Page 19 of Pick-Up
Ethan gestures over to the side of the path, and I nod. We step a few feet into the grass, so we’re not blocking other runners. We are awash in kinetic light under the flickering leaves of a now-orange oak.
“I know I should’ve given you your daughter’s spot in drama back.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I didn’t. Because, well, I was caught off guard and also… it’s complicated with my… ex-wife.”
I like to think only a seasoned veteran like myself could detect the subtle clunkiness of the way he delivers the moniker. The way he is still tryingexon for size. The divorce is fresh.
Of course, I, of all people, understand this. The complication of factoring in the impulses of a person with whom you’re no longer romantically entangled but to whom you will forever be logistically chained. The desire to avoid engaging. It’s the only reason I’m sometimes grateful that Cliff is so checked out.
“I’m trying to take on more, but it’s all kind of new for me. She was already angry that I hadn’t secured the spot in drama in the first place—I didn’t realize how cutthroat after-school sign-up is—andthen, when Ms. Choi said that a waitlist spot had opened up, I was so relieved to diffuse things. Giving it up to you would have meant contending with my ex. Which is not your problem. Sorry. Is this too much information?”
I sigh. “No. It’s okay. Unfortunately, I can relate.”
I watch him process this information. “Right. The point is, I took the easy way out… at your daughter’s expense. And if you want the spot back, it’s yours.”
I study him for a moment. The clear look in his brown eyes. I even feel a little bad for him. Does he have an angle?
Well, he has many angles. But I’m trying to avoid noticing those—because of the warm feeling they’re giving me in my stomach.
I really need to get out more.
If he has some nefarious plan, I can’t see it. He’s just some semi-absent dad who’s on a mission to be present now, fueled by divorce guilt. It explains why I haven’t noticed him before. He was probably never around until now.
“No, it’s okay.” I shake my head, opting to take him at face value. “I appreciate that, but, at this point, I think I’ll spare my daughter the whiplash, never mind disappointing your kid too. I imagine she doesn’t need more upheaval in her life.”
He nods, sighing, like the thought of his daughter’s forlorn face stresses him out as much as Nettie’s does me. He tugs absently on a leaf dangling from a drooping tree branch, which rebounds mildly. We both watch it bounce.
“Anyway,” he says, remembering himself. “I’m sorry for saying you should be more on top of things. And I’m sorry I screwed you.” He pauses, then smirks. “Especially because that’s really starting to sound wrong.”
I grin despite myself. “It really is.”
We both snicker. Maybe we’re parents, but we’re all still seventh graders at heart.
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly a habit. “Let’s start over,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m Sasha. Officially.”
He narrows his eyes. “I know who you are.”
I am startled by the way he says this. As if he really does. As if maybe I should know who he is too. As if heseesme.
For a disorienting moment, I can’t tell if he’s being literal or not. I am struck dumb. There’s an awkward pause.
“Sorry. I don’t…”
“We’ve met before,” he explains. “At the playground.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m bad with faces. And names.”
He nods. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I see a look of disappointment flit across his face, then disappear.
And I’m confused. This man hates me—right?
“Well,” I say, suddenly unmoored. “I better go.”
As I begin walking away, cutting across the lawn to the nearest exit, he starts up the path ahead, revving back up to a run. But then he turns to face me, jogging backward.
