Chapter Thirty-Two
Friday, eight PM, the Rusty Anchor was exactly as advertised—never trendy, never full, never empty enough to be sad.
We took our usual spot at the bar, two high stools bolted to the floor under the glow of amber pendant lights, the counter itself a sanded-down monument to years of spilled drinks and worn elbows.
The air tasted of malt and fried pickles, and the only music was whatever the bartender let bleed from his phone behind the taps.
Nate was in a rare good mood, riding the warm front of an early summer storm.
His cheeks were already pink from the walk over, and the condensation on our pint glasses formed a neat, sticky ring around his coaster.
He had on a gray Henley that made his eyes look almost blue, and he was telling a story about an ancient, unreadable book that had arrived at the store with every page glued shut by honey.
“It was like a biblical curse,” he said, gesturing with his glass, “except instead of smiting the enemies, it just ruined my day. Took me three hours and a metal ruler to get through one chapter.”
I laughed. “You should’ve just sold it as-is. ‘For the serious collector: unopened mystery, some assembly required.’”
He grinned, teeth bright in the dim. “You joke, but some jackass would absolutely pay double for the ‘novel experience.’”
We clinked glasses, the sound swallowed by a burst of laughter from the pool table in back. For a few minutes, the world shrank to just us and the beer and the soft haze of our voices moving toward each other.
Then his phone buzzed against the bar, a high, insistent whine. Nate glanced at the screen, and the color drained out of him like someone had pulled the plug. His thumb hovered, uncertain. I leaned over to peek.
“Unknown Number,” I read. “Could be Rachel with another burner phone. Maybe she’s plotting to catfish you again.”
He didn’t laugh. His jaw set, and he slid his finger across the screen.
“Hello?”
There was a pause—a crackle, then the cold machinery of a pre-recorded voice. “You have a call from the State Correctional Facility. Inmate name: Jernigan, Christopher. Press one to accept, or hang up to decline. This call may be recorded—”
Nate’s hand twitched, but he pressed the one, and the world sharpened to a wire-thin edge.
“Hello?” Nate said, voice a half-step higher.
Another pause, then: “Nathaniel. My boy.” The voice was raspy, stretched thin with distance and regret. “It’s me.”
I could hear every word, the phone’s speaker loud enough for both of us. Nate froze, like someone had trapped him in ice.
“What do you want?” Nate asked, no anger, just the clipped efficiency of a man reciting a script he’d rehearsed for years.
“I wanted to talk,” the voice said. “It’s been a long time.”
Nate’s breath went shallow. “Not long enough.”
I reached for his hand under the bar, but he kept it flat against the wood, his knuckles gone pale.
The voice—his father, the monster who’d ruined everything—kept talking. “I miss you. I wanted to see how you are.”
Nate flinched. I squeezed his thigh, felt the tremor running through it.
“I don’t need anything from you,” Nate said, quieter now. “You lost the right a long time ago.”
There was a sigh, and for a second, I heard the ghost of the man who used to tuck Nate in at night, who’d called him “champ” before the liquor turned everything dark.
“I know I did,” his father said. “I know I hurt you. I just want you to know… I’m sorry. I’ve spent years thinking about what I did. To you. To your mother. I wish—” His voice broke, and the static filled the gap. “I wish it had been different.”
Nate said nothing.
His father continued, “They’re letting me out soon. Early, for good behavior.” He paused, let the words sink in. “I’d like to see you. Not now, but when you’re ready.”
Nate’s hand shook, just once, and he pressed it flat again, willing himself still.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, but it was a lie. I could hear it, and so could his father.
“I love you, Nathaniel,” the man said.
The line went silent. For a moment, I thought the call had dropped, but then Nate slid his thumb and ended the connection with a final, absolute click.
He set the phone face-down on the bar, then reached for his beer with the slow, deliberate care of a bomb technician. He took a swallow, then another, each one leaving less of him behind.
I watched him, the swirl of pain and anger and something deeper, older, passing through his face like storm clouds. I wanted to say something—anything—but the words felt too small.
So I just put my hand on his back, let it rest there.
He didn’t move.
After a minute, he said, “I should have changed my number.”
