Page 71 of Here & There

Cal told me that’s what Mac bought the equipment for—to hand-catch crab, that poncey goof. But I’ve never once seen him catch one.

He does, actually, catch a crab, though, that afternoon. Three of them—big giant things he manages to hold in one hand when he comes out an hour later. They snap at the air with their pincers, making Nate blanch.

Mac cooks them for dinner, and I make a salad while Nate takes a cold shower to try to calm his overworked body out. Weeat around the table outside, dipping the soft flesh into melted butter and basically dying from deliciousness. It’s the perfect end to the perfect day.

“Hey, Nate,” I ask when we’re all stuffed, leaning back in our chairs. “You want a ride to school tomorrow? It’s my first day at the Dinghy, but I’ll only be observing Mac and his employees this week, so I’m not heading over until noon.”

At the mention of school, a shadow passes over Nate’s face. He seems to withdraw into himself right before our eyes. “It’s fine,” he mumbles. Then, “I better finish my homework.”

He shoves off from the table, hauling himself in a limp up the stairs.

Mac frowns. “Is there something specific about school he doesn’t like? Or is he just anti-academics altogether?”

Uneasiness roils in my belly, but I told myself earlier I’d tell Mac if it made sense to, and now it does. I ask him if he’ll come out on the deck with me for a moment.

In the silence of the room—the only sound the soft hum of the fridge and the rush of blood in my ears—I’m aware it’s just the two of us, alone in the spot where we fell into something a little less like roommates at the beginning of the weekend. “I need to tell you something,” I say. I point upstairs.

Mac understands immediately. Worry pinches his face, but he comes outside with me.

We take a seat at the table, and I tell him about the boy on the bus and my theory that working out might not be about Nate trying to gain sex appeal.

Mac sits back in his chair when he’s done. His hands grip the arms tight enough that I can see his knuckles are strained. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?” Mac asks.

His tone isn’t accusatory exactly, but it’s not soft, either.

Heat runs over me, along with self-doubt. Did I do the right thing? “It was a moment between me and Nate,” I saystiffly. “He didn’t volunteer the info. He also didn’t appear to be at imminent risk. I assessed the information and acted accordingly.”

Mac doesn’t look fully convinced.

Now it’s my turn to go tense, but instead of gripping the armrests, I fold my arms around my chest, like I used to when my bullies came out. Then I tell Mac what it was like for me. How things were manageable until Jessica got sick.

Mac’s stiffness deflates as I tell my story.

“She was my protector,” I said.

“Did they know what was happening?” he asks.

I nod. “They didn’t care.” Maybe I should get emotional telling this story. But this time, it’s just exhausting.

Mac seems to sense it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For what happened to you.”

I nod. Now, somehow, I feel emotional. Like him acknowledging it was shitty is all I needed.

But this is about Nate.

As if Mac’s mind has gone back there too, he says, “I’m sorry for getting upset earlier too. I wouldn’t have done anything different than you did. It’s just…when someone fucks with my son—” His jaw tenses.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“No,” he says softly. But he’s distracted, his face racked with worry. His elbows are on his armrest, his hands curled under his chin.

“You’re going to talk to Nate, right?” I ask gently. “You can’t just storm onto that bus and chuck the bully out the window.”

“You sure?” Mac asks. “I think it’s a solid plan.”

I laugh softly.

Mac leans his hands onto the table. “So what do I tell him?”

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