54. Nathan
fifty-four
“I really could have driven myself,”Claire insists from my front passenger seat. I can tell that she’s fighting annoyance. I wonder when the last time was that she wasn’t in the driver’s seat.
“I know. I wanted to do this. And besides, it makes more sense if we take one vehicle for after the game.”
The high school’s basketball game is an hour away, and I cannot even begin to fathom Claire driving herself home after. I would surely have a panic attack the entire drive home. Luckily, the January roads aren’t snowy or icy right now; if that were the case, I’d have refused to let her go at all.
You can’t do that, Nathan. She hasn’t had freedom her entire life. She doesn’t need one more person telling her what she can and can’t do.
I grumble at my subconscious—he really needs to go back below where he belongs—because in the end, that’s the truth: despite my feelings, telling Claire what she can and can’t do is wrong.
I flick the angel-devil-combo off my shoulder this time. Right now, I don’t want to hear it. Right now, I’d rather just enjoy the fact that I have almost an entire night with Claire to myself, rather than wondering how long we can sustain a relationship with one another while my trauma is bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over and drown whatever it is that we’re building together.
“Hey. You’re tense.”
Her words precede the tentative touch of her hand against mine, and my body knows to relax on some chemical level. Because despite the fact that I haven’t shared the deepest parts of me, she does listen. She heard me when I said I didn’t like driving distracted.
“I am, a little.”
“Is it because we’re going out in public together?”
Her voice is small again, just like it was the other night when she’d told me how hard sneaking around was becoming.
I take my hand off the wheel to take her left one and place it at two-o’clock, right beneath mine. Hands on the wheel and hands on her at the same time.
“No. I’m a little tense at the thought of you driving in the dark.”
She lifts her thumb to rub against the side of my hand, quelling that thought.
“Is it because of your parents?”
I don’t know how I manage to maintain my composure and control when she brings them up as I’m driving along a Massachusetts highway. My breath stutters.
“Yes. Their accident happened on a country highway without streetlights.”
I don’t realize my shoulders have tensed again until she steals her hand from mine and gently kneads there.
“Thank you for sharing that with me.” She pauses, then, “And thank you for being concerned enough to drive.”
I do something I haven’t done for as far back as my memory will go—I take my hand off the wheel while my car is in drive, going down the road at a steady fifty-five miles an hour. And I lift Claire’s hand to my lips.
The panic that I thought would ensue can’t even billow to the surface when her hand is in mine to calm the waters.
“You say ‘thank you’ a lot,” I note, changing the course of the conversation. Her hand stiffens in mine, and I take my turn to soothe her.
“Yeah I… I guess they’re right when they say that you mimic the love you never received. My parents have never told me ‘thank you.’”
I file that away for safe keeping.
Claire was in charge of the book for tonight’s high school basketball game, and as soon as the game concluded, we left. Of course, no one saw us pull up together, and since I exited as soon as the game was over, I’m certain no one of value saw her get into my car as I idled at the curb to pick her up.
We’re sitting at dinner, across from one another in a restaurant far below the standard I’d wanted for our first true date, but we’re here. In public together. On a real date. I’m holding her hand across the dinner table, both because she once told me she likes holding hands, but also because I’ve found comfort in her touch myself. For the first time, I’m beginning to wonder if things with us can be like this forever.
“When do you plan on starting a chess club?” she asks, eyes sparkling.
“In the next week or so. I think Rocco and a few others would benefit from it.”
“Will you be teaching them all of your sick moves?”
“I have to keep a few tricks up my sleeves.”
Claire rolls her eyes, but smiles.
“Have you signed up to chaperone the winter dance?” I ask her.
“Not yet. Should I? Will I have a hot date to dance with?”
She bounces her eyebrows up and down. A smile erupts on my face at the thought of getting to dance with her again.
“I’m sure we can make something work.”
“I didn’t even go to my prom,” she says. “I had to watch the little ones that night. Michael had a soccer game, and both of my parents went.”
“I’m sorry, Claire.” I can feel my face turn to stone. She shrugs where she shouldn’t have to, but that’s Claire. Resilient. Optimistic. Always putting one foot in front of the other no matter the circumstances. I wish I could be more like her.
