“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Peterson says, rising from behind his hulking walnut desk. He has a slight lisp and modest manner that offsets his position of authority.
“Of course,” Valerie says, then apologizes for being unavailable when he first called.
“Not at all . . . We were all fine. It gave us a chance to chat. . . And it was so wonderful to meet Dr. Russo,” he says, just as Nick stands, looking uncomfortable. He murmurs to Valerie, “I’ll wait for you outside,” then exchanges final pleasantries with Mr. Peterson before making a discreet exit.
Valerie takes Nick’s chair, resting her hand on Charlie’s knee. She looks at him, but he refuses to look back at her, staring down at his double-knotted sneaker laces. His mask is back on, where Valerie has a feeling it will stay for a long time to come.
“We’re just waiting for Summer’s mother,” Mr. Peterson says, drumming his long fingers on the edge of his desk. “She’s coming from work, too. Will be here shortly.”
A moment of small talk later, an older, heavyset woman with a severe bob and an ill-fitting, shoulder-padded suit bursts into the room, breathless. She does not wait for Mr. Peterson to make her introduction, reaching out to shake Valerie’s hand with an unusual blend of confidence and shyness.
“I’m Beverly Turner,” she says. “You must be Charlies mother. I heard what happened. I’m so sorry.” Then she kneels down and apologizes to Charlie while Summer begins to sob—an obvious bid for sympathy which does not work. Instead, Beverly shoots her a fierce look, one that further disarms Valerie. She can even feel herself softening to the little girl—which she thought impossible only seconds before.
“Did you apologize to Charlie?” Beverly Turner asks her daughter, her face stern.
“Yes,” Summer says, her bottom lip quivering.
Beverly is unfazed as she turns to Charlie and asks for confirmation, “Did she?”
Charlie nods, still staring at his shoes.
“But he didn’t say he was sorry,” Summer says, whimpering. “For what he did to me.”
“Charlie?” Valerie prompts.
He adjusts his mask, then shakes his head in refusal.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Valerie continues, although she secretly believes they almost might. “Tell her you’re sorry for pushing her.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “For pushing you.”
“Well, then. Very good. Very good,” Mr. Peterson says, looking pleased. His palms come together as Valerie focuses on his gold signet ring. She pretends to listen to his eloquent speech that follows—graceful words about getting along and being respectful members of the community, but she can’t stop thinking of Nick, waiting for them outside, both loving and fearing how dependent she has become on him.
Mr. Peterson concludes his talk, standing and dismissing them all for the day, offering both mothers a final handshake. Once outside his office, Valerie breathes a sigh of relief as Beverly lowers her voice and apologizes a final time. Her expression is pained and sincere—more sincere than Romy’s ever was.
“I know how much you’ve been through . . . I’m so sorry Summer added to that burden.” She turns away from her daughter and says in an even lower voice, “I recently remarried . . . I have two stepdaughters now—teenagers—and I think the adjustment has been really tough for Summer . . . Not that I’m making any excuses for what she did.”
Valerie nods, feeling genuine compassion for her situation, thinking that she’d almost rather have a victim than a mean child. Almost.
“Thank you,” she says as she catches a glimpse of Nick, waiting for them by the exit, the sight of him making her pulse quicken. Charlie runs toward him, taking his hand, leading him toward the parking lot.
She says good-bye to Beverly, with the odd feeling that they could actually be friends, and a moment later, she is standing next to her car, watching as Nick opens Charlie’s door, helps him into his seat, and pulls his belt across his narrow chest. “It’s going to be okay, buddy,” he says.
Charlie nods, as if he believes him, but then says, “I hate the way I look.”
“Hey. Wait. Wait just a second here . . . Are you telling me you hate my work?” Nick reaches up and gently removes his mask, pointing at Charlie’s left cheek. “I made that skin. You don’t like my work? My art project?”
Charlie smiles a small smile, and says, “I do like your art project.”
“Well, good . . . I’m glad . . . Because I like your face. I like it a lot.”
Charlie’s smile widens as Nick closes Charlie’s door, then leans in to whisper in Valerie’s ear, “And I love your face.”
Valerie closes her eyes and inhales his skin, feeling a rush of attraction and adrenaline that causes her to forget where she is for a few disorienting seconds. As the feeling of light-headedness passes, something catches her eye across the parking lot. A woman sitting in a black Range Rover, watching them. Valerie squints into the sun, looking straight at Romy, who is peering back at her with an expression of surprise and distinct satisfaction.
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