He seems baffled, his forehead crinkling at my statement. “You’ve never lived with a boyfriend?”
“No.” I look at the table and take a deep breath. “I’ve had various boyfriends, of course, but only one I dated for an extended period of time. He was never . . . responsible enough . . . for us to co-mingle our things, our lives. So I’ve always lived at home or by myself . . . or with Presley now.”
“Sounds like a smart thing. But you know,” he chides, “men are generally irresponsible. You may have to make concessions as you go through life on that.”
Laughing, I place my fork on the table. “True. But I can take your typical irresponsibility—leaving the toilet seat up and shoes all over the place. But when I have to pay a guy’s bills because they can’t manage their money, that’s a different thing, you know?”
“It absolutely should be. If you’re paying for his things when you’re dating, there’s no hope of him ever stepping up in the future. A man should want to spoil their woman, give her things, make her life easier. Not the other way around. That’s a sign of a lack of character that you’ll never get around.”
I snort. “No joke. That’s obvious now.”
“You are better off without him. Trust me.”
“Probably so.”
Watching the candle flicker on the table, I wonder where Grant is and what he’s doing. For the first time since we broke up, my immediate reaction isn’t to hate him or to think back to what we used to have before Africa. I just feel ambivalent. I don’t know if it’s because I’m here with Fenton or because of this reset button I’m pushing, but the unfeeling about Grant is like a gush of fresh air.
“Did you love him?”
I’m startled by Fenton’s question. He asks it cautiously, leaning back in his chair again. I wonder if it’s intentional, to put some actual space between us, or just a coincidence.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “I did. He was the first guy I ever thought I loved. We were together for a long time and I thought we’d be married.”
“How long have you been apart?”
“Almost a year now.”
Fenton leans forward, looking me straight in the eye. “Do you still love him?”
“I don’t know.” He doesn’t respond, just sits there and waits for me to expound. “I did love him. And I definitely don’t feel like that now.” I think to the cloud hanging over him being involved with Brady’s disappearance, and I know I could never love him like that again. “But maybe once you love someone, you always do in a way. I don’t know. But would I go back to him? Would I want to be with him again? No. There’s just too much that’s happened.”
“Like what?”
“He had issues with money. He’d tell lots of little white lies and that drove me crazy. It got to the point where I second guessed everything he said, no matter how stupid. He cheated on me,” I say, rushing over the topic. “My brother is messed up in some things and Grant might be involved somehow. I don’t know.”
“And you thought you’d marry this guy?” he snorts. “Come on, Brynne. You seem smarter than that.”
I shrug, feeling put on the spot. “Love blurs things. I’m sure you know that.”
He laughs, patting his lips with his linen napkin. “So I’ve heard.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never been in love.”
“Come on, Fenton,” I roll my eyes, tossing his words back at him. “I’m smarter than that.”
He runs his bottom lip between his teeth, his smile hidden in his eyes. He’s amused at my retort, but I’m not sure it’s going to make him tell me anything.
“I’m not sure I believe in love at all,” he says finally.
“What? How can you not believe in love? It’s as real as the air we breathe or the water we drink!”
“No, those things are quantifiable. Love is . . .” he sighs. “If love is real, it’s simply a comfort level in a relationship built on a network of dually respected qualities and preferences. It’s two people that both acknowledge they like most of the same things and enjoy being with the other person and, eventually, they agree to just do those things together. They have a different capacity for feelings for that person over most others. Maybe that’s what everyone calls love.”
“No,” I protest. “It’s more than that. It’s chemistry. Someone making you want to be a better person. A willingness to put someone else before you. A feeling of not being able to breathe without the other person at your side. A feeling of . . . completion.”
He presses his lips together in amusement. “And this ex-boyfriend of yours did those things for you? How is that? How did his lies make you feel complete? How did his needing to borrow money from you make you feel like he put you above himself?”
“What?” I hiss. I’m appalled and affronted and embarrassed in the same moment. How does this man think he knows who I love or how I love? I’m not going to defend the way I love to anyone.