CHAPTER 17 - EMI
When he finally meets my eyes, I see a glimpse of the mournful son who lost his father. I know Nate’s trying to be strong, but I can see through his facade. His eyes give him away. I like to see his vulnerability, but if he wants to hide it from me, I’ll play along. I smile at him, allowing the moment to pass.
“Have you ever written a song?” I ask him.
“Not really. I did start writing lyrics for one the other day in art class. They just came to me...”
“Is it about me?” I ask him. As soon as I see his response to my question, I wish I never asked it. His gaze is so intense, the energy between us is suddenly so charged, that I’m forced to look away.
“Emi, we need to talk,” he says. Still averting my eyes, I nod my head. “The song is about you.”
“I know,” I tell him. I’ve never been able to read another person so well, but when he was looking at me – looking through me – I could tell that he liked me. More than liked me. Sure, he’s teased me about it, and then, I could blame it on his playful sense of humor, but now, I can’t. I wonder what he sees in my eyes.
“If you told me right this very second that you’d changed your mind, and wanted a boyfriend, I would be the first in line for a date. I’d fight other guys off, I would,” he says.
“Like a knight,” I say with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just like that. But if you tell me you’re still not looking for a boyfriend, then I’ll respect that. I’ll back off–”
“I don’t want that–”
“You don’t want what?”
“I don’t want you to back off. But I don’t want a boyfriend, either.”
“Why?”
“I could like you, Nate. If I let myself, I could really like you, but I won’t. You get me. You understand me like no one else ever has, and I need someone with me who gets me.”
“I feel the same way. I don’t know why we–”
“Because if you ever hurt me, Nate, I don’t know that I could ever trust anyone again. I’m teetering over here. The man I always saw as the example – the ideal– he betrayed me. He betrayed my mother, and by doing that, he did it to me, too.”
“You’re going to forgive him–”
“I’m going to try,” I cut in, “but I haven’t yet. And whose help am I going to need for that? Who told me he’d do anything to help me?”
“I did.”
“You did.”
“And I will, whether I’m your friend or your boyfriend–”
“I feel like I could fall over and break with one tiny nudge in that direction. I don’t want you to be the one to push me over, Nate. I want someone around who can’t hurt me like that.”
“A friend could still hurt you like that,” he counters.
I consider his comment, and know he may be right. “But I don’t think you would.”
“I don’t think I would either. As a friend, as a boyfriend–”
“Wait, Nate,” I say, stopping him. He presses his lips together, clearly frustrated. “If you did, though... who’d be there to pick up the pieces?”
“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he avers with conviction.
“You can’t know,” I argue. “Did Mom ever think that Dad would cheat on her? Would she have dreamed it in a million years? No. And to your point, would Dad have ever thought that he would do such a thing, twenty-five years ago? No. When they were dating and in love, do you think either was thinking ‘I wonder if there will be someone better, later in life?’ I don’t. You just can’t know.” And he can’t. Neither of us can.
“I promise you.” His voice is pleading.
“Dad made vows in front of his family and friends and God. Words... just... they can’t be trusted,” I say. Actions can’t either. People, by nature, can’t.
There are no guarantees in life. It’s the first time I realize this, and the weight of it hits me hard. Even when – if – I get married years from now, there’s no telling what will happen twenty-five years down the line. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to let myself put so much faith into another person.
“You have to have a little faith,” he says, as if reading my mind. I laugh to myself. “Maybe not today... but someday.”
“Maybe not today... but someday...” I repeat back to him, lying down on the stage and staring at the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him doing the same.
Not today... but someday...
I like him. He feels more familiar to me than members of my own family. I just don’t want to be let down, and although the familiarity is nice– it’s comfortable and comforting – I don’t know him well enough to know if he can really live up to what he promises.
Not today... but someday...
“Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s forget about me for a minute.”
“Okay,” he laughs.
“Weren’t you saying you wanted to take some time away from girlfriends now anyway?”
“I want to stop wasting my time on girls I don’t really care about,” he says. To me, he’s changed his position on this in the last ten minutes. He could be inconstant. He could be lying. Or he could really care about me more than those other girls. I already feel like he does, but it doesn’t change how I feel, or what I want.
“Let’s make a pact,” I suggest.
“A pact?”
“Yeah. Let’s just be friends.”
“Do I get a vote?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “What is it?”
