Page 124 of Fault Lines
After a while, I said, “You want to talk about it?”
He shook his head, eyes fixed on the dark.
“Was it about your dad?” I asked, knowing the answer.
He nodded once, tight and angry. “Always is.”
I reached for his hand. This time he let me take it, his fingers clammy and tense, but I didn’t let go.
We sat like that, side by side on the edge of the bed, staring into the shadows that pooled in the corners of the room. There were no right words, nothing that would make the past less real.
Nate let out a long, shuddering breath. “Did you hear? He’s getting out,” he said. “Early. For ‘good behavior.’”
I squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to see him. Not ever.”
He was quiet a long time. Then, “He said he wants to make amends.”
I felt my jaw clench. “He doesn’t get to want anything.”
Nate laughed, bitter and thin. “He never did care what he was allowed to want.”
A car alarm went off outside, distant but insistent. Nate let the noise fill the silence, then drained another splash of whiskey into his glass, but didn’t drink it this time.
“I used to think if I was just better, or tougher, or whatever, he’d stop. But it never made a difference.”
“You were a kid,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He snorted. “Tell that to the dreams.”
I put my arm around his shoulders, and for a moment, he leaned in, letting himself be held.
We stayed like that until the chill of the room worked its way into our bones and the city noises faded into nothing. Eventually, he stood and crawled back under the covers, dragging me with him.
He fell asleep again, slower this time, his breathing ragged but steady.
I didn’t sleep for a long while, my hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart beat out the things he’d never say.
When I finally drifted off, the whiskey glass was still on the nightstand, catching the moonlight like a small, stubborn star.
∞∞∞
The next day brought one of those false-spring afternoons, thekind that tricked you into believing everything might turn out all right. Central Park was packed, the walking paths crowded with stroller moms and joggers, little kids zipped into bright puffy jackets, and couples either clinging together or orbiting each other in cautious, silent patterns.
Nate had insisted on the walk—said it was “good for the soul,” which was a line I’d heard him use on customers at the shop. He bought us both coffee from a cart near the entrance, extra cream for him, none for me, and we strolled through the park like we were auditioning for a low-budget rom-com.
“Check it out,” he said, gesturing to a red squirrel scurrying along a low branch. “That little bastard just mugged a pigeon for a peanut.”
I tried to laugh, but the sound barely made it out. I was busy watching a family on the next bench—two parents, three kids, and a golden retriever, all knotted together in an impossible mess of arms and leashes. The kids shrieked with laughter as the dad faked a pratfall, the kind of chaos I used to imagine I’d have someday.
Nate followed my gaze. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave me was gentle, knowing. I turned away and pretended to watch the ducks fighting for scraps in the pond.
We walked in silence for a while; our footsteps slow and uneven on the stone path. The leaves overhead filtered the sunlight into gold and shadow, dappling Nate’s hair and making him look younger, less haunted.
I kept my hands jammed in my coat pockets, even though the air was warm enough to go without. My fingers curled around the photograph I’d stuffed there last week—an old snapshot of me and Cam at the beach, wind-whipped and grinning, taken back when I still thought happiness was a permanent condition.
I pressed my thumb to the edge of the photo, feeling the outline dig into my palm, and tried to imagine what my life would have looked like if everything had gone the way I wanted.
“You all right?” Nate asked, voice quiet.
