“Now who’s deep?” Luke laces his fingers together on the table and leans toward me. “Okay. Two truths and a lie.”
“What?”
“It’s a game. I play it with my classes on the first day of school, as kind of an icebreaker. I tell you two truths and a lie, and you have to guess which is the lie.”
“And if I win?”
“You get to have lunch with Allford’s worst chess coach on record.”
I’ve never been able to resist a little competition. “Try me.”
Luke’s face goes blank. “I grew up overseas, I’ve broken both arms and my left leg, and once when I was a kid, I got stuck in a palm tree.” His voice is monotone, giving nothing away.
“Hmm.” I twirl my straw in my glass. “The broken limbs thing I can believe. Probably moped-related.” I study his features. His lips switch slightly. “So that’s a truth. And in related news, I’m catching a cab home.”
“Your loss. Continue.”
“The palm tree thing is too weird to be a lie. Soooo… I’m guessing you didn’t grow up overseas.”
“Eeeeenghhhhh!” He makes a buzzing noise. As in, an actual old-school game show buzzing noise that makes me laugh so hard my stomach hurts.
“You did not just buzz me!” I choke, reaching for my glass.
He looks proud of himself. “Truth: I did get stuck in a palm tree once. Tree-climbing contest. A very understanding firefighter eventually carried me down. Marlon, if memory serves.”
“Sounds romantic,” I sigh.
He ignores me. “Another truth: I’ve never broken a single bone in my body.”
“So you grew up overseas, then?”
He nods. “From ages 8 to 15, I lived in a tiny town outside of Athens, Greece. My father was Greek. He and my mom and I moved there when I was a kid, for his work.”
“So why’d you move ba—”
“Here we are. Two mango iced teas, two blackened fish tacos, and ceviche to share.” The waitress bends between us, depositing enormous plates of food and a bowl filled with raw fish on the table. I breathe in the earthy scents of cilantro and lime.
We eat in silence for a while. Luke’s right: this may be the best meal I’ve ever tasted. The fish is crisp and spicy; the ceviche perfectly sweet. I like that we can sit quietly. I like not having to fill the space between us with words; stories that aren’t mine.
“So.” I stab the last scallop from the ceviche without the slightest bit of remorse. “You never said why you moved back to the States.”
Luke’s eyes change from light blue to gray, like the ocean before a storm. “I, um…” He coughs. “It’s a long story.”
“Ahhh,” I joke, trying my best Greek accent. It sounds Russian. “Crazy Greek girlfriend, no?”
He shakes his head. “My parents… we were in a car accident. They passed away when I was 15.”
“Oh, God.” You know better, Elliot. I didn’t mean to—”
“No. It’s okay. Really.” He looks just past me, his expression hazy. “It’s been a long time, obviously. It’s just… people always say this kind of thing gets easier with time.”
I nod.
“I’m still waiting, you know? For the easy part.”
I feel the sting of recognition, somewhere deep inside me. Because I know. I know what it’s like to lose everything in an instant. To feel a wound so deep, so gaping, that you are positive you will never recover. I want nothing more in this moment than to tell him that it’s possible to heal. That grief fades. But I could never promise Luke something I don’t believe myself.
Impulsively, I reach across the table and grab his hand. “I know what it’s like to lose your parents.” My words tumble in whispered scraps, settling on the table between us. “Believe me.”
His eyes sharpen in sudden focus. “You lost your folks, too?”
“I did.” It’s not a lie, exactly. Saying anything else, giving any more of my story away, isn’t smart. I know that. But I can’t stop. There’s something about Luke that makes me feel safer than I am. “Not at the same time, exactly. But I lost them both in the space of a year.”
“Hey.” Luke squeezes my hands in three short bursts.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Nothing.” His laugh is sheepish. “Just this thing I used to do with my grandparents after my folks died. I used to hate it when someone would say ‘I’m sorry’ after the accident. Because—”
“It’s so hollow.”
“Exactly. A fucking ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t mean you understand. And it’s not going to bring them back. So every time my grandparents wanted to tell me they were sorry, they’d squeeze my hand, three times fast.”