The Book of Lost Friends - Lisa Wingate Page 0,129
wonder if he’s catching a catnap. He looks…relaxed, unbothered and in the moment.
It’s a lesson I’m trying to learn from him, this living squarely in the present. I am a planner and a worrier. I torment myself by mentally replaying my past mistakes, wishing I’d been smarter, wishing I’d been stronger, wishing I’d made different choices. I live too often in the realm of what if. I also expend time and mental energy continually trying to anticipate what sort of crouching tiger might be hiding around the next corner. Nathan’s default seems to be to take life as it comes and contend with tigers if and when they appear. Perhaps it’s the result of having been raised in the mountains by an artist mother he lovingly refers to as a beatnik.
I wish he would talk more about her. I’ve been seeking ways to understand him, but he doesn’t give out much. Then again, neither do I. There’s so little I can divulge about my family or my past that doesn’t veer too close to the things I’ve spent most of my adult life avoiding.
The creaking porch steps snap him from his reverie. Cocking his head, he studies me momentarily. “Tough day?” he asks.
“Do I look that bad?” Self-consciously, I snatch up fuzzy black curls and tuck them into the French braid that looked nicely professional this morning.
He gestures to the empty half of the swing like it’s a psychologist’s couch. “You look…worried.”
I shrug, but in truth I am nursing a worry and a little wound. “The approvals for the Underground project, I guess. I’ve described it to Mr. Pevoto a few times, but I’m not sure he’s really hearing me, you know? He just kind of pats me on the head and tells me to get parent permission forms signed. I’m still missing quite a few. My plan was to take care of a bunch of them at parent-teacher night. Eleven people breezed through my classroom. Eleven. Total. From five sections of class daily, averaging thirty-six kids each, I got three moms, one dad, one couple, one aunt, one court-appointed guardian, and a foster mom. Two grandparents. Most of the night, I just sat there in an empty room.”
“Awww, man, that’s rough.” His arm shifts from the back of the swing, and he pulls me into a shoulder hug, his fingers brushing the skin of my upper arm. “It must’ve stung a little, huh?”
“Yeah. It did.” I sink into the comfort of the companionable gesture…or whatever it is. “I had bulletin boards all made with their writing and some photos. I wanted it to be nice for everybody, you know? But it was just me and a platter of cookies and Hi-C…and tasteful fall-themed plates and cups. I splurged at the Ben Franklin. Now I won’t need to buy any paper goods for months.”
I’m aware that I sound like I’m fishing for sympathy, and I hate it but I guess that’s where I am at the moment. Parent-teacher night hurt and this…whatever we’re doing right now, feels good.
“Awww,” Nathan says again, with a friendly squeeze in the way of trying to buck me up. “I’ll eat some of the cookies.”
My head relaxes on his shoulder. It suddenly feels so natural. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Pinkie swear?” I lift my free hand, then just as quickly let it fall. I used to do that with Christopher. Old habits. A specter rising up to remind me that tumbling into a new relationship to cure the melancholy of a broken one was my mother’s life strategy, and it never worked. Nathan and I are friends. We’re cohorts. It’s better to keep it that way. He knows that, which is why, even when I’ve tried to fish for information about his past, he hasn’t given it. I’ve even hinted that I’d love to see how things work on the shrimp boat. I’ve never been invited into that part of his life. Not even a peek. There’s a reason for that.
I pull away, regaining a safe distance.
He sets his hand on the bench between us, then moves it farther from me, resting it uncertainly on his thigh, lightly drumming his fingers. We watch a wren hop