“Let’s be more than friends.”
“Not today,” I tell him, “but maybe someday we could.” I watch him sit up beside me. He pulls his knees to his chin and looks at me hard.
“I knew you were a tease,” he says. He looks like he’s joking, but I know there’s a sliver of truth behind his words. I have been flirting with him. I have been leading him on. I like his attention. Am I being a tease by not following through? Because this is how I like it. It’s playful, and fun, and no one gets hurt. Well, no one’s gotten hurt yet.
“Well, so are you,” I counter tentatively. He flirts, yes, but I can see our differences.
“Being a tease implies you’re advertising, but not delivering. I would deliver,” he says. I roll my eyes, not sure if he sees me do it.
“Look, Nate. I like what we have right now. Don’t you?”
He smiles at me before he answers. “I do. I like how you inspire me.”
“Why complicate things with a physical relationship?”
He frowns at me. “Not today, but someday,” he repeats, considering the words carefully. “When’s someday?”
“I don’t know. What, are you gonna put it on your calendar?”
“Maybe,” he says with a grin.
“I don’t know... maybe we just keep it this way until college or something. That gives us a long time to work on this,” I say, motioning to both of us.
“When you go to college, or when I do?”
“I guess me, would make the most sense.”
“What, and then all bets are off?”
“Maybe,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
“Then the line starts to form,” he says.
“A line, right,” I laugh at his insinuation. “Well, if there happens to be one, you may not even want to be in that line then,” I tell him.
“Doubtful,” he says, “but, what, in the meantime we can date other people?”
“I’m not,” I tell him. “I don’t want a boyfriend,” I remind him. “And you need some distance... I thought.”
“So we abstain from relationships altogether for a year and a half?”
“Romantic ones, yes.”
“I wouldn’t call any of my past relationships romantic,” he mutters.
“Or physical ones,” I amend my previous clarification.
“Not just from one another, but from everyone?”
“Yes?” I ask, now unsure of the idea. I thought he’d be in agreement with me. “I mean, you’ll focus on your painting more, I’ll focus on school so I can maybe get a scholarship to help my mom out. I’ll get to know the real you... you’ll get to know the real me...”
“We’ll get to know ourselves better,” he says. I hadn’t considered that, but he’s right.
“Yeah,” I say brightly.
“Abstinence for a year and a half,” he nearly sighs, “and no smoking,” he adds.
“You can bitch about it all non-stop to me. I’ll be here to listen. I’ll encourage you,” I tell him, hoping to convince him.
“Sit up,” he says to me. I push away from the stage and cross my legs, imitating his posture. “I’ll do it for you,” he says.
I shake my head. “You can’t do it for me, Nate. You have to do it for yourself.”
“Nathan?” Donna calls from the back of the auditorium. “Dinner’s almost ready.” He waves at her in acknowledgement. He chews on the inside of his lip in thought.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Sure.”
I follow him down the two flights of stairs and across the house to the kitchen. Three plates are prepped on the island, formally placed with silverware, a cloth napkin, and two glasses, one of which is already filled with ice water.
“I thought we’d eat in here instead of the dining room,” Donna says. “It’s just easier.”
“It’s nice,” I say with a smile, wondering if Donna set the makeshift table or if Elsa did it for her.
“Here is your mail. Is there anything else I can get you, Mrs. Wilson?” Elsa asks after she quietly enters behind us. She sets a few envelopes and magazines down on the kitchen counter by the sink.
“No, sweetheart. Go home to your family. Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome. Good night, Nate,” she says politely. “Nice to meet you, Emi.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Have a seat,” Nate’s mom suggests. “Soda?” she asks, turning around and thumbing through the stack of mail. “Or we have juice.”
“Water’s fine,” I tell her.
“I’m good, Mom,” Nate says. “You need to join us, too.” He takes a long sip of his water before putting the napkin in his lap. I do the same.
“I’m coming,” she says as she pours herself a glass of wine. “Look, Nathan, isn’t this nice? Your English teacher has invited me to your Canterbury Tales presentation on Friday.”
“Great,” Nate says unenthusiastically.
“Do you know Miss Spindler?” I ask her curiously, taking a bite of my food after watching Nate start to eat. I wasn’t sure if prayer was something they did before dinner, but now I assume it’s not. Although the gesture fits Donna, it doesn’t fit Nate.
