
Impressed with his surroundings but not overwhelmed by them.
I take them in as a group and then start to interrogate them, one by one. They’re not perfect; there are bits of sloppy brushwork, places where his technique isn’t quite there yet. But they’re so—god, they’re just so—
“Aren’t they awesome?” says a voice from behind me. Willa has emerged from the back and caught me looking. “They arrived a few weeks ago.”
“They’re really special.”
Willa plants her feet beside mine, and for a minute, we just... stand there. Admiring.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.
“I want to hear how your first few months of girlbossing are going.”
“Hard. So hard.” Willa scuffs her toe against the floor. “But good too. So good. I’m glad I did this.”
“Okay, well, let’s get out of here.” I look around, feigning like we’re being spied on. “So you can tell me all about it.”
We head to a coffee shop down the street, the one with the good donuts. We split their last glazed.
Willa eats her half and tells me about the ups and downs: that a Big Sur hotel reached out about vases for their restaurant, and of course they want them ASAP.
How the first electrician she hired did a bad job, so she’s looking for a second one.
Bills are piling up slightly faster than she can pay them; holiday shopping season can’t come quickly enough.
But still, there’s pride in her voice. She’s tackling each of these obstacles head-on.
No hand-wringing. She’s just... doing it.
She mentions Leon a few times in passing, and each time, my heart leaps. Despite all of my DC ponderings, he and I haven’t been in touch since I shut him down and walked away at the opening. I’ve wanted to wait until we could talk in person.
Willa must see it on my face, because after the fourth name-drop, she interrupts herself. “Ask,” she says.
“Ask what?”
“About him. I know you want to.”
“We don’t need to—”
“Please. Do you know how many times he’s almost asked me about you? I’m desperate for the two of you to finally actually get out of your own ways. And out of mine.”
“You’ve been a very good friend.”
“Don’t I know it. Anyway. Ask.”
There’re a couple of napkins on the table; I fidget with the edge of one, tearing it into tiny strips. “I don’t even know if I have a question for you. I mean, I assume he’s... still Leon?”
“He is still Leon.”
“And he—you think he might be open to hearing from me?”
“If the way he reacted when he overheard me saying your name the other day is any indication, then yes.” Willa takes the napkin out of my hands. “I have to go to the bathroom. Don’t do anything rash while I’m gone, okay?”
I nod. And I don’t do anything rash. I don’t go running out onto the street to make a big gesture or anything, anyway.
But I do pull out my phone. I type Hi and then Sorry and then Hahaha this is awkward .
Delete, delete, delete. I have so much I want to say, and none of it is appropriate for a text box.
This is exactly why I’ve been putting this off.
Finally, I land on I’m back in town and would love to see you and hit send .
I don’t see his message until I’m back in my car. Okay , Leon responded.
Tomorrow afternoon?
That works.
Which only leaves the question of where. A car honks to let me know that they’d like me to hurry up and hand over my space, which means I don’t have time to overthink it. I had an idea back in DC. I follow that instinct now. Meet me at Ocean Beach?