She didn't say anything for a moment. Her expression wasn't anger. It wasn't embarrassment. Exactly. It was something more complicated than either of those things.
A look he had never seen on her face in 9 years. And he had seen Clare Bennett in a lot of situations. He had seen her diffuse a screaming argument between two families in a housing office waiting room. He had seen her hold it together at her mother's funeral. He had seen her at 3:00 in the morning eating cereal in his kitchen while Ava slept a few rooms away.
Neither of them talking, just existing in the same space. Because sometimes that was what friendship looked like. He had never seen this look. "I think we need to talk," she said. Her voice was completely steady.
That scared him more than if she'd yelled. ""Okay."" His voice was not steady. "Right. Yeah, of course. Do you want to? Should we talk now?
Or not now?" She picked up the recycling bag from the floor where she dropped it when she lost her balance. Her movements were deliberate, unhurried, like a woman who had made a decision and was going to honor it. "I'll text you in the morning. Can we meet somewhere before Ava's practice?"
"Yeah." He was still standing in the same spot. "Yeah, that's fine. That's—yeah." She nodded.
She picked up her jacket from the back of a folding chair. She looped her bag over her shoulder and then she walked out of the community center. Malcolm stood in the empty hall for a long time after the door closed behind her. The fluorescent lights hummed. The rolling television stand was still tilted at a slight angle.
On the paused screen, his 31-year-old self was still shaking hands with someone, still faking that wide-open smile. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. 9 years, he thought. We've been doing this for 9 years, and I just blew it in one second. He went home.
He checked on Ava, who was asleep at his mother's. She'd been staying there while he worked the late setup shift. He sat down on the edge of his couch in the dark apartment and tried to figure out what exactly he was going to say tomorrow morning. He couldn't think of a single thing that would make this better. The text came at 7:14 a.m.
Can we meet at Dela's before Ava's practice? 9:00. Dela's was their diner. Had been for years a neighborhood spot on Campbell Road with sticky laminated menus and coffee that came in mugs the size of soup bowls and a owner named Dela who knew both their orders by heart and always sat them in the corner booth without being asked. Malcolm read the message four times then he typed back, "I'll be there."