CHAPTER ELEVEN
BATMAN & APOLOGIES
It was noon when she made good on her word and came back.
This time, she brought two to-go cups of coffee and a bag of croissants from Black & Brewed.
Initially, at the sight of the to-go carrier, I assumed she was going to head to her office in the building to work. But then her father, Sergeant Kinney, trailed behind her with a folding chair under his arm.
He glanced at me and must've noticed the inquisitive expression on my face.
“My daughter has asked to spend some time knockin' some sense into ya,” he explained with a smirk as he unfolded the chair beside the cell door. “Behave yourself.”
I raised a brow, but said nothing. What the hell did he think I was going to do from behind these bars?
Then again, the guy had just seen me ass-naked in the mayor's pool and paraded my nudity through the police department before he even thought to give me something to cover up with.
Touché.
“How long are ya gonna stay?” Sergeant Kinney asked Meg as she took a seat, balancing the coffee in her lap.
She shrugged. “I dunno. Probably not too long.”
He nodded, keeping his expression soft, but when his eyes flickered toward mine, there was a hardness buried inside. A warning that didn't make a single bit of sense to me.
“I'm down the hall,” he said to both her and me.
“Okay, Dad,” Meg replied with a slight roll of her eyes.
She pulled the coffee cups from the tray and was turning to hand one to me through the bars when she realized Sergeant Kinney was still standing there, his arms crossed and his mouth twisted with question and concern. She looked up at him and said, “You can leave now.”
He blew out a heavy breath, his stern glare on me, then gave her a quick nod. “I'm right down the hall,” he said again.
“I heard you the first time.”
“Right. Okay.”
Then he turned and meandered back down the hallway, taking his time as he went.
She waited for him to disappear before turning and handing the coffee cup through the bars.
“I had no idea how you like to drink your coffee,” she said.
I sniffed a laugh as I accepted the cup gratefully. It might be the middle of July, but the RCPD was kept colder than the North Pole.
“I'm not picky,” I said before taking a sip.
It was sweet with only a hint of underlying bitterness from the coffee.
The flavors of caramel and vanilla exploded on my tongue, and I furrowed my brow as I swallowed the familiarity to say, “You got me a caramel macchiato?”
She cleared her throat and turned away to grab her coffee from the container. “I, um … I saw you order one at Black & Brewed once, so I figured …” She shrugged as she took a sip of hers in lieu of something else to do.
She remembered.
She lied … and she remembered.
I tried to think of when she would've seen me ordering at Kylie O'Leary's coffee shop on Main Street. I’d only started drinking coffee a year ago, maybe two.
When had I been to Black & Brewed at the same time as Meg?
I noticed her everywhere. I knew she was somewhere before I saw her—or so I thought.
She held up the pastry bag and said, “Croissants.”
“You didn't have to do that.”
“Well,” she said, balancing her coffee cup between her legs as she opened the bag, “I woke up late and skipped breakfast. So, I'm starving. If you don't want one, that's okay.”
She woke up late. Which meant she had gone to bed late. What had kept her up all night?
Envy left a sour taste in my mouth as I lowered the cup from my lips and held it tight between both hands.
“Yeah, sure, I'll have one,” I said, my voice gruff. “Thanks.”
I accepted the golden-brown pastry, knowing its crispy outer crust hid the soft, flaky perfection inside, despite the nauseating feeling swirling in my gut.
I guessed her date had gone well. I guessed they had made out, maybe gone back to her place … or his. Maybe he'd even stayed over, and now, as she sat with me, she still thought of his arms around her. Did she smell like him? Was he going about his day, smelling like her?
“Grow the hell up.”
I sniffed back the jealousy as I cracked the croissant in half, then took a bite.
“You don't like jelly or anything on yours?” Meg asked.
I shook my head. “Nah, I eat ‘em plain.”
“They're good like that,” she agreed. “But I like them with some raspberry jam.”
“Hmm,” I grunted with a nod as I watched her open a packet of jam. “So, uh …” Don't say it. Keep your mouth shut. “How was, uh … how was your date?”
Fucking idiot.
Meg balanced her croissant on her lap as she removed a plastic knife from the bag. Then, as she smeared the jam over the top of the pastry, she shrugged.
“It was good,” she replied. “He's a nice guy.”
I grunted again. “That's cool,” I muttered, trying not to sound too disgruntled despite feeling downright murderous.
