Page 125 of Fault Lines
I nodded too quickly. “Fine. Just—late night, I guess.”
He frowned, not buying it, but let it go. “You want to get lunch? There’s a hot dog stand up by the fountain that’s not totally disgusting.”
“Maybe in a bit,” I said, and steered us down another path lined with maples just starting to bud.
We passed a playground, the swings full of shrieking kids. One little girl—maybe three, maybe four—wore a lavender jacket and silver boots, her hair done up in a wild crown of braids. She looked straight at me as we walked by, eyes dark and serious, and I felt my stomach twist.
I kept walking, hoping Nate wouldn’t notice the sudden wetness in my eyes. Of course he did. He always did.
“Livi,” he said, stopping mid-step. “You don’t have to pretend around me.”
I forced a smile. “Pretend what?”
“That this is enough,” he said. “That I’m enough.”
I looked at him, really looked, and saw the old bruises under the surface, the way the tension rode his shoulders even on a perfect day. I wanted to reach for him, to tell him I was trying, that he meant more to me than he realized.
But the words stuck, brittle and useless.
So instead I said, “The leaves are pretty this time of year.”
He let out a short, frustrated breath, but didn’t press. We walked on, steps slower, a growing gap between us where our shadows didn’t quite touch.
At the edge of the pond, he paused and watched a pair of ducks paddle in tight, agitated circles. I leaned against therailing, the wood rough under my fingers, and tried to breathe around the lump in my throat.
We stood there a long time, watching the world go by. I could feel him next to me, solid and real, but the distance between us kept widening.
Eventually, Nate said, “You want to sit?”
We found an empty bench, half in sun, half in shade. He sat first, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. I perched next to him, hands still locked in my pockets, the photograph a hot, guilty secret.
Neither of us spoke.
The air filled with the sound of children laughing and birds bickering over scraps. Somewhere, someone was playing guitar—badly—and the chords drifted in and out on the wind.
After a while, Nate said, “You don’t have to stay.”
I flinched. “I want to.”
He turned to me, eyes darker than I’d ever seen them. “Do you?”
I nodded, but my throat burned with the effort.
He looked away, jaw clenched, and traced a finger along the edge of the bench. “I don’t want to be a consolation prize, Livi.”
“You’re not,” I said, too fast, but even I could hear the hollowness in it.
He laughed, low and bitter. “You sure about that?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. The truth hung between us, heavy and sharp.
We sat there, both of us staring out at the park, pretending we were just two people enjoying the day.
But neither of us was fooled.
The sun shifted, and the shadow on the bench grew longer.
I wondered how long we’d sit there before one of us got up the nerve to leave
