We Can't Keep Meeting Like This

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

That was the worst part of my OCD: when it made other people think I was doing something on purpose just to disrupt their lives.

“I’m starting to think you don’t value my opinion.” “Excuse me,” she says, faux-offended. “I absolutely do. It’s just not as meaningful as mine.”

“Hey, you!” I say, too loudly. Too much pep. I sound like my mother. He lifts his eyebrows at my strange greeting—which, fair—and one corner of his mouth turns upward. I am fine. I am great. I am the coolest of cucumbers. I have taken the chillest of pills.

“Divorced. Fifteen years ago.” “Oh, I’m—” I’m sorry is what I was going to say, but what am I really sorry about? Sorry she isn’t married? Sorry something she may have thought was supposed to last didn’t?

My whole life, I’ve been around food, and I saw how much joy it could bring people. I saw the reactions my parents got from their clients, how food could make you content or nostalgic or any number of other emotions. It’s this perfect blend of art and science. You can make a real connection with someone through your food.”

“And sometimes the world is terrible, and love stories… They make it feel less heavy.”

“No,” I insist, and when she raises a single eyebrow in a way that makes me deeply jealous—my eyebrow-raising ability is both or nothing—I relent. “Well. A little. But you don’t have to apologize.”

We’re all hurting, Quinn. In different ways, some that we can treat with medication and therapy and some only with time. And some in ways that might never heal. Sometimes the good outweighs the bad. Sometimes those great times are so fucking great that they make the bad times a little easier to handle.”