The Last Time I Crossed Oceans for You

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I cut my hand chopping vegetables, and on instinct I turned to call Dick Delgado for a bandage.

On the couch, he was shoulder to shoulder with Fiona Swanson, deep in a game.

Ugh! How did I die again?!

Lucky you've got me to carry you!

The girl collapsed laughing against his shoulder. He didn't pull away. He just laughed and gave her head a little push.

The words sat on my tongue. I swallowed them back down.

He couldn't stomach the food abroad, so every two weeks I flew to France to cook for him. My stack of plane tickets had grown thick.

Then Fiona started showing up to mooch meals, and little by little she took over his weekends on that couch, and the spot that used to be mine.

I'd bought movie tickets, and he'd dragged me to see the film Fiona recommended instead, insisting her taste was never wrong.

I'd calculate the time difference and message him late at night. He wouldn't answer, then turn around and leave a dozen comments under Fiona's posts.

I'd taken time off and flown out to surprise him for his birthday. He told me he'd already made plans with Fiona, and left me stranded at a foreign airport in ten below.

Dick always said distance couldn't break twenty years of childhood-sweetheart love.

But watching the two of them play around with their backs to me, I felt it.

Fiona, wedged between us, was farther away than the five thousand miles that separated him and me.

I turned back around, wrapped a tissue around my finger, and kept chopping.

The onions stung my eyes, and I made up my mind.

This was the last time. The last time I'd come to France for Dick.

When I carried the food to the table, the two of them still hadn't moved from the couch.

"Can your positioning get any worse?"

"You're the one who rushed in first, okay? Learn to play as a team."

The two of them bickered over the game like it was on fire, and in real life they only drifted closer.

Fiona leaned her leg against his, and Dick draped his arm over the back of the couch behind her, easy as anything.

I stood at the table, looking at the spread.

Every single dish was something he loved.

I'd loaded the chili chicken with peppers, because he liked it spicy.

I'd taken the time to caramelize the ribs with rock sugar, because he'd once mentioned Fiona liked sweet things.

I even remembered the offhand way he'd said it: "Fiona, that girl, she could live on sugar alone."

Fiona caught the smell and tugged Dick over to the table.

She glanced at the food and let out a "wow."

"Georgette Sullivan, you're like some fairy housewife! I'd rather starve than eat the bland white-people food in France. Thank God you're around!"

"Dick! How are you this lucky? If I were a guy I'd absolutely be your rival for her!"

Dick shot me a glance and raised an eyebrow. "Jealous? She's mine."

I said nothing and ladled myself a bowl of soup.

"Georgie, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just tired."

He rubbed the top of my head. "Is your period coming? It's almost the end of the month."

Fiona, giggling, picked up a rib, took a bite, and grinned at Dick.

"Buddy! That's my date. Georgette's is mid-month. Could you be a slightly more competent boyfriend?"

The ladle slipped from my hand and hit the table with a clear, sharp clink.

In that instant I remembered the period-tracking app I'd glimpsed on Dick's phone last month, the little pink flowers marked over the last few days of the month.

He'd said offhand that he'd tapped the wrong dates. I'd believed him.

Fiona seemed to sense something, and switched to French to speak to Dick.

"Uh-oh! She's not getting jealous, is she?"

Dick blinked, then answered in French too. "That's just how she is. Crazy possessive."

Fiona let out a soft laugh. "So if she knew you unhooked my bra last time to win that round, would she cry?"

I picked the ladle back up and cut them off. "I'm certified in French. You don't have to talk behind my back."

Just to be here in France beside him, I'd worked myself half to death learning French, drilling my pronunciation, applying for the exchange program.

And now every word landed clearly, every word cut to the bone.

For a moment the air over the dinner table froze solid.

"And another thing. You two just said I'm too possessive. So tell me, what do you call a college classmate who shows up on every single holiday, right in the middle of my dates with my boyfriend?"

Fiona's smile stiffened, then smoothed back into something easy.