“We had a fun night. I put on a pretend prom for the littles, they were in bed by eight, and I was cuddled up with a book by eight-fifteen.”
“I can’t promise you a prom-esq atmosphere, but if you do chaperone, I can promise you a check and free refreshments.”
She laughs, then cuts me off.
“Okay. New rule: no more talking about work for the rest of the night,” she smiles, waving her hand as if to clear the air of our professional lives. “It’s kind of like when I hang out with Juliet and Sam, and they insist that they’re going to have a kid-free night, but only talk about Mason and Hope. We can’t talk about our baby—our work baby.”
I nod, swallow, then bring up the subject we haven’t talked about since that night.
“On that topic, you mentioned that you don’t want kids?”
“Oh. Hard pivot,” she laughs. “No. I decided that a long time ago. I spent my formative years being a pseudo-mom. I am completely content being the big sister and the fun aunt for the rest of my life. And you…”
“Much of the same. I was Cal’s guardian from the moment my parents…” I shake my head, and she squeezes my hand. “I’m in your same boat. I was a parent without choice, too. I still sometimes feel like I am. And besides, being an assistant principal is essentially like parenting hundreds of children every day. So, no. I don’t want kids of my own.”
The tension in her relaxes, and her brows lift upward.
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
“Me too,” I smile, left wondering what else we’re on the same page about. Because as I’m about to ask her one of the dozens of follow-up questions, a redheaded man about Claire’s age approaches our table.
“Oh my God, Claire Benson?”
She turns, her dreamy smile from our conversation shifting into one of elation.
“Connor! Hey! What are you?—”
The man in question bends to hug Claire. Despite the way it clearly catches her off-guard, despite the clear hesitation before she actually returns the gesture, a surge of protection, of covetousness surges through me. She shifts her wary eyes toward me, then back to Connor, who I feel like I recognize.
“Sorry. Nathan, this is Connor. We were friends in high school. Connor this is my… Nathan.”
Part of me surges at the way My and Nathan sound together coming off her tongue. The other part of me plummets at the fact that she can’t use a word to label me, because we haven’t had a conversation about it past sneaking around is getting harder to do.
“Nice to meet you, man.” Connor extends his hand and I shake it, and then he turns back to Claire. “I hear you’re living with my sister now, huh?”
Dread floods over me. He looks familiar because his sister, Penelope, is Claire’s roommate.
Penelope, my employee.
What’s going to happen if this gets back to her?
Claire’s eyes scream apologies that she shouldn’t have to feel obligated to.
“Yep. Just for the time being, while I get back on my feet. Is she uh… Is Penelope here?”
Connor sputters, his expression incredulous.
“No. I’m here with some buddies from work for a night cap. I don’t think I’ve heard from Penelope since Thanksgiving.”
I catch the bit of skepticism in Claire, and pocket that as a question for later.
“Listen, it was great running into you, Claire. You look good. We should catch up sometime.”
“Sure. Great to see you too, Connor.”
She gives him a tight-lipped smile, and the redhead—who absolutely looks like his sister, now that I know the connection—bounds off toward the bar portion of the restaurant.
Claire sighs, resting her chin in her hands, her elbows propped on the table, as our dinners are delivered. The mood of our date is off for the remainder of the evening. Something is bothering Claire about that interaction, and I fill in the blanks in my head.
She’s worried about Connor telling Penelope about us.
And in a way, she should be.
What will Penelope’s reaction be when she finds out that her roommate has been seeing her boss? Will it damage their relationship?
And apart from that, jealousy is now stirring in my chest.
Connor is Claire’s age. He’s out getting a night cap with friends, because that’s what people her age do. They go out drinking with friends. They don’t sit around talking about chess strategy, or hole in on a weekend with a stack of books from the library. People her age are supposed to be living.
It’s what I was supposed to be doing, when I gave that lifestyle up so I could give it all to Cal.
I’m left to wonder then, after Claire pulls out of my driveway, if what we’re doing is the right thing. If, by keeping her all to myself, I’m taking away her freedom too.