Page 50 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Just watches off the wrists of unsuspecting hockey players,” he deadpans.

I suppose this was an inevitable conversation. Addressing the elephant in the room, so to speak. Can we go back to talking about absent mothers, please?

“You caught me on an off-day.”

“Because usually you’d get away with it.”

“I was going to give it back!”

He gives me the side eye while we continue to walk around the festival. There’s a knowing grin on that ridiculously handsome face of his, and I get the feeling he’s more curious than judgmental, so that’s a relief at least. Still, I want to justify myself somehow. Like trying to prove something to him.

I’m not a bad person, Mister Goody Two-Shoes, I swear!

“Okay, you want the story? Here it is. My dad thought it was a useful skill to teach a kid.” I shrug, realizing how ludicrous that sounds. “I was like Gavroche in Les Mis. You know…” I launch into a poor rendition of that song “What Little People Can Do.” “That kind of thing.”

“So you were essentially a tiny French revolutionary.”

“Exactly. I mean, once I realized it wasn’t exactly kosher, I told him I wasn’t going to do it any more and he was fine with it.”

We continue past the stage where a tribute band is playing “Coming to America” by Neil Diamond just as a formation of military planes streak over the Washington Monument. We pause, watching the spectacle with a healthy measure of awe. I’ve always liked air shows, how the Blue Angels do those spins and tricks in the sky.

After they finish their pass, Jeremiah gets in line for cotton candy, saying it’s not a proper festival without it. As we wait, he admits he doesn’t really care for it that much. Too much sugar. But it’s kind of a childhood pastime, so he makes a point to get one to share to keep with tradition or whatever.

I wholeheartedly agree and tell him so, but I feel like I still need to continue where I left off, if only to explain how my own childhood pastime doesn’t exactly define who I am as an adult. (Or maybe it does. I’m still figuring that out.)

“For the record,” I whisper so the other people in line don’t get any weird ideas. “I don’t actually steal from innocent people on the street. I think of it as more of a public service. A little awareness training. Somebody drops their wallet, and I find it for them.”

“Drops their wallet, huh? Like right into your sticky fingers, you mean.”

“Look, I know you don’t believe me but it’s not something I do for kicks when I’m bored. It was just that one time you happened to be there.”

“Hmmm.”

“People walk around clueless with all their stuff hanging out of unzipped bags or their phone in their back pockets all the time.” I gesture around me to prove my point. Sure enough, there are at least three women with their purses wide open, just sitting on top of strollers while their attention is anywhere but that purse. He nods in acknowledgement. “What I was offering was a free lesson in situational awareness.”

“So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.”

I wince and give him my best “whatta ya gonna do” smile with all my teeth.

He tips his head, something warm and amused settling into it. “I didn’t need the lesson, though, did I?”

“No,” I admit. “You really didn’t.”

I did.

He lets it go, and I feel the tiniest flicker of guilt that I mostly manage to smother with the cotton candy.

By the time the sun starts sinking into that gold, syrupy hour before dusk, the lawn in front of the Washington Monument has filled in with blankets and coolers and lawn chairs. There is no grass space left. There is barely air space left.

“This is insane,” Jeremiah says, surveying the crowd.

“I know a place.”

He looks at me. “Why do I feel like that sentence should worry me?”

“Because it should, a little.” I grin. “Come on.”

I lead him two blocks off the Mall to a building I scouted before I found the loft. There’s a fire escape around back, half-hidden by a dumpster and a truly heroic amount of ivy. It might be illegal. It is, generously, a gray area.