"Oh, come on, me and Dick are just buddies. We like all the same stuff, watching games, playing a few rounds online. It's not easy making friends so far from home."

I laughed. "So I should be thanking you? Thanking you for showing up uninvited every time, for taking my seat, for drinking out of his cup?"

Dick set his chopsticks down on the table with a clack. "Georgie. She came all this way for one dinner. Do you really have to poison the whole mood like this?"

I looked into his eyes and found it almost funny.

"I fly seven hours every two weeks to cook for you. That isn't 'all this way.'"

"She lives in the dorms, a twenty-minute walk away, and that's what breaks your heart?"

Fiona pursed her lips. "Fine, fine, I'll go, is that better? Don't go fighting over me, you two lovebirds."

"Hard-won alone time, and I'm the one who can't read the room. My bad."

She made a show of getting up, and Dick clamped a hand around her arm. "Sit down."

Then he turned to me, his voice flaring hot. "Georgette, can you not pull this attitude every single time you come? Could you act a little more mature?"

I stared at that hand of his, pressed against Fiona's arm, and something in my chest clenched like a fist had closed around it.

I stood up. "Fine. I'm immature, I'm flighty! I make scenes over nothing, happy now?"

"In that case, I won't bother coming anymore."

I went back to the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed, and opened my phone.

There was an email on the screen.

Congratulations, your exchange application has been approved. The University of Paris I welcomes you.

I'd prepared a whole year for that spot.

Grinding my GPA, sitting for French exams, drafting application after application.

All because he was studying in France, and I wanted to be a little closer to him.

All because we'd been childhood sweethearts for twenty years, and I'd never gotten used to being apart from him.

I stared at the email for a long time.

Then I skipped right past "Accept" and tapped "Decline."

I'd barely set the phone down when Dick pushed the door open and came in.

He crouched down in front of me, his voice gone soft. "Still mad?"

I said nothing.

He sighed and reached out to take my hand, then noticed the tissue wrapped around my finger, dried stiff and yellow now, and stopped short. "What happened to your hand? Did you cut it chopping vegetables?"

He leaned in and blew gently on the wound, his voice worried and tender.

"Why didn't you call me? Does it hurt?"

The first time he ever blew on a cut for me, I'd sliced my finger cutting an apple in the kitchen.

He'd panicked, sweat beading on his forehead, tearing through every drawer for a Band-Aid, blowing over and over on that tiny little cut, and he'd said,

"Georgie's got such pretty hands. Can't have you scarring."

Back then there was no Fiona. Back then I was the only one in his eyes.

And now the motion was exactly the same, but that breath felt cold to me, never reaching deep enough to touch my heart.

"Georgie, there's really nothing going on with me and Fiona. She's just a careless, easygoing kind of person. Don't read too much into it."

"You went way too far back there. She's a girl, and after the way you talked to her, she didn't even feel like she could stay. It's snowing hard out there, and she still insisted on going back to the dorms."

My heart contracted violently.

"And so?"

I lifted my head. "Every time I fly seven hours to France, I land either late at night or before dawn. I drag my suitcase onto the subway, all alone, all the way to your apartment. You've never once come to meet me."

My voice started to shake.

"I cut my hand chopping vegetables and I called out to you. You didn't even lift your head. I slipped and fell on the kitchen floor, bruised my knee black and blue, and you never knew. I had a 102-degree fever and still cooked for you, and you never knew."

"What do you know? You know what games Fiona likes to play, what matches she likes to watch, you know every single one of her hobbies, and then you tell me the two of you are just buddies."

"Dick, you felt sorry for her, having to go back out in the snow. Did you ever once feel sorry for a girl who crossed oceans and mountains for you, over and over again?"

He stood up, his lips moving, and in the end all he said was,

"Georgette, here you go again."

"Right. Here I go again."

I got to my feet. "Every time it's me starting up again, I'm too sensitive, I'm not generous enough. Then go find your generous Fiona!"

Dick's voice dropped low. "You're really determined to twist it like that, aren't you? So what do you want me to do? Delete her? Cut off all contact? Are you saying I can't have a single friend left around me before I've done right by you?"

