I also fell in love with Caroline and Hank Sanders. They bought their house the year I left for college. I’ve seen them out and about over the years, but tonight was the first time we’d ever spoken. They’re both in their late thirties; she works from home as a part-time psychologist, and he runs a construction company in Columbus—which he absolutely didn’t refer to as C-bus. They have two kids who go to the local middle school and are getting too cool to hang out with them anymore. She went to school in NYC and even though she moved out here kicking and screaming, she’s really come to enjoy the quiet peacefulness our suburban town offers. We have the same taste in food, shows, and books, and before she left, she invited me to her next book club meeting. Something I agreed to with no hesitation whatsoever.
Actually, I got along with pretty much everyone. The only people who were noticeably cold toward me happened to be the same women who lingered next to Nate all evening long, giggling at everything he said and ignoring the diamonds adorning their ring fingers.
“Well, duh.” I infuse my words with a heady dose of sarcasm. “I’m a freaking delight. I don’t know why you sound so surprised.”
“No. It’s not that,” he says. “I’m not surprised people liked you as much as I’m surprised that you seemed to like them.”
I think that if I dig around deep enough, there might have been a compliment rolled up in there. “Ummm, thanks?”
“Welcome.” He turns away from the door, and I can’t help but notice the circles beneath his eyes or how slow and heavy his steps are.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He may be my sworn mortal enemy, but it’s only fun to destroy him when he’s at his best. I’m not a monster; I don’t enjoy kicking people when they’re already down. If I’m going to spend my days working on campaign signs and my evenings mingling with my constituents, I need to know if my competition is up to par.
“Am I . . . yeah. I’m fine.” His steps and his words falter. “Thanks.”
I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic, and for some reason, it’s a kick to the stomach.
For a few years, I knew him better than I knew anyone. I could tell what he was thinking with a single glance. I could decipher what he meant by the tilt of his lips or the subtle inflections in his speech.
Now his face is marred with lines and I don’t know whether they came from laughing or frowning. He’s a stranger, and as much as I want to deny it, I hate it.
“Umm . . .” I fiddle with a loose thread on my sweater, unsure of what to do with my hands. “Can I help you clean up the kitchen?”
This is so fucking awkward.
“Sure,” he says, but it sounds more like a question.
I push off the stool and head to the sink anyway, rolling up my sleeves before I turn on the water. Suspicion dances behind his eyes and I can tell he doesn’t trust my motives.
“I still hate sitting idly and awkward tension,” I explain in another uncharacteristic move. “I’m not offering to be helpful; this is a fully self-serving activity.”
Once I got to sixth grade, my anxiety during tests became so bad that my mom had to go to the school and ask the teachers to either allow me to stand or let me sit on a bouncy ball. To this day, the only reason you’ll ever find me exercising is because I’m literally buzzing with anxiety.
“I forgot about that.” An almost wistful smile crosses his face. It makes him look years younger, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of the Nate I once loved.
It should be all I need to turn the water off and run straight back to my parents’ house. I’ve played this game with him before and I was left burned. But the stupid nostalgic part of me I like to pretend doesn’t exist wants to keep that look on his face for as long as possible.
“Do you remember that one time we walked around the neighborhood charging people for the worst car washes in the history of car washes?” I pump dish soap onto the sponge as the memory I buried deep in the corners of my mind resurfaces.
We stole a bucket and rags from my dad’s garage, not knowing the towels we were using to dry with were so dusty that they left the cars dirtier than when we began.
“Damn. I forgot about that,” he says. “Didn’t your mom trace our steps and issue refunds?”
“She absolutely did.” And even though she didn’t let me forget what she’d done for almost a full calendar year, she never once asked us to give the money back.
“Your mom’s the best,” he says mindlessly, and I can tell he regrets it the second it leaves his mouth.
“She is,” I agree, unsure of where to go from here.
Grateful for the task at hand, I keep my eyes down, watching as the iridescent bubbles lather on the glasses.
Nate moves around the kitchen, clearing the counters and table until he’s collected all the empty dishes. He puts them in the sink, taking up the space beside me. We work in silence, moving in tandem as I rinse and he transfers them to his state-of-the-art dishwasher.
It’s weird, but it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve felt completely at ease in months.
Not that I’ll ever admit that out loud.
When the sink is empty and the washer is fully loaded, Nate hands me a hand towel devoid of a kitschy phrase. I nod in thanks, too nervous that speaking will somehow break the spell we both seem to be under.
I take my time folding the towel and rest it on the counter before following him back into his living room. He sits on the oversized sectional that only an hour ago was seating at least six of our neighbors. There’s more than enough room for me, but I can’t even think about sitting right now.
“Thanks for helping clean up. That was . . . that was nice of you.” It’s clear he’s not accustomed to thanking me. The words definitely don’t roll off his tongue.
I shift on my heels and wish I had pockets I could shove my hands into so I could stop fidgeting. “I can be nice . . . sometimes.”
“I know you can. I’m just not used to being on the receiving end of Collins Carter’s kindness.”
“Well, I’m glad I was able to refresh your memory.” The stress I’ve been trying to ignore begins to melt away and my shoulders relax. “Your house is really nice, by the way.”
If we’re doling out compliments, I might as well get that one out of the way. Plus, it gives me an opportunity to openly gawk at the space.
Without the people crowding the living room, I’m able to look closer at the details scattered throughout the space, but it still feels impersonal. It lacks the warmth it’s trying so hard to portray. The art prints framed on the wall are lovely, but I could see them in any department store. There’s a set of ceramic vases on the mid-century coffee table that are gorgeous, but none of it screams Nate.
Not that I even know who he is anymore.
I wander toward the built-in shelves at the far side of the room stuffed with books, frames, and a few knickknacks that might finally give me more insight into the man across from me. I scan through the titles on the shelf, not seeing any of the sci-fi books he loved when we were younger or a single book on baseball. I’d be hard-pressed to believe he’s ever opened a single book here. I might be wrong, but I don’t get the sense he was dying to explore the colors in the Pantone book.
I get to the frame and chuckle when I realize he hasn’t even replaced the placeholder photo. The blond woman inside is smiling brightly at whoever’s taking her picture. She clearly understood the assignment when she booked this modeling job.