Nate abandoning me, and choosing the popular kids over me, reinforced everything that I already knew to be true. It triggered every ounce of self-loathing I had percolating through my hormonal, awkward teenage body, and I hated him for it.
And in my hurt, as the main character in my own story, I never once thought about what he could’ve been going through. It was so much easier to be angry than it was to be sad that I never once thought to ask him why he walked away.
Until now.
“You dropped me.” Blood rushes through my ears like Niagara Falls. “You left for the summer and then we never talked again. What happened? What did I do to make you leave me like that?”
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so vulnerable. I’ve spent my entire adult life masking my anxiety and fears with humor to try to avoid looking weak. Allowing Nate to see me like this, knowing he’s hurt me before, is terrifying.
“Fuck.” He drops the ice cream scooper and runs his fingers through his hair. “I knew we were going to have to talk about this one day.”
My instincts to walk it back, tell him we don’t have to talk about it, light up like the fireworks that have been setting the sky ablaze all night.
I hold firm.
“If we’re going to move forward, then yes. I need to know.” My voice holds steady, but beneath the counter, I’m pinching my leg so hard it may leave a bruise. “If we don’t talk about it, I’ll always think you’re going to walk away again.”
I had prepared myself for his immediate response to be defensive. That’s what mine would be. But when he nods and his hazel eyes look at me with nothing but understanding shining through, I’m reminded once more of why losing him hurt so damn much.
“I know.” He slides the plate in front of me and walks around the island to take a seat beside me. “I need you to remember that I was a kid. I know we thought we knew everything back then, but I was so young and stupid. I had no idea how to express what I was going through.”
I’m afraid to look at him. I keep my eyes trained on the plate and nod, hoping he’ll keep talking.
“I don’t know how much you remember about that summer,” he says, and I keep quiet, not wanting to tell him that I remember every single thing. The plans before he left, the unanswered calls while he was gone, feeling as if he’d plunged a knife through my heart when I saw him back at school holding Rachel Shroder’s hand. “I told you I was going to see my grandparents but I lied. That was the summer I stayed with my mom.”
All the air in my body leaves me in a sudden whoosh.
“What?” I gasp.
“Yeah.” He nods. “I can’t remember if I ever told you that she still called sometimes. A few times a year I’d get a present in the mail with a letter telling me how much she missed me or that she wanted me to come visit.”
“You never told me that.” I’m nervous to speak, afraid I’ll say the wrong thing and cause him to shut down. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more or if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Seriously, you and your family did more for me than anyone else in my life.” He reaches beneath the counter and takes my hand in his. “If I’m honest, I loved your mom so much that sometimes I felt ashamed of myself. Like I was betraying my mom for wishing she could be someone else.
“With her, it was always empty promises. I think I stopped believing she’d ever follow through when I was nine or ten. But that summer . . . that summer was different.” He takes a deep breath and part of me wonders if he’s ever told anyone this before. “Before the end of the school year, she called and told me my grandparents had given her money to buy a plane ticket for me to see her in New York and I’d be staying with her instead. I wanted to tell you, but to be honest, until I saw her waiting for me at the airport, I didn’t think she’d follow through.”
Millions of questions race through my mind, but I can tell he needs to say this without any interruptions. I tighten my hand in his, hoping it relays at least a small bit of how much I care.
“When I got there, she was so excited to see me. She couldn’t stop hugging me or telling everyone we passed on the street that I was her son. She had all these huge plans for us too. We were going to go see a Yankees game, check out Times Square, take a boat to see the Statue of Liberty. She told me about this little Italian restaurant down the street from her apartment that had the best chicken Parmesan in the entire city.” He takes a deep breath and all my muscles go taut. “But most of all, she couldn’t wait for me to come to some little theater off-Broadway to see the show she was starring in. She was so proud, she kept telling me it was finally going to be her big break.”
The air turns static as pieces to a puzzle I didn’t know existed begin to fall into place.
“The first week was so great that I almost called you and told you everything. Her place was small and a little junky, but in a New York City way I thought was cool. She walked me around her neighborhood and introduced me to all of her neighbors. I ate so many hot dogs that I almost threw up my second or third night there.” He smiles a bit at the memory. “I hated Times Square, but she insisted that I’d like it one day. She’d keep telling me I’d been in Ohio for too long, that I needed to expand my horizons if I wanted a real future.
“The second week was when things started going downhill.” He leans forward on the stool, and all I want to do is wrap my arms around him. “I was tired of tagging along with her to rehearsals. I was a teenage boy who liked baseball and math; musicals weren’t my thing. I tried to seem enthusiastic because I could tell that’s what she wanted, but she saw through it and she gave in and let me stay at her place alone.
“The first night she came home with pizza. I remember that. I was worried she was mad at me, but when she got home she seemed fine. She taught me how to eat New York–style pizza and we watched some movies from the eighties that she loved. But the next night, she didn’t come home.”
“Nate—” I don’t know what to say. My heart breaks thinking of him all alone in that junky New York apartment.
“She came back the next morning with bagels and coffee,” he says. “She told me I’d love the coffee. It was black, too strong, and it burned my tongue. But I drank it all. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and make her disappear again.”
I, an almost-thirty-year-old woman, can’t stomach black coffee. I can’t believe an adult would push a fifteen-year-old kid to drink it. But I guess considering this was the same woman who left her son all alone in a strange apartment, nothing should surprise me.