It doesn't take long for me to figure out why there was such a twinkle in her eyes when she picked a plate and selected her paints. While we've been talking about our jobs—a safe subject—she's been constructing what, I'm pretty sure, is a replica of me on the plate. He's dressed like me right down to my vans, and she keeps examining me as though I'm her model. Obviously, I can't be sure since his head doesn't quite match mine.

Starting at his shoulders, a shrunken, flaccid penis takes the place of a normal head. Every time I look at it, I have to smother a laugh. The woman in charge came over early on and was impressed with Tayla's artistic skills. Just now she came around and stared at the plate for a moment, her head cocked. Then she examined me, took in the masterpiece immortalized on the ceramic, and turned bright red.

Tayla glanced over her shoulder and gave her an impish smile. "He's a dick, so..."

"Right, yes, I can...see that." She wandered away without another word and hasn't come back again.

At the top of the plate, she's written Soulmate Simon in a swirling, beautiful cursive that belies the eyesore below. "You know," I say, tipping the end of my brush toward the dick head. "Someday our children might wonder why you've got a picture of my most prized possession on a plate. Also, they may question where you put my actual head."

"It's up your ass. Makes it hard to see." A hint of a smile tugs at the edges of her mouth. "You think this is your penis?" She purses her lips and pretends to assess it. "I can't really remember. Is that what yours looks like?" She bats her eyes.

Our gazes lock, and her smile slips a fraction. "If you need a reminder, I'm happy to oblige." Is it too soon for those comments? Probably. But when an opening presents itself, it's hard to ignore. I reach for the top button of my pants.

Her eyes widen a fraction. "Oh, no!" She crosses her arms over her face.

"No? You sure?" I try and fail to suppress my amusement.

"Quite sure," she says, straightening her back and dipping her brush into the pale pink. "How's your sister?"

"Married to a decent guy. Two kids." I pick up my brush and examine the colors. In contrast to hers, mine has Soulmate Tayla scrawled across the top. When she started her plate with the swirly Soulmate Simon in such careful neat letters, I got sucked in and thought we were making progress. Turns out, not so much. Although I suppose she didn't label it Fucking Simon, so that's something. I'll count it as a win.

Since I can't draw, my creation is a colorful list of all the things I loved about her when we dated. Some of them, like her sense of humor, clearly still apply, but others are a leap of faith. Whether they're true now or not, they were once, and maybe the plate can celebrate the good parts of our past together. "Your brother?"

She sighs. "A manager at McDonald's. No house. Not married. No kids. Not even a serious girlfriend."

"He's happy?" Her brother Damon is a free spirit, and his motto is work to live and not live to work. Over the years I wondered whether he outgrew his stance. I guess not. "Still traveling the world?"

"Yeah," she nods and rinses her brush in the bowl of water. "He's saving up for an Eastern European trip next. To me, his lifestyle seems ridiculous, but Mom and I have given up trying to talk him into something else."

"What about your dad?" One of the things I loved about her had been her close connection to her family.

She bites her lip and paints for a few minutes in silence. When it seems like she's not going to answer, I set down my brush and swivel on my chair to face her. Maybe Damon's lack of career aspirations has driven a wedge into the family? When we were dating, they tried to talk him into becoming a flight attendant like her mother. 

Her brush hovers over the paints, and she takes a shaky breath. "He died five years ago."

A lead ball drops into my stomach. "Holy shit, Tay. Jesus. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

She shakes her head and dips her brush into the paint with determination, still focused on the plate. "It's okay." She surveys her drawing, and her shoulders fall. "I mean, it's not okay. It wasn't okay then. It's not okay now. We miss him all the time. All the freaking time."

My hand itches to reach out, and I fight it for as long as I can. I'm not sure she even wants me to touch her, but the instinct to comfort runs deep. Finally, I run my hand along the top of her head, smoothing her hair, and down her narrow back. When she glances at me with tears in her eyes, my heart cracks in two. I tug her into my arms, and her paintbrush clatters to the table. She comes willingly, her arms thrown over my shoulders, and I squeeze her tight. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. So sorry."

Her face presses to my neck, and her tears dampen my shirt. She hugs me in return, her shoulders shaking. I run my hands along her back in soothing patterns. His loss must have been awful for her, for her family. She sniffs and eases away, using the heels of her hands to brush her tears. The green paint leaves streaks across her face.

"Just a sec," I say, focusing on the paint instead of on the tightness in my chest. Her father was funny and kind. The loss, though not mine, makes my throat close up. With a paper towel, I wipe her face, and when it's not coming off, I dip the edge in water and try again. "Paint," I murmur.

"I'm such a mess." Her voice catches.

We make eye contact, and I can't look away. The sadness and uncertainly in her brown depths intensifies the ache inside me, the desire to make it better somehow, even if that's impossible. "You've never been a mess a day in your life, Tay. Gorgeous, funny, clever." I gesture to my plate, filled with all the things I think she is. "So many things, but not a mess."

"I'm not looking at your plate." She holds my gaze with a touch of defiance.

"Why not?"

"Because then I'll feel bad I spent my time drawing you as a literal dick head when you were thinking up nice things about me."

