“I should let you get back to your lunch,”he says, interrupting whatever I was going to say to try to comfort him.
“Thanks for your time, Ms. Patel.”
When I sit back down, no longer interested in grading or eating, I look at Addie’s drawing again, tracing the lines with my fingertip.
I’ll always be a ghost.
Nate
I don’t remember getting into my truck.
I went through the rest of the school day on autopilot, trying not to look as stupid as I feel, but somehow, between lunch and now, I’ve ended up here, gripping the steering wheel like if I squeeze it hard enough this feeling will go away.
She said no.
She was real nice about it, but it was still a no.
I turn the key, and the engine rattles to life, knowing that I should go home.
Instead, I start driving.
I roll the window down and let the humid Mississippi air wash over me. It doesn’t help, and the sun is too damn right.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me, like she felt bad for me for thinking I had a chance with her.
She said she wasn’t dating, but I know better. That’s what people say when they want to let you down easy.
It shouldn’t hurt this much. I know I shouldn’t feel like this. I barely know her, and I’ve been with plenty of women. Gone on dates, had my fun.
But Iris, she’s different.
I’ve never met anyone like her; it’s almost like I can feel this kindness in her.
She’s quiet and thoughtful, and that smile…
She’s the sort of girl you settle down with.
I slow my truck near the river, into a gravel pull-off spot we park at when we go fishing, and sit there a minute, staring out into the water like it could have an answer to why she rejected me.
I guess I should’ve seen it coming.
Guys like me don’t end up with women like her. She’s elegant and smart. An artist. She’s got that big-city feel.
I’m Nate Wesley, high school football coach.
No one special.
I never should’ve gotten my hopes up.
“Alex?” I call out when I get home and don’t hear him. Usually by now, he’d be parked on the couch with a snack or his guitar. His door’s open, but there’s no emo playlists blasting, no guitar strumming.
Only silence.
I rattle around the kitchen, looking for ingredients for some sorta dinner I can throw together. “I’m making grilled cheese,” I shout toward his bedroom. “Soup too. Real fancy.”
There’s nothing at first, but finally, I think I hear a muffled, “Cool.”
I toss a pot onto the stove, grab the bread and cheese. Normally, he’d be all over the grilled cheese. Out here bugging me to hurry up.
