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His eyes narrow as he considers his response.
“When I was young,” he says finally, “my older brother and I shared a bedroom—his name was Jack. We spent a lot of time in there… Our dad, he wasn’t really a model father, to say the least. Anyway, his senior year, Jack started sneaking out, and smuggling in booze constantly. He would get really drunk—I mean blackout drunk, nightly. For months this went on.” He pauses. “Looking back, I think my brother had depression from a very young age. Anyway, one night, just like all the others, Jack stumbled in the window and fell onto his bed. I woke up the next morning and he was dead. Choked on his own vomit.”
“Oh my God.”
“I spent a lot of time wondering if he would still be alive if I had told my parents about his substance abuse. If they, or I, had intervened, would he still be alive? If I’d addressed his depression, would he still be alive? I knew he was drinking and acting very differently, and I didn’t say anything. I felt like I had a loyalty to him and I didn’t want him to get in trouble.”
“I understand—more than you know. And I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.”
I frown, mentally returning to the question I asked that spurred on this terrible story. Why do you keep meeting me here?
“Are you saying you see the same depression in me? You relate to me in that way? That’s why you keep meeting me? You feel sorry for me?”
“No, Rowan. I’m saying that… that single event changed me to my core. It was a pivotal moment in my life. It showed me—right in front of my face—how fragile life is.” He snaps his fingers. “I went to bed, woke up, and my brother was dead. In an instant, we can be gone. So I figure while we’re here—while we’re lucky enough to be here—we owe it to ourselves to make it count. To live in the moment, to follow that tug, that instinct, to explore. It’s why I joined the military. I wanted to do something that counts, to serve my country, and I wanted to travel the world. To see things that most of us never will. We have to experience life, Rowan. Not just make it through, but live it.”
I feel the sting of tears in my eyes. “I’m so much older than you are, Kellan. There are so many other girls in town?—”
“I know. I dated all of them when I moved here.”
I roll my eyes. He’s not joking.
“Rowan, let me ask you something. Why do you do this job?”
“Because it’s what I trained for. It’s my path. It’s where I’m most myself, for better or worse. I don’t know,” I shrug. “I’m just drawn to it.”
“Exactly.” He gently runs his knuckle down the side of my cheek.
A rush of emotion floods my chest. I take his hand, kiss his fingertips.
Kellan and I don’t speak the rest of the evening.
We don’t need to.
EIGHT
AMBER
“Please, sit.”
Emma Shaver, my son’s first-grade teacher, who also happens to be a dear friend, gestures to the lima-bean-shaped table covered in rainbow construction paper.
I pull out one of the teeny blue chairs that circle the table, but once I notice the curious brown stain in the center, I quickly push it back and grab another.
Mark, my husband, struggles to center himself on his own teeny blue chair. The sour expression on his face confirms what I already know. He is none too pleased that I reserved the seven-thirty spot for our parent-teacher conference. Mark has never been a morning person.
Emma takes her place across from us. The beads around her long thin neck and matching bracelets jangle as she settles into position at the head of the table. Per usual, Emma is boho-chic personified in a tie-dye kaftan that sweeps her tanned ankles. This is in stark contrast to the slate-gray pantsuit I squeezed myself into twenty minutes earlier, and in even greater contrast to the baggy utility pants Mark is wearing, one knee stained with paint. While Emma’s long, blonde hair is perfectly braided, my shoulder-length, blonde, curly hair looks like it went through the end of a weed-eater.
I’m in awe of her energy. Emma is one of those women who people are drawn to. She radiates life. It’s what attracted me to her when we met at a pre-K fundraiser years ago.
“I’m sorry I’m running a few minutes late,” Emma apologizes while gathering papers. She taps them against the desk to straighten the edges. “My seven-fifteen showed up ten minutes late—which is pretty late considering it’s only a fifteen-minute meeting.” She waves a hand in the air to dismiss the bad energy. “Anyway…”
My husband is scrolling through his cell phone with the kind of focus one might give a nuclear threat. A local handyman emergency that can’t wait. I feel the sharp sting of annoyance, disappointment, embarrassment that I’ve felt for how many years now? Seven? Eight?
“Okay, so Connor…” At the sound of my son’s name, my attention fixes on Emma—to the purpose of the meeting, to what is important. Thankfully, Mark clicks off his phone and slides it into one of the ten pockets that line his utility pants. God, I hate those pants.
“Firstly,” she says, her pixie-face sobering, “I’ll go through Connor’s latest report card.” She hands us each a piece of paper. My stomach sinks as I see the ones and twos glaring back at me, where there should be fours and fives.
