He strolls down Robson, a yoga mat tucked neatly under a toned, tanned arm. Bluetooth firmly in place, a warm smile of recognition breaks across his face as he sees you sitting, folding up your copy of the Vancouver Sun at the plastic, umbrella-shaded table to make room. An airy kiss graces each of your cheeks, an order for a non-fat-something-or-other is placed. A sense of calm, of relief washes over.
He glances down at the frantic, red-penned circling you've done on the 'apartments for rent' page.
'We'll find you something babe, don't you worry one bit about it.'
The briefcase is opened; a blackberry is placed on the table.
He sees the smirk you tried, failed to hide.
'I know he says,' sheepish. 'I know.'
But he's a lawyer now, he's a grown-up now, and I guess you should be, too. And it's heavy lifting now, and it's no more playtime now and I guess you should follow suit.
He tells you of people, of places and things. And they all feel so far from the nights piled into his mom's minivan, from backyard parties with ice cream cakes and first kisses. It's property now, it's research grants now, it's car co-ops and broken hearts.
As you stroll through your goodbye, making plans, making promises, you remember to gently inquire. The girl, the sweet one, with the brown eyes and the light laugh. A silence casts over, and he turns to you, eyes questioning.
'I'm scared, Heath,' he says.
And you realize, that despite, or perhaps in spite of, courtrooms, Lacoste running shoes, flaxseed and composts, regardless of London jaunts and ski weekends, conference presentations and tailored-suits that he is still what he always was. That you both are, what you always were. Kids playing at being grown up. And not always doing a good job.
The hug lasts a little longer, and you feel it might be because you're trying to hold onto something that always feels so out of grasp. And so, you take the opportunity to whipser,
'You're alright. We're alright.'
