Well Written

7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Kane

I don't want babies. I don't want babies. I don't want babies.

Judah's ocean blue eyes bore into mine, and just as I mentally repeat the sentence for the fourth time, a toothless grin breaks across his face. It's so cute, I almost fucking die.

"Are you helping Uncle Kane?" Derrick signs from the kitchen. Judah doesn't take his eyes off me, not even for his father. Instead, a giggle that I can only compare to a kitten's hiccup slips from his chubby little mouth, and he grabs my nose aggressively.

"Ope—" Clara removes his hand from my face, then beckons Dickie onto her lap. "We're working on grabbing and hitting. Sorry."

I shrug, because who the hell could stay mad at something so squishy and innocent?

"So, let me get this straight," she continues, her tone filled with irritation. The speed in which she is petting Dickie quickens, though he doesn't seem to mind. "Marcus ruined your copy of his new book by scribbling some stupid invitation to meet him tonight in permanent marker?"

I keep staring at Judah to avoid eye contact with his mother.

"Yes."

"And you're actually considering going?"

I know Clara's pissed, so I suck my cheeks in and chew on the skin for a minute to create the illusion of hesitation.

"Yes," I answer finally.

She shakes her head, and seems like she's going to stay silent for a moment, but I know better than to think that's in her control. A quick, sharp breath zips through her clenched teeth, and I stay preoccupied with Judah as he grabs at my cheeks. He pulls the skin from one side to the other, contorting my face a million different ways to entertain himself.

"Are you hearing this Derrick?" she calls out

Derrick pokes his head up from behind the island, one hand on his hip and a spatula in the other.

"I'm still catching up." He waves the spatula around. "Why do we hate him, again?"

"Because he broke Kane's heart!" Clara exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Kane and Marcus dated in college."

"Right, I remember that part," Derrick says, turning back to the stove. He moves the spatula around in a circular motion, the scent of greasy ground beef and cumin wafting in the air around us. "But what did he… do ?"

In my peripheral vision, I can see Clara glance at me, but I pretend I'm completely blind to it. This conversation might be about me, but I want no part in it. I don't care if Derrick knows the story, I just don't want to listen to it.

Why I'm even entertaining the idea of showing up is beyond me. I don't owe Marcus anything. Not a conversation, not a glance, not even the time of day. There is nothing I could gain from this meetup, except the one thing I've been craving.

A real, and genuine apology.

"Marcus' parents found out about them," Clara explains carefully. "Marc wasn't out, and his parents were… yeah . Anyway, the next day he was gone. No note, no call, nothing. His parents even showed up at the store, and accused Kane of—" She stops, like the words are caught in her throat. "They said he corrupted him. That Marcus denied the entire relationship, and claimed that Kane tried to push his 'lifestyle' on him. Fucking prick."

"Clara!" I shoot her wide-eyed glance, and cover Judah's ears. Her expression drops, looking at me condescendingly.

"He's deaf, Kane."

My cheeks flush embarrassedly, and I nod. "Right."

Derrick chuckles, steam flowing around his face as he stares sympathetically at me. This is the worst part. The pity.

I've been pitied my whole life. Everyone feels sorry for the kid who is diagnosed with clinical depression at age nine. The one who's put on antidepressants at ten, and hospitalized at twelve. I never knew how to explain to them that pitying me just made everything worse. I didn't want to be another thing in their life they had to feel sorry for. I just wanted to be normal.

I just wanted to be happy.

"It was twenty years ago," I remind him. Clara's gaze flashes to me, her brows weaved together with concern.

I know I've said it, but I love Clara. I really do. I just wish, sometimes, she would stop feeling sorry for me too, and let me exist in the reality I've been given. I've moved on, kind of. I've healed, mostly. I just want a goddamned apology.

"I think you should go," Derrick says casually, picking up the pan and placing it onto a potholder. Clara's head whips around, her face scrunched with surprised dissatisfaction.

"What?!"

He shrugs. "Yeah! I mean, clearly what happened would leave anyone with some damage. If Kane wants to go get an explanation, or an apology, or fuck, I don't know, revenge ?" His eyes lock onto mine. "I'm with him."

Clara looks back and forth between Derrick and I, her eyes narrowing and her brows dropping lower.

"I knew I'd regret this bond you guys have," she mutters, but a slight smile tugs at the corners of her lips. Derrick approaches from the kitchen, wiping his palms down the front of his "kiss the cook" apron.

"Can I see it?" he asks. My brows furrow, and I look up at him, confused.

"See what?"

"The note!" He gestures his hands like his request was obvious. I hand Judah over to him, then grab my bag, pulling out the hardcover book.

It's gorgeous. Sleek, and glossy, a spool of golden, foil-plated thread illustrated on the front. The string dances across the cover, looping into different directions, but never forming a knot. I flip the front cover open, revealing the note Marcus left inside.

I watch Derrick's eyes increasingly widen each time he re-reads it. I wonder if I had the same confused, and bewildered look on my face. Surely, mine was even worse.

"What do you think that means?" he asks, pointing to the note. "'Tie this thread'?"

I shrug, self-consciously pulling the book away from him.

"I think he's going to apologize," I answer. I try to fight it, but my gaze drifts to Clara, an unsurprisingly sour look settled onto her face.

" Or, " Derrick counters mischievously, wriggling his eyebrows. "He's trying to rekindle the flame."