“Yeah,” she said, allowing her lips to curl into a gentle smile.
“He took me to this, uh … this really nice restaurant on the water.
It was all seafood, and he didn't know I didn't really like seafood, so he”—she started to laugh softly, and my jealousy mounted higher than fucking Everest—“he was so embarrassed. We ended up at this burger place down the street, which was way more casual than we’d planned, so we were all dressed nice in this little hole-in-the-wall, and …” She shook her head, laughing to herself. “Anyway, we had a nice time.”
A lump had formed in my throat at some point while she was talking. I tried to swallow it down, but when it wouldn't budge, I cleared my throat and took a bite of my croissant. No longer did it taste good—nothing possibly could—but it helped pave the way through my tightening throat.
“I'm glad,” I said, but I wasn't. No, I was a damn liar. “You gonna see him again?”
She didn't hesitate to nod. “Yeah, we're gonna go out in a couple of days.”
“Nice,” I said, nodding.
And, you know, it was nice. She seemed happy, and I wanted her to be happy. But, holy fuck, I wanted her to be happy with me. She was never going to be though, and I had to understand that. I had to get that through my thick, fat skull.
We can be friends, I thought. It's fine to be friends.
And maybe, if I told myself that enough, I'd start to finally believe it.
***
“So, let me ask you something,” Meg said a couple of hours later, after we watched a movie together on the iPad she'd brought in her giant tote bag.
“Yeah? What's that?”
She still sat on the folding chair, and I couldn't imagine it was all that comfortable.
I was perched at the edge of the cot that felt an awful lot like sleeping on the ground the one time Dad had taken me camping.
Bars separated us, and I didn't appreciate the way they distorted my view of her face and the curls I was desperate to tangle my fingers in.
But despite the discomfort and distance, the time I had spent with her in this room only built for one was some of the best hours of my life. It hurt to know they likely meant nothing to her when, for me, I knew they were changing my life, even as they happened.
“What are you going to do?”
I tipped my head with question. “What do you mean?”
She turned in her seat to fully face me and lifted one hand in a shrug. “You know, like, with your life. What are you going to do?”
It was something Mom and Dad asked me regularly in casual, inconspicuous kind of ways.
Over dinner, while watching a show, during a weekend fishing trip.
They'd throw that question at me without any pressure to respond, and often, I didn't. Because I didn't have the answer I knew they wanted.
Silence seemed better than lying. But right here, with Meg, honesty seemed like my only option.
“I don't know what the hell I'm doing,” I admitted, shifting on the cot to make myself more comfortable—if that was at all possible.
Meg nodded slowly, dropping her blue gaze to the beige tiled floor. “You don't … have goals? There's nothing you want to do? College?”
I huffed a brusque chuckle. “The hell would I go to college for?”
“I mean, depending on what you want to do with your life …”
I licked my lips as I hunted for words that weren't coming. “I don't … there isn't …” I groaned and scrubbed a hand over my mouth, keeping my eyes on the twelve ceiling tiles.
Then I was quiet, aware of the pity radiating from her and the shame taking flight in me. The realization that she now knew just how much of a loser I truly was for not having a plan.
“If you could do anything,” she began softly, “what would you do?”
I grunted a laugh. “God, I don't know …”
“No wrong answers. You can tell me you want to be Batman, and that'd be okay.”
“Batman, huh?”
Would you like me if I was Batman?
“Anything you want.”
I pulled in a deep breath. “Anything I want …”
“Like, if there weren't any obstacles in your way. No school, no time, no work. You could just snap your fingers”—she snapped hers for effect—“and—poof!—be whatever it is that little Noah Mason wanted to be.”
I snorted and rolled my head against the cot to look at her. “Babe, there isn't anything little about me. Not anymore.”
I winked for good measure, and she rolled her eyes. But I couldn't miss the way her cheeks turned the faintest shade of red beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
“I'm not touching that comment with a ten-foot pole.”
“Well, I can't say it's ten feet, but …”
“Oh my God, stop. Come on.” She folded her hands in her lap, and, God, she was smiling, her eyes were twinkling, and I had done that. Me. “Answer the question.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, pushing myself back up to sit, facing her. “You promise not to laugh?”
“Cross my heart.”
I swallowed and steepled my hands between spread knees. “I think … if I could be anything … I would be Batman.”
Meg sighed. “Noah, I'm serious.”
I lifted my head to pin her with my stern glare. “So am I.”