“Yes,” I said as he took a seat at one end of a bench.
He appeared to be inviting me to sit beside him; instead, I chose the other bench.
He chuckled at my choice. I did not apologize for it.
“So, how’s life?” he asked.
“Fine … and yours?” I asked, completely puzzled by this entire interaction.
“You’re confused,” he said with a hint of amusement.
“No, well, yes,” I confessed. “It’s just … since when did you start talking to me?”
Thomas took a sip of coffee. “I love how blunt you are. I’ve always loved that about you,” he said, his bright blue eyes staring into mine in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.
“Am I blunt?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what I was. I wasn’t around others enough to know how I compared to the rest of the world.
“Yes!” he said. “And beautiful.”
My face flushed hot in the morning sun. People said I was beautiful. I’d never agreed with them, and since most of those people were related to me, their opinions were easy to dismiss.
“Since you already believe I’m blunt … why are you actually talking to me? We’ve known each other since we were babies and we haven’t said more than hello to one another in years,” I said, my arms folded across my stomach. The floral skirt I wore touched the soft green grass at my feet.
His eyes twinkled as joy reached them. “I’m glad we’re here together. I realize now I’ve been missing out. The truth is I noticed you at Mass today and I saw you differently. You know how when you grow up with someone, you sometimes still see them as they were years ago?”
He paused and I nodded, not necessarily in agreement but in understanding.
“So, I was sitting there and I saw you. The you who you are now, not the you from when we were kids. And I realized I have no idea who you really are.”
He paused and smiled the sort of smile that made my heart race without my consent.
“And if we are being completely honest,”—he leaned forward, his tan arms straight as he held onto the bench—“you are really beautiful. That had something to do with my wanting to talk with you.”
My face felt hot.
Behind me, the doors of the parish hall burst open. I exhaled in relief. Avi was running toward us, being chased by a group of boys and girls her age.
“She’s the life of the party,” Thomas said. He took a sip of coffee and watched the horde of children come closer.
“She definitely is, and she’s very aware of it,” I said.
“There’s no reason she shouldn’t be confident. I bet she’ll grow up to be as beautiful as you,” he said, his eyes on mine as he spoke.
In exuberant exhaustion, Avi fell onto my lap. “Dad says we’re leaving,” she said, panting as the other kids lay on the grass behind us.
“How many donuts did you eat?” I asked as I pulled her sweaty hair back from her flushed face.
“Four,” she said, “but don’t tell Dad. He thinks it’s two.”
“A girl after my own heart,” Thomas said as he winked at Avi.
I stood, lifting her from my lap.
“I’d better get her to the car,” I said as I held Avi’s hand to keep her from running off with the children who were calling to her.
Thomas stepped beside me. “Can I put my number in your phone?” he asked, his soft brown hair falling into his face.
The rest of my family was coming toward us.
“I didn’t bring it with me,” I said.
I rarely used or carried my phone; no one called or texted except my dad or grandmother.
“Oh,” he said, confused and surprised. “That’s good … refreshing, really. So many people are so attached to these things, like they’re an organ or something.”
It was clear he was trying hard to hide his true feelings—he thought I was weird. Bizarre, even.
He pulled his phone from his khakis and handed it to me. “Will you put your number in?”
It took me a moment to remember it. This was the first time anyone had ever asked me to give them my number.
“What are you doing?” Lisieux said, stepping up beside me.
“Giving him my number,” I said while handing the phone back to Thomas.
Dad arrived before Lisieux could make some sort of smart comment.
“How’s school going, Thomas?” Dad asked.
“Going well, Mr. Cameron,” he answered.
“Wonderful, glad to hear it. Let’s go,” Dad said. “Enjoy your day, Thomas.”
“Thank you,” Thomas replied as Gigi joined us and Dad headed to the parking lot.
Gigi gave me her arm, and she and I followed the others.
“I’ll reach out soon,” Thomas called to me.
I turned. “Okay,” I said.
“Reach out about what?” Gigi asked as we neared our Range Rover.
“I’m not sure. He asked for my number, so I guess he might call.”
“I didn’t think you cared for him,” she said.
“I don’t dislike him,” I said. “He’s kind of cute, don’t you think? And he does go to our church.”
“He’s cute, and he knows it,” Gigi said. “I’d prefer you find a boy who is cute and doesn’t know it.”
“Why?” I asked as she opened the passenger door and slid in.
“Because those boys are sweet, kind, humble, and still cute. Thomas, whether he goes to our church or not, is simply cute,” Gigi said, closing the door.
It was a strange thing for her to say. However, it was a strange morning. Nothing about it had gone as expected. I had expected to focus on Mass, not Thomas, and I certainly didn’t expect him to speak to me or ask for my number.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I watched Chastity and Beth come outside and start talking to Thomas. The three began to laugh. For a moment, I had the feeling they were laughing at me. I was being paranoid. They were laughing and joking; there was nothing wrong with that. Laughter was good. Still, I felt as though I was being left out of something … maybe it was life.
As we drove away, I felt angry and jealous and all the things I hated feeling and usually didn’t feel. For the most part, I was happy with my secluded life. I didn’t miss what I’d never had, but here, in this moment, I saw what I was missing: friendships, and maybe something more.
We turned off the main road and waited for our wrought-iron gate to open. Inside the gate was our driveway, simple asphalt currently buried by the bright autumn leaves. As Dad drove, the leaves rushed from under the car, out to what remained of the late summer grass. Gigi hadn’t mowed in over a month; she hadn’t needed to. It was getting cold. The grass was barely growing and would turn brown soon. Few things about my family were typical, I realized as I thought of my almost eighty-year-old grandmother riding a lawnmower up and down the edges of our mile-long driveway.
The trees were vast and ancient, but even so, our house could be seen above them. This was only partly because it was built on a hill. The size of the house was embarrassing. I wasn’t the only one to call it a castle; everyone in town referred to it the same way. Yet another thing that made us stand out. When I was younger and had friends visit, I sometimes felt embarrassed by all I had. Then I lost my mom, and I no longer had more than them … I had less.