Page 111 of Things I Read About
“I am?” My voice appears.
“She is?”
“You are?” Everyone asks all at once.
He looks at me, his eyes both angry and apologetic at the same time. “I’ve only ever seen you chow down on fish, cheese, chocolate, or fruit. And starches. Although that’s often your only option.” He looks back at Susan, sounding furious again. “And she can’t live in that apartment complex and play piano the way she does. Have you heard her? Hours at a time, the way she plays, she’d get noise violations constantly. Quit trying to put her in a little box.”
“Nate,” I say, realizing that I’m crying.
“All of you, quit trying to put her in a little box like she’s still back there. Back when you lost your mother. She’s not thirteen anymore. She’s not a carbon copy of your mom, either. And she’s not your—” He cuts himself off. “Shit, I’m sorry. Sorry, Fergus.” He looks at Emerson, then my dad. “Sorry, sir.” He turns and storms out.
I jump up when the door slams. For a second, there’s only the sound of some awful Frankie Valley song. Then the voices explode around me, everyone all at once.
My sisters get up and head in my direction, but I have to go.
I have to stop him from leaving.
I turn and run, hearing Samantha scream with what sounds like glee behind me.
I fly out the front door and down the steps.
Nate is striding down the middle of my street.
“Nate!” I call after him.
He doesn’t look back. I run to catch up with him, but he’s too fast. He turns, walking between two houses, as if he knows the neighborhood. He keeps going, out into the greenbelt.
I follow, running and still too slow.
He passes a bench and a walking path and stops at the edge of the little creek. He puts his hands on the back of his head and stares up.
I can see he’s out of breath as I run toward him.
I don’t think, I just collide into him, wrapping my arms around his middle.
He barely sways forward on impact. He doesn’t drop his hands or his head.
I squeeze him harder. “Nate?”
He sighs, but that’s all the reaction I get.
My tears flow freely, and I don’t care. “You care, Nate. You do. It wouldn’t be just sex. It wouldn’t.” My voice cracks.
Finally, he turns. He looks around the area and grabs my wrist. He pulls us into an ancient wooden gazebo by the creek. The wood creaks under his big boots.
Once we’re inside the privacy of the covered porch, which is surrounded by a large, thick hedge on four of the six sides, he lets go of my wrist. He paces. It’s dusk, so the bugs are singing loudly, filling the silence between us.
“Admit it,” I say, my voice still shaky. “Admit you care about me, Nate.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his back to me.
“What?”
He turns to face me. “It doesn’t matter, Sally. Yes, I care about you. Yes, I am attracted to you. Yes, I definitely worry about you. Hell, you drive me insane. How do you not even know you’re a pescatarian?”
“I don’t know. How do you know things about me that I don’t?”
He huffs. “Great question. But the answer doesn’t matter.”
