She’s stil smirking—a good sign. “Wel . I am a little sanctimonious.”
I smirk back. “No. You assumed that I’m self-centered.
Used to getting my way. Dismissive of personal responsibility. And you were right—I am al of those things.” Her expression transforms from humor to something pensive and serious. “If that’s not who you want to be, al you have to do is choose not to be those things.”
“That simple, huh? Al ‘ Be the change you want to see in the world’?” I feel an undeserved sense of pride when she seems pleased.
“I think people assume Gandhi wanted everyone to adopt his quest for world peace, and they use that quote with that assumption in mind, rather than the doable urging it was.” Her dark eyes are animated. “Few of us can actual y change the world. We can only change ourselves.
But if enough people took that to heart, the world would change.”
A tap sounds on one of the doors, and the waiter leans in, asking, “Are we ready to order?”
Dori opens her menu, contrite. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even looked yet.”
“Give us a few more minutes,” I say, and he disappears with a nod.
As Dori reads over the menu I memorized years ago, I pretend to do the same, my mind humming. She believes I have the potential to be someone I’ve never been.
Someone I’ve never wanted to be, or thought possible to be.
That’s not exactly true. I have wanted it. Last spring, I thought I could be a different guy if I was with Emma. And then she told me she didn’t want someone who needed her in order to be a better guy. She wanted someone who was better by himself, with or without her.
For the first time, I see her point.
I’ve known for a very long time that I can’t change anyone else. But I’ve always looked at self-transformation as means-to-an-end, so any change I made was temporary.
I’m afraid of becoming my workaholic father, but the only thing I’m ever serious about is work. I’m afraid of becoming my alcoholic mother, but the type of drinking I did the night I crashed into the Diego house wasn’t an isolated incident.
Only hitting a damned house was isolated. Al the other times, when I managed to get myself home without destroying property or kil ing anyone on the way—that was luck.
“How’s the ziti here?” Dori asks, glancing up from her menu.
“Hmm? The ziti? It’s good.” I resolve to contemplate this shit later. I only have a couple of hours with this girl, and I don’t want to waste them soul-searching or self-flagel ating.
Plenty of time for that after she leaves town.
Plenty of time for that after she leaves town.
***
We pul up to the curb and she glances at her house, then back at me. The porch lamp is on, shedding a spotlight over the front door, pooling on the concrete space in front of it and spil ing over the cracked steps, the il umination tapering off once it hits the edge of faded lawn.
This is the sort of pivotal scene I’ve filmed a dozen times
—a typical boy delivering a typical girl home just under the curfew wire. It general y plays out in one of two ways. Either the boy lets the girl out of the car with an okay, see ya, or he fol ows her to the door and tries to kiss her goodnight—
the success or failure of which depends on the script.
Dori’s dark eyes are impossible to read in the dim interior of the car, but her hands, clasped in her lap, are not.
As this thought crosses my mind, she loosens them, offering one to me. “Thank you for dinner. It was fun and…
enlightening?” She laughs amiably and I take her smal hand in mine. The moment we touch, her laugh evaporates.
“Everything around you is enlightening,” I say cryptical y, not even sure what the hel I mean beyond the fact that knowing her has revealed parts of myself to me that I didn’t know existed. If that isn’t enlightening, I don’t know what is.
Clearing her throat, she squeezes my hand once before slipping hers from my grasp. She turns toward the door, fingers on the handle. “Wel .” She looks over her shoulder with a wry smile and I’m frozen in place. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed tonight, and it feels like it’s lasted half an hour.
“Goodbye, Reid. Be good.” Before she can open her door, the driver is there, opening it for her. “Oh!” she says, laughing again. “I think it would take me a long time to get used to this.”
Her laugh snaps me out of my stupor, and while she’s exiting her side, I’m exiting mine, coming around to meet her on the sidewalk. “It wouldn’t take as long as you might think,” I say, extending the crook of my elbow. She swal ows visibly, looping her hand through my arm, her fingers cool against my forearm.
We walk towards the door, and I pul her to a slow stop just outside the edge of il umination. She al ows me to tug her closer, regarding me silently. Even in her heels, she’s a head shorter than me. “When you tel me to be good, it makes me want to be good,” I say, hearing the undisguised desire in my voice. I run my fingers through the hair at her temples, taking her face between my palms, and she doesn’t move. “It also makes me want to be very, very bad.” And then I kiss her.
*** *** ***
Dori
When he kisses me, I forget everything—where I am, where we’ve been, and what we’ve said. I forget the fact that I’l never see him again unless I buy a ticket or rent a movie to do so. As I climb the stairs moments later, that truth spil s out from my subconscious in a rush— I will never see him again. It’s al I can do to remove the key from my bag with shaking fingers, unlock the door and drift through, turning to watch from the darkened entryway as the car pul s away and is gone.