I tried to smile. “You did. Three times.”
He huffed out a breath. “Persistent bastard.”
We finished our drinks in silence, the weight of the call settling around us like wet wool. The laughter from the pool table faded, and the only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the soft, sticky echo of Nate’s thumb drumming against the coaster.
He stood up, then, and for a second I thought he was going to leave. But instead he turned to me, eyes rimmed red but dry.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
I followed him, out into the soft dark, my hand finding his in the space between streetlights.
We walked home in silence, the world rearranging itself in the wake of his father’s voice.
I didn’t know how to fix it. Maybe I never would.
But as we walked, I squeezed Nate’s hand, and he squeezed back.
It was enough, for tonight.
∞∞∞
That night, after the bar, we went back to Nate’s apartment.
He fell asleep first, like he always did, limbs splayed and mouth open just enough to let a small whistling noise escape.
I lay awake for a while, listening to the night and the hum of distant traffic, feeling the day’s tension press down on my chest. Eventually I drifted off, somewhere between dream and memory, but it didn’t last.
I woke to Nate thrashing under the covers, fists clenched, sweat darkening the pillowcase. He jerked upright with a muffled gasp, sucking air like he’d just surfaced from underwater. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, trying to squeeze the dream away.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just watched, letting him find the surface on his own.
He shoved the blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge, feet flat on the cold floor. For a second he just sat there, head bowed, the planes of his back catching the strip of moonlight from the window.
He reached for the bottle on the nightstand—whiskey, half-full, label peeled off—and poured a neat finger into the glass he kept for this purpose. The liquid glinted, gold and sharp, as he raised it to his lips and swallowed it all in one measured movement. I could almost hear the burn of it.
He set the glass down with a quiet click.
“Nightmare?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t turn. “Just a dream,” he said, but we both knew better.
I slid out of bed and padded over, the floor freezing under my feet. I sat next to him, careful not to crowd, and let the silence run its course.
After a while, I said, “You want to talk about it?”
He shook his head, eyes fixed on the dark.
“Was it about your dad?” I asked, knowing the answer.
He nodded once, tight and angry. “Always is.”
I reached for his hand. This time he let me take it, his fingers clammy and tense, but I didn’t let go.
We sat like that, side by side on the edge of the bed, staring into the shadows that pooled in the corners of the room. There were no right words, nothing that would make the past less real.
Nate let out a long, shuddering breath. “Did you hear? He’s getting out,” he said. “Early. For ‘good behavior.’”
I squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to see him. Not ever.”
He was quiet a long time. Then, “He said he wants to make amends.”
I felt my jaw clench. “He doesn’t get to want anything.”
Nate laughed, bitter and thin. “He never did care what he was allowed to want.”
A car alarm went off outside, distant but insistent. Nate let the noise fill the silence, then drained another splash of whiskey into his glass, but didn’t drink it this time.
“I used to think if I was just better, or tougher, or whatever, he’d stop. But it never made a difference.”
“You were a kid,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He snorted. “Tell that to the dreams.”
I put my arm around his shoulders, and for a moment, he leaned in, letting himself be held.
We stayed like that until the chill of the room worked its way into our bones and the city noises faded into nothing. Eventually, he stood and crawled back under the covers, dragging me with him.
He fell asleep again, slower this time, his breathing ragged but steady.
I didn’t sleep for a long while, my hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart beat out the things he’d never say.
When I finally drifted off, the whiskey glass was still on the nightstand, catching the moonlight like a small, stubborn star.
∞∞∞
The next day brought one of those false-spring afternoons, the kind that tricked you into believing everything might turn out all right.
Central Park was packed, the walking paths crowded with stroller moms and joggers, little kids zipped into bright puffy jackets, and couples either clinging together or orbiting each other in cautious, silent patterns.
Nate had insisted on the walk—said it was “good for the soul,” which was a line I’d heard him use on customers at the shop. He bought us both coffee from a cart near the entrance, extra cream for him, none for me, and we strolled through the park like we were auditioning for a low-budget rom-com.
“Check it out,” he said, gesturing to a red squirrel scurrying along a low branch. “That little bastard just mugged a pigeon for a peanut.”