She inhaled sharply, as though she'd been waiting for the accusation to become an argument. When I didn't raise my voice, she seemed uncertain what to do next. "You're right," she whispered. "I wish I'd made a different choice. I wish I had come into the kitchen the day he wrote and said, 'Something from my past has come back, and I don't know how to deal with it. Can you sit with me?' That would have been so much kinder to both of us." She looked at her ring, then loosened her grip on it at last.
"What do you need from me?" she asked. It was a difficult question because part of me wanted an immediate solution, something she could say that would put our evening back where it had been when we arrived. Another part knew she had spent ten years seeking a perfect explanation that would prevent anyone from feeling pain. I didn't want to hand her a new impossible assignment. I wanted her to stay in the conversation even if neither of us could make it comfortable.
"Right now," I said, "I need you not to disappear into saying you're a terrible person. I don't think you are. But if we're going to talk about this, I need you to let me be hurt without deciding that my hurt means I don't love you anymore." Amy looked at me for a long moment. Then she nodded, slowly this time. "I can do that," she said, and I hoped we both understood that doing it would take longer than one evening.
The waiter returned to clear our dishes and paused when he saw that neither of us had touched the cake. Amy apologized instinctively, though he'd done nothing to warrant an apology. He asked whether we'd like to have it boxed, and I said yes because deciding what to do with dessert was easier than deciding what to do with ten years of withheld history. When he brought the small white carton, he set it between us carefully, as if he understood that the table contained something more delicate than food. I thanked him and watched him walk away.
"Do you want to leave?" Amy asked. Her voice had steadied, but her eyes kept searching mine for signs of a verdict. "In a little while," I said. "I don't want to hurry through something important just because we're uncomfortable." She nodded and took a sip of water, and we sat for a minute in the ordinary sounds of the restaurant. Somewhere behind us a couple discussed a movie. A glass broke near the kitchen and someone called out that it was fine. The world continued with its small emergencies while ours waited patiently at the table.