The tears swam in my eyes, but I bit down hard on my lip and refused to let them fall.

"Dick, the line between a friend and a girlfriend, don't you understand it in your heart? With your brains, with how you read people, you really can't see it?"

"You just don't want to see it!"

"Georgette, are you even being reasonable?"

"Fiona would never do this. She's more mature than you, easier to deal with than you! She doesn't burst into tears at the drop of a hat, doesn't show up once every two weeks and act like the whole world owes her something!"

He drew in a deep breath, turned, and slammed the door on his way out.

The sound of the door echoed down the hallway.

I stood where I was, and the tears finally fell.

I started to pack.

The suitcase lay open on the floor, every wheel worn down to nothing.

These three years, I'd checked it through too many times.

Flying over with my heart full of joy, and in less than half a day, packing every item back in again, one by one.

I looked around the apartment. On the wall hung photos of him and Fiona at a game. On the coffee table was a hair tie Fiona had left behind. On the fridge was a sticky note in her handwriting: "Dick, your cooking is terrible."

The things I'd brought into this home.

That set of dishes he never once reached for. That rice cooker he never opened. Those cotton slippers he thought were ugly.

All of it crammed into a corner, under a layer of dust.

I thought about this past year, every time I'd flown twelve hours to see him.

Planning my route ahead of time, looking up the subway lines, writing down in the notes app on my phone every offhand thing he ever said.

He loved Chinese food, so I learned to cook it. He wanted hotpot, so I carried the broth base and seasonings on the plane.

But he always seemed to find it dull.

While I cooked, he and Fiona were on a call gaming together, doubled over laughing.

I'd say, "Dinner's ready," and he wouldn't even look up. "Let me finish this round."

By the time the food went cold, he'd finally amble over and pick at it.

I wanted to go out for a walk with him, and he'd say, "It's cold out, what's there to see," then the second Fiona said, "Dick, come play board games with me," he'd be pulling on his coat and out the door.

I thought maybe I was just too boring.

So I learned to game, dying again and again, the screen going gray over and over.

Fiona would laugh beside us. "Georgette, stop feeding the other team. Why don't you go watch a show instead."

He'd smirk. "Georgie, how are you this hopeless?"

So I learned board games, memorized the rules all night long, and still fumbled the whole game when it counted.

Fiona patted his shoulder. "How about you and me on a team? She's dead weight."

Dick sighed. "Forget it, don't force yourself."

Every way I tried to get closer to him, in their eyes, was nothing but a clumsy joke.

I wiped the corners of my eyes, shoved the last piece of clothing into the suitcase, and zipped it shut.

Dick walked in, a bag in his hand.

It was a box from the cake shop I loved.

He set the bag down beside the suitcase, crouched, and his voice came soft:

"Don't pack."

I didn't look at him.

He took the cake out, opened the box:

"Your favorite tiramisu. I drove all the way downtown for it. The snow was heavy. The roads were awful."

My hands went still.

"Georgie," he lifted his head, his eyes a little red,

"I've thought it over. I really did get too close to Fiona. I'll be careful. From now on I'll keep my distance from her, just the distance of an ordinary classmate."

"Don't go, okay?"

I said nothing, only stared at the wheels on the suitcase.

The scuffs and dents on them, every single one was a road I'd traveled back and forth.

He yanked me into his arms, his chin resting on the top of my head,

"When I come home, we'll get married. How about that?"

I closed my eyes.

The next day, Dick said something he'd never said before:

"Let's catch a movie today. The one you said you wanted to see."

That movie had been out for three months.

I'd said I wanted to see it three times. All three times, he forgot.

In the theater he was tender in a way he rarely was, handing me his jacket, shielding the seatback, sliding the popcorn over, every gesture pitched just right.

I almost talked myself into it.

He loved me. He was just careless.

When the movie let out, he held my hand, something he so seldom did.

I looked down at our laced fingers, but inside there was none of the warmth I'd imagined.

