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I sit in class and think about West’s arms, West’s hands, West’s smile.
West.
“You seem kind of down,” my dad says. “Are you worried about the case?”
Nate’s attorney responded to our petition with across-the-board denial and a request for summary judgment. This was what we expected, and in the two days I’ve been home, Dad’s told me no less than four times that there’s no way the judge will go for it. We have a strong enough claim that the case will keep moving forward toward trial, gliding along on well-greased wheels, until the money runs out or something dramatic happens to stop it.
I’m not worried about the case.
I think he’d be surprised to learn how little I actually think about it, except when he brings it up.
I haven’t told him that Nate is living in a house two hundred feet from the one I’m renting, or that I pass him on my way to class sometimes and we both look down and away, like strangers.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“I picked up bananas and ice cream for dessert. Want to do the honors?”
“Sure.”
I build banana splits: a scoop of each stripe of Neapolitan ice cream, a banana cut neatly in half, hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, and nuts. An old ritual with my dad and me. As I’m swirling whipped cream on top, he comes up beside me.
“Hey, Dad?” I ask.
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Are we not going on vacation at Christmas because of the lawsuit?”
He sighs. “We already talked about this.”
Money, he means. We talked about how I was supposed to handle my side and he was supposed to handle the money side, and I didn’t need to worry about it. But why shouldn’t I know what my revenge costs?
“You talked about it. I still don’t understand why it has to be a secret. And if we can’t afford it, then maybe it isn’t worth it.”
“We’ve put so much into this already. We have to see it through.”
“But as much as it’s already cost, it’s just going to get bigger, and I start thinking, you know, what are we doing this for? Because what Nate took from me—I already can’t get it back.”
“Caroline, we talked about this.”
We’ve talked about all of it, every possible facet, every conceivable approach. We’ve more than made up for all the talking we didn’t do in the months after Nate first posted the pictures. We’ve talked until my jaw hurt.
“But don’t you ever wonder if we’re making a mistake?” I ask.
“No.”
Which, actually, yeah, I knew that already. My dad’s idea of a life philosophy is that you figure out what you want, and then you go after it. He believes in ambition and its relentless pursuit.
No giving up. No compromising.
He plucks a cherry from the jar on the counter. “Don’t give up on this,” he says. “It’s going to be hard work, but it’ll be worth it.”
Maybe it is going to be worth it, but if the goal is to make Nate pay, my will might
be starting to flag. I pass him on the sidewalk, and he seems untouchable.
