Then she told me about Ben’s birthday, a year and a half earlier. My brother had asked why I wasn’t dating her while we were in the kitchen, and Maya had come in for ice before either of us noticed. “You said you’d rather have me in your life for twenty years than date me for six months and lose me,” she said. The memory returned so clearly that I could practically see the refrigerator door behind Ben and the bottle cap turning between my fingers.
At the time, I thought I had said something generous. Across the table, watching Maya smooth the edge of her napkin, I heard what that generosity had sounded like to the person excluded from the decision. “I knew you cared,” she said, “but I thought you’d already decided I could never be anything else.” I reached across the table with my palm open and waited until she put her hand in mine before telling her I was sorry.
