Jonah and I beat the early morning rush by getting off the interstate and taking a shortcut through Mariville, where we stopped for breakfast at a little diner. He ordered waffles and scrambled eggs; I ordered pancakes and some sausage links.
"This is the nicest we've been to each other in a while," I said.
Jonah raised his eyebrows briefly, but he didn't look surprised. "Yeah," he said. "Since we moved in together."
"Do you think it was a mistake?" I said. I didn't even mean to say that; it just slipped out. I didn't regret it.
"No," he said. "Why, do you?"
"I don't know. A couple of times, I did."
"I guess I did too."
"I still love you, though," I said.
"I still love you too."
"I'm glad."
"You know," he said reflectively, taking a sip of coffee, "I think it's almost harder to like someone than it is to love them."
I had no reply to that. Maybe he was right. I considered it. I thought about the way he scattered computer parts all over our apartment, the way he left the heat on, the inexplicable way he'd leave all the sinks a mess, the way I'd find his wallet and his keys and phone in the strangest places, like the freezer. None of those things made me stop loving him. But they did make me dislike him. They made me wish I were back living in my dad's refurbished basement, where I could scatter my art supplies everywhere (like Jonah did with his computer parts) and strew the floor with clothes and books and nobody would care. They made me wish Jonah was back in his old apartment with his old roommates, and I would only see him briefly at school, or when we'd meet in the mornings for coffee and to watch the sunrise on the roof of the abandoned building downtown.
"I still like you, though, Lissy Kenway."
"I like you too, Jonah Hiller. I've always liked you."
He smiled and sipped his coffee. The waitress came by with our food.
Labels: january brings few faces