"Dick! Georgette! What a coincidence!"

Fiona came out of the theater next door, popcorn in her arms, her eyes crinkled with a smile.

Almost without realizing it, Dick let go of my hand.

"You came to see a movie too?"

He walked over, his tone turning easy.

"Yeah, I waited forever for this one!"

Fiona held the popcorn out to him. "Try some, it's caramel."

He took it, ate a piece, and then the two of them fell into conversation.

"I thought that twist at the end felt kind of forced."

"What do you know, that's the director's style"

"Dick, can you not be such a contrarian?"

The more they talked, the more they laughed, their shoulders bumping together again.

I stood two steps away, looking at my empty hand.

All that tenderness in the theater just now, the second Fiona appeared, it vanished without a trace.

That was when it came. "Bang! " Several of them.

A burst of gunfire rang out from the far end of the corridor.

Screams exploded in an instant, the crowd scattering in every direction.

The flood of people shoved me forward, and on instinct I reached out to grab Dick.

He'd been a step ahead of me.

Fiona fell.

"Ah!"

He heard her cry and whipped around.

I saw him glance at me, and then he flung my hand away.

He turned and ran toward Fiona.

I stood where I was, knocked back and forth by the crowd.

In the chaos I went down, hitting the floor, a raw, burning pain.

In that instant I suddenly remembered the summer after I turned eighteen, after the SATs.

The sunrise by Lake Geneva, the sky a pinkish purple.

He'd pulled me up onto the overlook, the two of us breathless, looking at each other, and then he took my hand and said:

"Georgie, I like you."

The tips of his ears had gone red as he spoke, his palm slick with sweat.

"Let's never let go of each other's hands, okay? Always like this, you by my side, me by yours."

I nodded, certain the whole world was right there in the palm of my hand.

But now the whole world was running.

And I was the only one still flat on the floor.

I don't know how long it lasted. The gunfire stopped. Sirens started.

I pushed myself up on one arm and limped out of the theater.

When I got home, the living room lights were on.

Dick was crouched on the floor, carefully dabbing ointment onto Fiona's calf.

"Hold on. This stings a little."

Fiona looked up, saw me, and gave a small smile. "Georgie, you okay? That was so terrifying. Thank God Dick reacted so fast."

Only then did Dick lift his head. "You're back? Good, as long as you're all right."

I looked down at myself.

A huge bruise spread across my knee. My elbow was still bleeding.

My hair hung loose around my face. I was a wreck from head to toe.

His gaze stayed on me for one second before it dropped back to Fiona's wound.

I wanted to demand an explanation, but by the time the words reached my lips, only one thought was left: he'd already chosen. He chose her.

In the second the gun went off, his body was ten thousand times more honest than his mouth.

"Georgie?" he called, finally noticing something was off. "What's wrong with you?"

I didn't answer.

I walked into the bedroom, opened the suitcase again, and packed the rest of my things.

He came after me. "Can you stop making a scene? In a situation like that, there was no way I could just leave her"

"I know." I zipped the suitcase shut, my voice perfectly calm.

"So I made the choice for you."

"On the way back, I already booked a flight."

I looked up at him. "The earliest one. It leaves in two hours."

"Georgette"

"Dick," I cut in. "Let's break up."

He tilted his head and clicked his tongue, impatient. "Georgette, every time you're upset you bring up breaking up. Can you act a little more grown-up? Cool off for a few days, and we'll talk."

I said nothing more. I picked up my suitcase, stepped past him, and walked out.

Dick didn't try to stop me. He just turned and went back to the living room.

Three days later, Dick sent a text. "Calmed down yet?"

No reply.

He sent another. "Where are you?"

A red exclamation mark.

He called. Phone off.

He bought a ticket and flew home immediately. Standing at the foot of her dorm building, he called her roommate.

"Where's Georgette? Tell her to come down."

The roommate's voice came out hesitant. "Georgie went to England on exchange. She didn't tell you?"

Dick froze.

The phone slipped from between his fingers and hit the ground with a sharp crack.