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Dad waved his hand to signal that he was finished and walked back to us.
“If that’s true,” Bubbe said, “then who’s thegoywho’s been staring at you from under that tree? He looks eager enough to me. And familiar.”
All three of us turned to one of the large trees that bordered the theater. Brandon, of course, was leaning against it and looking his entire net worth in a slim fit, charcoal-gray suit and blue shirt that looked like it had been dyed to match his eye color. Awkwardly, I raised a hand to wave, completely dumbfounded by his presence.
Bubbe, of course, immediately beckoned him over. “Oy! You there, Mr. Moneybags. Come congratulate my Skylar.”
Brandon made his way over with a shy smile and extended his hand politely to my father. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Crosby. Mrs. Crosby.”
Dad, to his credit, snorted at the gesture and politely refused, holding up his casted hand as an excuse. “Brandon, I told you, the only ones who call me Mr. Crosby are collections agents. It’s Danny.”
Brandon switched the hand to my grandmother, who gladly accepted it, albeit with a close inspection of his wrist.
“That’s a very nice watch you’re wearing,” she remarked. “Nice suit, too. Custom made?”
“Bubbe!” I hissed, but she waved my comment away like she was swatting a fly.
Brandon touched his lapel with a smile. “That’s right. You have an eye for men’s fashion, Mrs. Crosby.”
“In my own way. My own father was a tailor, you see, so I know the difference between a man in a properly fitted suit and off the rack. Hardly anyone gets the inseam right anymore.”
She looked appreciably down at Brandon’s inseam, which made me turn the color of a tomato.
“Bubbe!” I hissed and nudged her shoulder. “Stop looking at his crotch!”
“Don’t say ‘crotch,’ Skylar,” Bubbe said, though she didnotstop looking there.
“Ma, what’s wrong with this?” kidded Dad, who was wearing his very best tweed jacket that he had purchased from Daffy’s when I was a kid. It had been patched twice at the elbows, and the interior lining had been shredding steadily for at least five years.
Grateful for the distraction, I linked an arm through Dad’s and kissed his cheek fondly. “I think you look great, Dad.”
“Thanks, kid,” he said.
“I can’t stay long.” Brandon shuffled back and forth on his feet. It was the middle of a workday—how had he even been able to carve out the time to be here? “I know you’d probably like to enjoy the rest of your day with your family, Skylar, and I’ve got to get back to the office. Mrs. Crosby, Danny, could I talk to Skylar privately before I go?”
It was all Bubbe could do not to squeal as she ushered my dad over to a row of hedges, out of earshot (only just), but where they could still watch us easily.
I turned to Brandon. “Hi.”
“Hi, Red,” he said softly. “You did great up there.”
I shrugged, bashful. “I just walked like every other graduate.”
“You finished something important. Something that requires time, energy, and discipline.” Brandon replied with another smile that seemed to reach right around my heart and twist. “You should be proud of your accomplishments, Skylar. I am.”
We stared at each other while his compliments floated in the air. The look on his face—a combination of admiration, worry, and longing—sealed out the rest of the world. I could only see him. My resolve and anger melted all over again.
“I’m so sorry I slapped you,” I blurted out, twisting the thick material of my robe in my hand.
Brandon chuckled. “Which time?”
I blushed again, this time even more. “I was just really...you’re really frustrating sometimes. When you get mad at me. I didn’t like what you said, Brandon, but I never should have hit you. I’m so sorry.”
Brandon waved a hand through the air as if to wave away the entire nasty memory. “Don’t worry about it, Red. I’ve had worse, and frankly, I probably deserved it. I was a complete dick; I’m sorry too.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out something.
“Here,” he said. “This is yours.”
