“Beau Wilkes. The exact same name of Ashley Wilkes’s son in Gone with the Wind, and you’re not kidding.”
“Pretty sure the whole reason my mom slept with my dad a second time was so she could give that name to a baby,” he says.
“Beau Wilkes.”
“Natalie Cleary, what can I do for you? It’s late and you don’t wanna come over, so what? Do you have another emergency you need me to pick you up from?”
“Would you come if I did?”
“I would.”
“What if you had to travel by carriage through a dangerous shantytown?”
“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” he says. “Did you call for any reason?”
“Yeah, actually. I’m wondering if you still want to take a look at my car, before I take it in.”
“You want to use me?” he teases. “I’ve never been used for my brain before.”
I laugh. “How’s it feel?”
“Fine.”
“Fahn.”
“And now you’re making fun of the way I talk. You’re heartless.”
“I’m sorry, Beau Wilkes. I like the way you talk. And this is probably obvious, but I’m using you equally for your mind and body.” He’s silent for a long second, and I almost think he’s hung up. “Hello?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“You’re still there?”
“I was just picturing you,” he says softly.
“Oh” is all I can manage.
“You look real pretty.”
I cover my face with my hand, smiling stupidly into my palm. “Thanks, Beau.”
“I’d love to take a look at your car.”
“You would?”
“I would.”
“When’s good for you?”
“I’m working all weekend,” he says. “I have Tuesday morning off.”
So maybe I’ll have to miss one session with Alice after all, or maybe she can push it back to later in the day. “That sounds perfect,” I say.
“What time?”
“Whenever,” I say.
“So, like, one or two?” he says.
“Is it at all possible you could do nine?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’ll just park my truck on your street and sleep there the night before.”
“If that’s too early—”
“Nine’s fine.”
“Thanks, Beau.”
There’s a pause before he says, “Goodnight, Natalie.”
“Goodnight, Beau.”
15
Monday night brings the Promenade for Independence downtown, a parade complete with high-stepping horses in costumes, followed by the annual fireworks display at Luke Schwartz’s mini-mansion. I used to love the Fourth of July—marching with the dance team in our sequined blue and orange leotards with their little spandex skirts, going to Luke’s to see the illegal fireworks his dad’s assistant drove out to Indiana to buy for us. The irony of celebrating Independence Day as an indigenous person was lost on me only until I was about seven years old, but last year was the first time I felt grated enough by the idea to skip the parade. Mom knew how excited I used to get about the Fourth and was understandably confused, and for some inexplicable reason, I decided the best way to casually, lightly explain my growing discomfort was to compare my participation in the parade to cartwheeling down the Trail of Tears.
It landed about as successfully as you’d expect any joke about genocide to land. That is to say, I made myself feel sick and my mom sob. She and Dad had of course skipped the parade in solidarity, which is why I’m not surprised when I hear a light knock on my door frame and look up to see Mom, smiling tentatively. “Thought you, your dad, and I could have a game night tonight while Jack and Coco are out?” she says.
“Dad hates games,” I point out.
She waves the notion away with a manicured hand then crosses her arms over her stomach and glides into my room. “Your father loves games. He hates losing.”
I don’t bother pointing out that I actually do hate games, and anything with a semblance of competition for that matter, because I know the point of Mom’s offer is to pretend today is just like any other day, and not a holiday she used to love.
“I was actually thinking about going to the parade,” I lie.
She studies me. “Really?”