Clara shoves him playfully, and heat rushes to the tops of my cheeks as I shake my head violently. There is nothing I want less than to entertain Marcus Fraund ever again. I hate him, truly. So it's strange that my stomach flutters as Derrick introduces the idea.

"That's not going to happen," I say pointedly, and Derrick shrugs.

"Probably not." He smiles. "But you'll die wondering if you don't go."

I swallow, my throat becoming dryer by the second as I think about it. As I ponder seeing Marcus' face again. As I watch his eyes move while he explains why he threw me under the bus, and disappeared without a single word. While he apologizes for hurting me, giving me the closure I've needed. My gut twists at the thought of finally having answers, and I think I might throw up. But Derrick is right.

If I don't go, I'll die wondering.

I hate that Marcus referred to Rita's as "our place." I mean, sure, it was our place. But first, it was my place. And after he left, I kept it as that.

To him, there's no difference. The beige netting hanging from the ceiling, buoys draped along the walls, the sounds of the ocean crashing through the open window along the back, they were all the same when it was ours. But I know the difference.

It's in the worn leather seats, and the sound of the atmosphere. In the scent of the grease, and the splintering grain in the tables. The dim lights hanging from the ceiling, and the taste of the food. Marcus' absence changed it all.

But there is one thing that has always remained.

My gaze draws to the booth in the back right corner of the restaurant. I've had hundreds of meals in that booth. Alone. With Clara. With Marcus. I've tried to sit elsewhere, trust me. But the dip in the cushion never felt right, and the bulb in the lamp above me shone right into my eye.

It's almost haunting, seeing Marcus sit there now, in the same seat across from mine. Memories begin to flood my mind, but I force them back. I didn't come here to reminisce.

I came here to heal.

"It had to be this booth?" I ask him as I approach the table. Marcus' focus abruptly shifts from his phone to me. He shoves the device quickly into his pocket, his pale cheeks flushing the color of a rose.

"I didn't think you were coming," he answers honestly, gesturing for me to take my seat. I slide into the bench across from him, wiping the palms of my hands against my pants.

"I don't know why I did." I pause, considering it. "Maybe I do."

Marcus' brows jump, and I wait for him to ask me the reason. Why, after everything, after all these years, did I decide to give him a single moment of my time. But he doesn't. Instead, he sticks his hand in the air, waving over the waitress, and plastering on a beaming grin.

"Are you ready to order?" the waitress asks. Marcus nods, sliding the laminated menu across the table toward me.

"I'll take a number two, no mayo. And, what's the largest size you offer for fries?"

The waitress glances at me, an uncomfortable expression sewn into the corners of her face.

"Umh…large?"

I look at Marcus, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as if he's deep in thought.

"Hm. Okay then. Three— " He holds three fingers up, like she wouldn't know what it meant without a visual representation. Condescending dick. "—large waffle fries with as much fry sauce as you can legally give me. And whatever he wants." He points at me casually, leaning his back into the booth cushion.

Seemingly intrigued, yet simultaneously concerned, the waitress turns to me, the tip of her pen hovering over her notepad.

I stare at her blankly for a minute, trying my hardest to process why Marcus is ordering mountains of fries instead of apologizing.

"Just lemon water for me, please. Thanks."

She nods, taking the menu from the table, and disappearing into the kitchen.

"Oh come on, Kane. It's Rita's. You're really not going to eat anything?"

Heat rises to the tips of my ears, and my molars make an unpleasant sound as they scrape together, my jaw tensing.

"I'm not hungry."

Marcus' brows furrow. "But… it's Rita's ."

Dear Universe,

Please give me the patience not to flip my shit in my favorite local diner.

Amen

I take a very slow breath, letting the air settle in the bottom of my lungs before finally exhaling.

"I didn't come here to eat, Marcus."

A nervous laugh escapes him, his gentle white teeth shining in the low lights. "Well, yes, I know that, but—"

I don't know if it's his casualness about the situation, the feel of his body so close to mine, or the slight tug at the corner of his mouth as he looks at me. But whatever it is, causes something inside me to snap. I pull myself out of the booth, standing up quickly and running my hands through my hair.

"God I'm an idiot." I laugh humorlessly. "I mean really. I actually thought you were going to apologize. Like you even have the ability to feel remorse. Like you have the self-awareness to know when you've done something wrong. You know the sad part? I was going to apologize to you. I was fully ready to accept responsibility for the part that I played in everything. But you don't deserve that if you can't see the trainwreck that you made." A heavy stream of air pushes from my lungs, and I take one last look at his face before turning toward the door.

"Wait!" A set of thick, long fingers wrap around my arm, gently pulling me back. I rip myself from Marcus' grip, whipping around with every intention of berating him. But he doesn't give me the chance before he continues to speak. "I was going to apologize."

I settle an unconvinced gaze onto him.

"I was!" he defends. "I was getting there, I promise. I just—" His eyes drift up to meet my gaze, and I hate myself for allowing them to. "I didn't want to apologize without knowing the person I'm apologizing to."

I look at the floor, the heat in my ears expanding to my cheeks.

"You're apologizing to the person you knew," I spit.

"Yes," he replies softly. "But the person you are today deserves an apology too. I fucked up, Kane. I would take it all back if I could."

The desperation in his voice is almost convincing, until I look into his eyes and realize that it's convincing, because it's genuine. I didn't know Marcus possessed the ability to be genuine anymore. But there's this tell he has, something in his eyes that gives away his lies. His pupils recede, dullness glazes over those icy blue irises.

But that tell is nonexistent right now. And I hate that it isn't there.