That earned another laugh from me. “You’re an endless source of unnecessary knowledge.”
We fell into a companionable quiet then—the hum of the fan above us, the soft shuffle of paper as the breeze through the cracked window flipped a page on an open book near the register.
Finally, I spoke up in a way I wished I had months ago. “You can tell me, you know. If you ever need to. I won’t judge you.”
After a moment that felt more like an eternity, he heaved out a sigh. “All right.”
Hereallylooked at me now, his eyes dark like the ocean in a storm, so sharply serious with the faintest glint of fear in them. “Fall semester of my senior year, I was at a party. I was in full-blown addiction by this point, although I either didn’t realize it or was in denial at the time. I was drinking almost every day, and I was eating Adderall like candy so I could keep up with my schoolwork. So at this party, I was buying oxy from some guy I found through connections. I don’t even know. Anyway, the cops busted the party, and I got caught with enough on me to get pinned with intent to sell controlled substances. The school and the team caught wind of it and bye-bye scholarship.”
I was listening intently, but that silence we’re told we should sit in must have unnerved him, and he squirmed on the other side of the counter.
“But, listen, Nat, I swear I was never selling drugs,” he pleaded. “I would have been the worst drug dealer ever. I probably would have just done all the drugs.”
It felt wrong for laughing at that, but I did, and when he laughed, too, it felt right.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I put my hand over my mouth. “Continue, please.”
“Well, that’s really it.” He shrugged. “My dad knew a lawyer, he got possession pled down because it was my first offence, and I went to court mandated rehab for ninety days. Got out, somehow finished my last semester at community college, and I’d been doing outpatient until about last week, which you know. So, yeah, Iamfine now.”
“I believe you.”
Something eased in his expression then; his shoulders lowered, the tension draining from his jaw. It was the same look Nikki used to have after therapy, that quiet exhaustion of someone who’d spoken a truth they hadn’t expected to share.
He tried to joke again. “Thank god. For a second, I thought you were going to whip out a polygraph test next.”
I smiled, even though it ached a little. “No polygraphs here. Only curiosity. I like to know things. It makes life feel safer.”
“So you can stop bad things before they happen,” he said, not unkindly.
I met his gaze, startled by how close to home his words hit. “Exactly.”
I sucked in a breath, suddenly hyperaware of how see-through I must have been to him, like I was made of frosted glass and all my wiggling organs were on display. But the thing was, I didn’t mind. “My sister is supposed to come home next week, and I’m mortified about feeling like I’m going to have to micromanage her. For my own sake, not hers.”
He nodded. “How about this: I’ll mitigate you if you mitigate me.”
“That’s not even remotely how that word works,” I said, laughing despite feeling like someone was hanging me upside down.
“Still sounds like a deal.”
He held out his hand across the counter, and I took it. His palm was warm and a little calloused. His fingers curled around mine like he didn’t want to let go too fast.
Just like that, the whole bookstore seemed to go still, because it wasn’t hard to feel how perfectly our hands fit together.
June 2
Hey Dad,
I feel like I should tell you more about Brooklyn—or rather, what I’m starting to feel when he’s around.
It’s like he’s actually paying attention. Not the way people do when they’re waiting for their turn to talk, but like he’s listening to what I’m not saying. It’s strange how comforting that can be. For the first time in a while, I don’t feel like I have to edit myself when I speak, to not have to appear so together and stable.
He told me things today that I don’t think he tells most people. Heavy things. Messy things. I don’t know why he trusted me with them, but he did. Afterward, he looked lighter. That should feel good, right? To help someone carry their load for a little while?
But here’s what I keep wondering: Am I helping him by listening and being present or do I just need him to need me?
It’s a bad thought, but it comes to me in little flashes the same way most crappy thoughts of mine do. I like feeling useful—not just because it makes me feel good, but also because it makes me feel safe. Mom tells me I was like that even when I was young. You probably remember. But I don’t know where the line is between kindness and dependency, or if there even is one.
Even so, I don’t want to have the same missteps I had with Nikki. I want to get it right the first time.
