Even the Moon Has Scars by Steph Campbell

asks, “But you loved her.”
    It isn’t a question.
    I nod slowly. “I did.”
    “And now—”
    “Now, I’ve moved on.” I shrug. “Lena—”
    “Have you really?” Lena asks. “Because when she calls you—”
    I don’t really understand why we have to talk about this. I screwed up when I took the call from her earlier, but it doesn’t mean the entire relationship needs to be rehashed. Doing that will only lead to me having to discuss my arrest, and that’s not something I want to talk about with the girl who up until thirty minutes ago looked at me with those big brown eyes that screamed trust and understanding, and all the things I don’t even come close to deserving from someone.
    I turn my bar stool toward her, brushing her knee with my own. The simple touch is more electric and intimate than sex with my starfish ex.
    “Look, Lena,” I say, as I wrap a straw wrapper around my index finger. “This isn’t something I want to get into.”
    “You’ve asked me a bunch of questions tonight,” she presses again. “Sometimes talking about stuff helps.”
    Our server passes on his way to check on another guest. “Can I get the check?” I ask.
    “I’m not finished,” Lena says, motioning to her half-eaten piece of pie.
    “I’m ready to go,” I say.
    “Oh, because I asked you a question you don’t want to answer now?” she demands.
    Exactly that.
    “No, Lena. I’m just ready to go.”
    “Liar,” she mumbles under her breath. I thought I liked the sassy version of Lena, but right now I just want her to quit.
    I pull out my wallet as soon as our check arrives and hand over my debit card.
    “I’m not a liar, Lena. It’s just—being in love doesn’t define you. It doesn’t go to the most deserving. It’s not something you collect, like, the more the better. It isn’t a trinket passed down. It’s a wound left behind. It changes you, but not always in a good way. It’s a goddamn scar.”
    Lena pulls back and we both sit in silence for far too long to be comfortable, and well past the awkward-silence stage.
    “I understand. I mean, I guess I don’t, I’ve never been there—in love, but I get that it’s not something I can comprehend so…I’m sorry...” her voice trails off and I feel like a prick for getting so riled up.
    “Shit happens,” I say with a shrug.
    “Some people would say that everything happens for a reason,” she says.
    I nod. “And are you one of those people?”
    She pauses before answering, like she’s weighing her answer. “Not really.”
    “That’s what I thought,” I say. So she’s not as dreamy as she comes off.
    I scribble the total and my signature on the receipt, then slump back into the stool.
    “Do you want to finish that?” I ask, pointing to her half-eaten slice of pie. I guess I can wait.
    “Wait,” she says, “I changed my mind.”
    “About the pie?”
    Lena shakes her head. “No, about the other thing—about things happening for a reason.”
    “That was quick.”
    “So, I had this heart defect, right?”
    I’m surprised she brought it back up. She couldn’t wait to change the subject back at Harvard.
    “But I also had this secondary defect, so I guess I was even more flawed than they originally thought—”
    I sigh, “I’d hardly say you were flawed, Lena.”
    “No, I was. I am. But the secondary defect, the atrial septal defect—” she pauses and blinks a few times, realizing she’s not speaking English as far as I’m concerned. “The hole in my heart—it allowed tiny amounts of good blood to get from one side of my heart to the other. Because of that secondary defect, I survived until they diagnosed me. The thing that they weren’t looking for, the thing no one expected after this massively bad thing happened, was actually the one thing that saved me.”
    I push the salt shaker back and forth on the slick counter between my palms.
    How am I going to argue with a girl who wouldn’t be alive without some shitty luck