Matt clears his throat and shifts in his seat again, and she glances at him. “I’m sorry, hon. Anyway. What can I getcha today? The usual?”
He orders a burger without looking at the menu.
She looks at me. “Vegwich and a side of fries with ranch?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I try to smile.
“You got it,” she says, then grabs our menus and goes back inside like she didn’t just make things hugely uncomfortable.
We both exhale and look at each other, but neither one of us says anything for a long moment. Then Matt does.
“So,” he says, “fast-forward to the accident, I guess.”
“I—we don’t have to talk about that right now.” I want to go back to hearing happy stories of us.
He looks at me, his mouth tight. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The video.”
I nod, and the images unfold in my mind. Matt, being pulled onto the boat. Matt, yelling and panicking while Walker pulled me in and then started CPR. Matt, trying to pull him off me. And the two of them—fighting.
“I panicked,” Matt says, like he can read my mind. “I panicked when I couldn’t get you out, and then when he did.” He looks down at his hands again. “And I panicked when he started pumping on your chest.” He swallows hard. “I could hear your ribs breaking, Liv. It was the worst thing I’ve ever heard, and I . . . I freaked out. I tried to make him stop because I thought he was hurting you. That’s why I went after him like that.” He pauses, and we’re both quiet. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I just need you to know what happened, because I hate the way it looks—like I . . .”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Like I could’ve done more. Or like I tried to stop him from helping you.”
He looks at me with sad eyes, and I can see the guilt everywhere in him—from his eyes, to the way his mouth is set, to the slump of his shoulders and the twisting of his hands. And what I feel for him in this moment is empathy.
I reach both of my hands across the table and take his, which are tense, almost fists. “It’s okay. You don’t have anything to be sorry about. You told him I was still down there. You helped him pull me onto the boat.”
His hands are still tense in mine, and he shakes his head, avoiding my eyes.
“Hey,” I say, more forcefully now. “You did everything you could. And I’m okay. I’m here, and I’m okay, and we’ll figure this out together.” Even as I say the words, I feel distant from them. Like I’m playing the part of myself. But I really do want to help him, and it seems to be what he needs to hear, because his hands relax the tiniest bit.
He looks down at the table for a moment, and when he brings his eyes back to mine, it’s hard to tell what I see there.
“There’s . . . there’s something I need to ask you,” he says finally.
“Okay,” I say. Tentative, because his tone is so serious.
“And you can say no. I’ll understand.” He runs a nervous hand through his hair and looks at me. “There’s this reporter who’s been calling me. She keeps asking for an interview, and . . .” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “She says it’d be good for everyone to see us together—to let them know that we’re both okay.”
I think of the huge bouquet and the card that’s now buried deep in my desk drawer, and I’m sure it’s from the same reporter, because she mentioned talking to him and Walker.
“And,” he says, his hands still holding mine, “she thinks it’d be a good chance for me to set things straight about what happened on that video, and . . .” He pauses. “I think she might be right.”
I don’t say anything—not at first, because I’m turning the possibility over in my mind. I wouldn’t be able to answer any questions about the accident—or the last few years leading up to it. And I’m not sure I’m ready for anyone watching to know that.
“I’m sorry,” Matt says quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked. Forget I did, okay?”
“No, it’s just . . . I don’t know.” Another thought occurs to me. “Would Walker James be there too?” I ask. I can’t keep the hopeful note out of my voice, and it makes me feel immediately guilty.
Matt doesn’t seem to notice. “I don’t know,” he says. “She was trying to get him too, but I kinda doubt it. I heard he left town.”
I think about what she did say in her note. That she’d talked to them both and they’d been open to it. Maybe Matt just doesn’t know that. Maybe he’s just assuming Walker wouldn’t agree to an interview. But if there’s a chance that he could be there, I wouldn’t have to just hope to run into him. I could see him, face-to-face, and thank him for what he did. This possibility makes me want to say yes, but the thought of going on the news in front of the cameras as an amnesiac accident victim makes me feel a little queasy.
“I . . .” I look at Matt. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. Yeah. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to, or force you into anything you don’t want to do.”
“You’re not,” I say. “It’s just, I don’t know if I want to talk about this in an interview. I mean, about me, how I can’t remember anything. I don’t know if I want everybody to know that.”
Matt starts to answer, but the waitress shows up at our table just then, carrying a plate in each hand. She sets Matt’s burger in front of him and then turns to me and smiles.
“Here you go, sweetheart. Veggie burger, extra lettuce, no sauce, add avo. Just like you like it.”
“Thank you,” I say, looking at what is apparently my usual. It strikes me then that maybe nobody would have to know. She was none the wiser, just like Chloe, and the kids on the dock. None of them had any idea how much of me is missing, and what they don’t see they just fill in with their own assumptions.
“I’m sorry,” Matt says, as soon as the waitress walks away. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s okay.” I look at him now. “I think I actually would like to do it. She left me her number in a card. I can call when I get home.”
“Really?” He reaches across the table and takes my hands. “You would do that for me?”
“Of course,” I say. And though I feel a twinge of guilt, I let him assume his own reasons why.
FIFTEEN
THROUGHOUT THE REST of our dinner, I get to hear Matt’s version of us, which is sweet and funny. He answers all my questions but doesn’t overwhelm me with stories I don’t know to ask about. He pokes fun at himself, but is kind about me. By the time we finish, I can see what drew me to him, even if I don’t entirely feel it yet. Sparks are probably too much to expect at this point, anyway.
We step out onto the boardwalk, the crowd thinning in the warm evening light, and Matt looks at me. “Where to next? Dessert? It’s still early.”
This jogs something in my mind. “What time is it?”
He checks his phone. “Quarter to six.”
“Can we stop by the camera shop real quick? I dropped some film off earlier, and she said it’d be finished by closing.”