Page 61 of Brooklynaire
* * *
Monday I spend in Manhattan,suffering through meetings. My attention span is at an all-timelow.
At home I find that Mrs. Gray has left me a homemade ham and cheese calzone for dinner. And anote.
Nathan—your mother called. She would like to hear from you regarding plans for their quick visit this week.P.S. There is a salad in the vegetable drawer for you. Please eat it because your mother wants to make sure you get enough fiber. —Mrs.G.
I haven’t spoken to Mom in a week, so after I locate my salad and pop open another Diet Coke, I ask Bingley to callher.
“Nate?” Mom’s voice comes through the sound system. “Last night’s game was veryexciting.”
“I know, right?” My parents love hockey. But they’d have to, because they met and got married in Minnesota. “You’re still coming to games three andfour?”
“We would love to. Are you sure it’s notrouble?”
“No trouble tome. I’m not piloting the Gulfstream.” When they pop out for games, I send the jet to Iowa to getthem.
“That is a relief, honey. Your father still gets a tense look on his face when he thinks about our old garagedoor.”
I make a grumpy noise. I was only sixteen when I backed my father’s Oldsmobile into our garage door, causing over a thousand dollars worth of damage. At the time it was a lot of money. But the real problem was the car itself. This happened shortly after the announcement that Oldsmobiles wouldn’t be manufactured anymore. “It was my last Olds,” he used tosigh.
When journalists write about me they say I had a “normal, well-adjusted Midwestern upbringing.” I suppose they’reright.
“Are you going to stay the week?” I ask, changing thesubject.
“We can’t, sweetheart. Your father’s staff meeting on Thursday is non-negotiable.”
“Ah.” My father is the principal of a suburban middle school, and he takes his job very seriously. “You can fly home after the game if he doesn’t want to take a personal day. I’ll set it up thatway.”
“Thank you. I’ll be a little sleepy on Wednesday, but it’ll be worth it to watch your guys mow down Tampa athome.”
I smile down at my salad because my mom is awesome. She’s a school teacher, too—and the head of special education for the entire schooldistrict.
A few minutes later we hang up, though, and the silence around me closes in again. I’m left finishing my dinner with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company. The only sounds come from outside. It’s Monday night but Brooklyn is out in force—couples strolling the promenade, happy families dining out. I can’t see them from my quiet kitchen, but I can hear the patter of Brooklyn enjoying thespringtime.
After a long day in the office I’m in a fidgety mood. I could go for a run or drop into a yoga class. I could answer some of the fifty emails from my engineering team that are piling up in myinbox.
Right. Like I could concentrate on anything right now. My powers of concentration are onhiatus.
Instead, I put my plate in the dishwasher, taking care not to leave any crumbs on the counter, or Mrs. Gray will scoldme.
Then I grab my keys and my phone and head out to look for Rebecca. I don’t know what she wants from me. Maybe nothing. But I need to find out. Stew wouldn’t approve. But we’ve known each other way too long for me to just let this go. Just one quick conversation is all I need before I give her upentirely.
* * *
Becca is not at home,although I have a brief but enlightening conversation with her sister in the doorway to theirapartment.
Missy wears the coy expression of someone who knows exactly what happened between us. She babbles at me, grinning, while I try to keep my panic atbay.
Their little apartment is surprisingly clean and smells like lemons. And then there’s that cute, drooly baby on Missy’s hip. Rebecca’s sister is a talker, and I kind of zone out for a second, watching the baby suck on his pacifier. I wonder what our baby would look like if Rebecca and I hadone.
Then I want to slap myself. Also,what the fuck,brain?
“I’d better get going,” I say to Missy before she can launch into another story about her sister. “Tell Rebecca I stoppedby.”
“I’ll do that,” she says with a saucy wink. “Thanks for breaking her dryspell.”
There is no polite reply to that, so I just make myselfscarce.
