‘Yep.’ Nate is still grinning at me, and I’m thrown back to that heady summer when Nate, a high school football god from neighboring Ventura, took an interest in me – a quiet, insecure girl whose goal in life was to not be noticed. He started talking to me at the library one day between the history and self-help stacks, asked me out for ice cream and became my first boyfriend.
I get a sudden flash of blistering days spent hanging out at the beach, his head resting on my sun-burned stomach, me sketching him as he lay in my backyard hammock snoozing, the first time he ever kissed me, under an oak tree in the park during the July Fourth parade, Nate stripping naked in such a hurry he stumbled against my mother’s antique sideboard and broke one of my grandmother’s dishes . . .
‘How long did you date for?’ Hannah asks.
‘Not long,’ Nate says. ‘She dumped my sorry ass when she took off for college.’
I flush bright red and start shifting foot to foot. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
He cocks an eyebrow at me and laughs. ‘Yeah it was, but you were right to. You were going places and back then I was going nowhere.’ He notes my awkwardness and gently nudges me with his elbow. ‘Don’t worry, all’s forgiven.’
I cringe some more, remembering the details of our break-up. How I went over to his house the morning of the day I was leaving, how I let him pull me into bed, and how, afterwards, lying there naked in each other’s arms, I told him I thought we should have a break. He swung his legs over the bed, stood and walked naked to the door, then opened it for me. He didn’t say a word. I gathered up my clothes in silence, tears falling down my cheeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him as I scurried past.
‘Have fun in New York,’ he muttered.
I wonder how long it took him to get over me? Not long, I imagine. Still, I don’t want to make him dwell on our break-up.
‘So you finished college and then moved back here, huh?’
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘So, what about you?’ I ask quickly, trying to change the subject. ‘Do you have any children?’
His face lights up. ‘Two. Girls. Twelve and fourteen. I’m divorced so I see them every other weekend. They live in Long Beach with their mom.’
I nod, trying to picture the kind of woman Nate might have married and what might have happened to break them up.
‘You?’ he asks.
‘Oh, um, yes, I’m married.’ I hold up my left hand, as though needing to prove it by showing off my worn wedding ring.
‘No,’ he clarifies. ‘I meant, any other kids?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve got another daughter – June – she’s almost eleven. And a stepson, Gene, he’s twenty-four.’
I wonder if he already knows some of this about me. It would be easy enough to discover by searching online – there are several articles featuring Robert that mention me, but he wouldn’t necessarily have known my married name and perhaps he’s never been curious about what happened to me. I would never admit it but every so often I’ve looked up Nate, but his Facebook profile was always set to private and I didn’t want to friend him – it seemed too stalker-ish.
‘You’re at college?’ Nate asks Hannah.
She nods, her back straightening with pride. ‘I’m a sophomore,’ she says. ‘NYU.’
Nate takes that in and I see him frown a little as he does the math on her age. He turns to me and to cut him off before he can ask, I shrug, embarrassed. ‘College dropout!’ I laugh.
Nate studies me curiously and I realize that he’s probably the only person who truly understands how much college meant to me. How much I’d dreamed of New York and being an artist. It’s why we broke up. I wonder if he feels smug that it didn’t work out. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says somberly. ‘That’s a real shame.’
I’m surprised by his reaction. I would have thought he’d have reveled in my downfall, but I suppose I’m thinking of him as the swaggering teenage boy I used to know and he’s not that person anymore. He’s a grown man.
‘Anyway,’ Nate says, looking between me and Hannah, ‘you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here. Can I help at all?’
‘Um, well, we’re actually waiting for my stepson,’ I say, grateful for the change in the conversation. ‘He’s . . . I think . . .’
‘He’s been arrested,’ Hannah cuts in.
Nate looks at me and I shrug in embarrassment. ‘What’s his name?’ he asks, walking over to the counter and grabbing a clipboard from the cop sitting behind the desk.
‘Gene . . . Gene Walker.’
Nate scans the list. His finger stops at a line and his eyebrows rise.
‘What?’ I ask, my heart sinking. ‘What did he do?’
‘Failure to stop for a police officer after a minor traffic misdemeanor. He was driving erratically.’
I latch onto the word minor. ‘Is that bad?’ It doesn’t sound too bad and at least it’s not a DUI.
‘Well . . . it depends,’ Nate says. ‘He eventually pulled over and they found 30 grams of marijuana on him.’
‘Told you!’ Hannah crowed.
I glare at her.
‘Is that a lot?’ I ask Nate.
Nate grimaces. ‘The legal limit is 28.5 grams. Anything over that and he can be charged with possession.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
‘Six months jail time,’ Nate answers. ‘Or a fine.’
‘Oh God.’
Nate hesitates a second, clearly weighing something up. ‘Come with me,’ he finally says, nodding his head towards a door that leads beyond the waiting room.
‘Wait here,’ I tell Hannah, and follow Nate.
‘Don’t you dare pay his fine,’ Hannah hisses after me. ‘Why should you always bail him out? He’ll never learn his lesson!’
Nate leads me through a set of double doors, down a corridor, and into an office. There are framed photographs on the wall of Nate in dress uniform shaking hands with someone covered in medals, and on the bookshelf is a snapshot of two girls – both exceptionally pretty, with Nate’s
