Page 84 of Things I Read About
I wonder if he’s conscious of the action. I doubt it.
Unlike many people, I am well-equipped for this tough conversation. I know what I would’ve wanted, what I still want sometimes. So, I clear my throat and lighten my tone. “Tell me about Zachary.”
“What?”
“Zachary. What was he like?”
For the first time in days, Nate grins. “He was such a little punk.”
I laugh, and Nate looks over at me, but not with anger.
He tells me a few stories from his childhood, which was worlds different from my own. He talks all the way back to Sadie’s house.
When we pull into the garage, I’m not trembling anymore, and Nate has finally stopped flexing his hands.
When the garage door has fully closed, we get out and head inside. Nate makes good time to the stairs, trying to distance himself from me.
“Nate.”
He stops and bends over the rail so he can see me.
“Thank you… for tonight, all that, with Joe.” I fumble.
“It’s my job,” he says, and then he’s out of sight.
It feels like he’s taking a piece of me with him. Some part of my heart—probably the portion that tells my brain I can actually feel Nate’s presence—burst when he carried me again. Everything felt so right when I lay my head on his chest. When he grinned and talked and chuckled with me in the car.
He has to have felt it, too.
I have the urge to sprint up the stairs and demand he talk everything out with me. Make him listen to why I left the way I did. Make him understand that I couldn’t pretend anymore, that I wanted to be myself. Make him kiss me again, if I reach up on my toes, hold his face, and pull him to me.
Except my head is pounding. My mouth is dry and my eyes burn.
So, tomorrow.
I am doing all of those things first thing tomorrow.
21
I’m up before my alarm, excited. I put on a tank top with a built-in sports bra and matching workout shorts. Quick-dry spandex is really the only acceptable fabric for Texas in August. I, also, don’t hate how my boobs and butt look.
Nate’s waiting in the gator with his thermos of coffee and iPad, ear buds already in his ears.
I climb in with a smile, but he doesn’t look up.
I say good morning, but he doesn’t hear me, he just opens the garage.
Finally, I wave to get him to acknowledge my existence.
He pulls out one of his ear buds and raises a brow.
“I want to talk.”
“Ok.”
“About spring break.”
He rolls his eyes.