A laugh escapes, and without thinking, I kiss her cheek. Her breath catches, and when I pull back, I frame her face with my hands. "For the record, I think your Soulmate Simon plate is hilarious. My favorite part?" I grin. "When the sales lady wasn't sure if she should be embarrassed or offended for me. That's one ugly dick."

"I called on all my artistic talents," she says, a half-smile breaking the melancholy.

"It shows."

"I'm sorry about crying all over you." She takes a shaky breath. "I don't know—I don't know why I did that. I haven't cried like that about him in a long time."

"Grief is weird like that." At the hospital, I've seen the gamut of emotions in people when it comes to a serious diagnosis or a discussion about end of life options. Closed off, wide open, and every variation in between.

"Sometimes it feels like he's on a trip somewhere. Except I can't see him or talk to him. But I don't—it doesn't really feel like he's gone." She steps back from me and slides onto her stool.

"Have you been coping okay?" I pick up my paintbrush and dab it into the paint. "I know it's been five years, but grief isn't linear."

"Most of the time I am, and then like right now when you asked about him, his loss will just hit me full force. He's not out in the world somewhere. He's not really anywhere."

We grow quiet for a minute, painting in silence. I add the word loved to her plate. She glances over, a crease forming in her forehead.

"Loved?"

"Yeah," I say, a whisper of a smile tugging at my lips. "When we first started dating, after I met your family, I thought part of the reason you carried yourself with so much confidence was because you knew you were loved. There was never any doubt you were loved."

She shoves my shoulder, and another tear slips down her cheek. "You're going to make me cry again. No more crying." Her voice is thick with tears.

"We can talk about the dick in place of my head again, if you want." I point to her plate with the tip of my brush. "That seems to cheer you up."

"It's true," she says, laughing through her tears. "I may have to break down and get one of those metal holder things for my wall and hang this plate in a place of honor."

"Ohh, a place of honor? I'm moving up in the world." I do a fist pump.

"Well, your dick head is at least." She grins.

"Gotta start somewhere." I put the finishing touches on my plate and peer at hers. "You done?"

She brushes one more clear coat over the top and turns her creation from side to side examining it. "Yeah, I think so."

"What do we do now?"

"We leave them here and they put them in the kiln. We come back to collect them when they call."

I chuckle as I grab her plate and take both to the kiln racks near the exit.

"What's so funny?" She follows me.

"I'm just wondering how many more people are going to ponder why Soulmate Simon is such a dickhead."

She looks up at me, her eyes alight with amusement. "The eternal question."

Being with her today has been a revelation. I've had regrets since the minute I walked out of that restaurant, but as the years passed, part of me wondered if I was adding a shiny gloss to my memories, turning our relationship into a perfection it never achieved.

When we get to the car, I'm torn between driving her home and offering to cook her dinner. I'm working the midnight shift, and I should really get some sleep. But all we've got is three weeks. If I haven't convinced her to stick with me after that, we're done forever. I've been lucky to get a second chance; third chances don't exist.

"Have dinner with me? I'll cook." I turn on the ignition and let it sit idling while I wait for her response.

She slouches in her seat and pinches her lips between her fingers. She shoots me a sideways look. "What are you cooking?"

"A few years ago, I took a Thai cooking course. I make a mean Pad Thai, if you're willing to take a chance." 

"I'm more of a red curry girl, actually."

"If you agree to come, I'll make it happen."

"When do you work?"

"I start at 8, so it'll have to be an early dinner."

"Don't you want a nap or something before you go in?"

I was already working when we split up, so maybe she remembers how much I used to need a nap to get through midnight shifts. Six years later and I'm much better at surviving on less. "Sleep or hang out with you? The choice is easy."

She fiddles with a ring on her index finger and doesn't look at me. "I don't understand why you're trying so hard."

Such a simple answer in some ways. "Because I've compared every other woman I've dated to you, and none of them have measured up."

"That would be a really great line if I actually believed you." She meets my gaze, and her jaw is set.

I rub my face and debate how honest I should get at this point. "I used to drive past your house. But I could never figure out if you were home. Then—then I did come, and you slammed the door in my face." The bouquet of flowers I brought was crushed in the door.

She scoffs. "When you showed up at my door, I thought you were there for a different reason. My father's funeral was the day before. It's stupid, but I spent the whole process thinking you'd magically turn up, know I needed you. Then you did—but when I opened the door, you started saying how sorry you were that you broke up with me. Nothing about my dad. I just lost it. You had no idea what was going on in my life. We weren't connected anymore. I had no emotional room for you. None."

"That explains the look of disbelief on your face when I started talking." I stare at my hands clenched around the steering wheel. How could I have fucked up so badly so many times? "I never came back because I thought, based on your expression, we were a lost cause. I'd burned it down and there was nothing to rebuild."

"I don't know what's left, Simon. Maybe nothing good." She digs a hand into her thick hair, lifting it up and letting it fall.

After today, I'm sure the foundation of our relationship is still there, solid as ever. I might have burnt down the house, but the footings held firm. "So," I say, raising my eyebrows. "Dinner?"

Think she'll say yes?

Reads: 1700