I lower my voice. “Yes, but I didn’t think you meant them.”
“Whose fault is that?” she demands.
I don’t have anything to say to that, and we just stare at each other.
“You can’t really be falling for me,” she says, quieter now. Her voice is somewhere between distress and disbelief.
Again I don’t have anything to say. Even I’m surprised by how much I’ve been feeling for her all day. The thing about falling is you don’t have any control on your way down.
I try to calm the air between us. “Why can’t I be falling for you?” I ask.
She tugs hard on the straps of her backpack. “Because that’s stupid. I told you not to—”
And now I’ve had enough. My heart’s been on my sleeve all day, and it’s pretty bruised up now.
“Just great. You don’t feel anything? Was I kissing myself back there?”
“You think a few kisses mean forever?”
“I think those kisses did.”
She closes her eyes. When she opens them again, I think I see pity there. “Daniel—” she begins.
I cut her off. I don’t want pity. “No. Whatever. I don’t want to hear it. I get it. You don’t feel the same. You’re leaving. Have a nice life.”
I take all of two steps before she says, “You’re just like my father.”
“I don’t even know your father,” I say while putting my jacket on. It feels tighter somehow.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Doesn’t matter. You’re just like him. Selfish.”
“I am not.” Now I’m defensive.
“Yes you are. You think the entire world revolves around you. Your feelings. Your dreams.”
I throw my hands up. “There is nothing wrong with having dreams. I may be a stupid dreamer, but at least I have them.”
“Why is that a virtue?” she demands. “All you dreamer types think the universe exists just for you and your passion.”
“Better than not having any at all.”
She narrows her eyes at me, ready to debate. “Really? Why?”
I can’t believe I have to explain this. “That’s what we’re put on earth to do.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “We’re put here to evolve and survive. That’s it.”
I knew she’d bring science into it. She can’t really believe that. “You don’t believe that,” I say.
“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” she says. “Besides, dreaming is a luxury and not everyone has it.”
“Yes, but you do. You’re afraid of becoming your dad. You don’t want to choose the wrong thing, so you don’t choose anything at all.” I know there’s a better way for me to tell her this, but I’m not feeling like my best self right now.
“I already know what I want to be,” she says.
I can’t stop myself from scoffing. “A data scientist or whatever? That’s not a passion. It’s just a job. Having dreams never killed anybody.”
“Not true,” she says. “How can you be this naïve?”
“Well, I’d rather be naïve than whatever it is you are. You only see things that are right in front of your face.”
“Better than seeing things that aren’t there.”
And now we’re at an impasse.
The sun hides behind a cloud and a cool breeze blows over us from across Central Park. We watch each other for a little while. She looks different out of the sunlight. I imagine I do too. She thinks I’m naïve. More than that, she thinks I’m ridiculous.
Maybe it’s better to end things this way. Better to have a tragic and sudden end than to have a long, drawn-out one where we realize that we’re just too different, and that love alone is not enough to bind us.
I think all these things. I believe none of them.
The wind picks up again. It stirs her hair a little. I can picture it with pink tips so clearly. I would’ve liked to see it.
“YOU SHOULD GO,” I TELL HIM.
“So that’s it?” he asks.
I’m glad he’s being a jerk. It makes things easier. “Are you thinking at all about me? I wonder how Natasha’s feeling. How did she get to be an undocumented immigrant? Does she want to go live in a country she doesn’t know at all? Is she completely devastated by what’s happening to her life?”
I read guilt on his face. He takes a step toward me, but I back up.
He stops moving.
“You’re just waiting for someone to save you. Don’t want to be a doctor? Don’t be a doctor, then.”
“It’s not that simple,” he says quietly.
I narrow my eyes at him. “To quote you from five minutes ago. Here’s how you do it: You open your mouth and say what’s true. ‘Mom and Dad? I don’t want to be a doctor,’ you say. ‘I want to be a poet because I am stupid and don’t know better,’ you say.”
“You know it’s not that easy,” he says, even quieter than before.
I tug on the straps on my backpack. It’s time to go. We’re just delaying the inevitable. “You know what I hate?” I ask. “I really hate poetry.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says.
“Shut up. I hate it, but I read something once by a poet named Warsan Shire. It says that you can’t make a home out of human beings, and that someone should’ve told you that.”