“I’ve never met her.”
Nate looks over at me as my stomach drops. Already he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Can I see it?” I ask her, setting my fork down and feeling the panic rush over me. She hands me the small, printed notecard.
“Dear Parents,” it begins.
The rest of it doesn’t matter to me. The fact that my dad may have been invited is all I need to spoil my appetite. Nate takes the card from me and reads it. “They probably got your address from your school records. Don’t you think it went to your mom?”
“We put him as an alternate contact,” I explain. “I’m sure he was invited. I have to tell him not to come. Can I borrow your phone?” It seems so urgent to me, to do it now, while I have the nerve to make the call. I get up, but Nate and Donna stay seated, watching me.
“Emi,” Nate starts, “what did we promise?” Wanting to forget the deal we struck, I focus on Donna, who has a faint smile as she watches our interaction. “You said you’d try.” I grip the back of the chair, feeling my fingernails dig into my palms through the wrought iron slats.
“In front of my classmates, though?” I ask. “In front of you? I don’t want him in my business!”
“Think about it. It’s in the middle of the school day. If he chooses to come, he’ll be sitting in the back, watching, and after the performance, you’ll have to go to your next class. It gives him an opportunity to reach out to you, and you don’t even have to say anything to him. Let him come,” he urges me. “It’s the best possible scenario, really.”
“I don’t think I can do it in front of him. I’m supposed to be sweet and demure, and he just pisses me off!” I blurt before thinking. “Sorry, again, Donna,” I say, lowering my head in embarrassment. She’s laughing quietly at me, then tells me she isn’t bothered by my language.
Nate’s hand touches my shoulder lightly. “You can just focus on me,” he says. “Just keep your eyes on me through the whole thing. I’ll get you through it.” I look over at him, and immediately I’m calmer. If he can do that on Friday, I know I can get through it.
“Maybe he won’t even come,” I say with a sigh.
“Maybe he won’t,” Nate agrees. “But let him make that choice, okay? Don’t make it for him.”
I nod my head. “Okay.” Looking back over at Donna, she’s staring at her son with a look of wonder on her face. She looks proud of him. I can tell she adores him.
“Sit back down, Emi, and have your dinner,” she says. “Don’t let this ruin our night.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, being purposefully respectful of her. She grins and starts eating her dinner when I sit back down.
Nate shocks his mother by volunteering to clean up after dinner, but she lets him. I help him rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher. Before we go back the theater, I take one more look at the card and sigh. He puts his arm around my shoulders until we get to the stairs. “It’ll be fine,” he assures me.
Instead of going to the theater, he directs me to the art room. “So did you paint last night?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Can I see?”
“No, I thought I’d be a tease,” he says sarcastically. I push him away from me and laugh. “It’s the one in the corner.” I walk around the easel by the windows and take a look at the large painting. It’s much brighter than any of the other paintings I’ve seen of his, but it still has so much depth, with varying shades of each color.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him. “What was your inspiration?” I ask.
“It was one of your sushi rolls,” he says with a laugh. “The Rainbow Roll, actually. When I saw the colors under the incandescent lighting at the restaurant, they jumped right out at me.”
“It seems... well, honestly, it’s pretty.”
“Pretty, huh?” he asks, clearly insulted by my choice of adjectives.
“Yeah, that word doesn’t really describe it,” I admit. “It’s luminous. It’s vivid. It’s alive,” I say to him. “It makes it hard to wipe the smile off my face.”
“It makes you happy?” he asks.
“It really does,” I say.
“That’s all I wanted.” I look over at him, still smiling. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” I ask him.
“Your stupid pact. I’ll do it.”
“For you?”
“For me,” he answers. “I’m selfishly doing this for me, because you bring that out of me,” he says as he points to his canvas. “Being around you makes that happen, and if being your friend is what makes you happy, I have to do it. Because seeing you happy inspires me to create better art. It inspires me to be better, period.”
“That still almost sounds like you’re doing it for me...”
“Take it or leave it,” he says. “It’s the best I can offer.”
I walk back over to him and give him a hug. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”
He holds me for a few seconds, then takes my arm in his hand when I pull away. “Were you hitting on me, just now?” he asks with a smirk.
“No!” I tell him, laughing. “This is what friends do,” I explain.
He pulls me back and hugs me again. “Well, then, I like what friends do.”