“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Well, regardless, you did. I remember it perfectly.” He takes a drink of beer, wipes his mouth on his wrist, and adds, “You were very brave.”
I try to remember the last conversation he and I had before I left—in his backyard, night falling around us. How panicked I was, begging him to tell me it would be ok, that I hadn’t ruined everything. He seemed horrified by me; that’s what I remember most about that conversation: his look of repulsion as he watched me fall apart, hiccups and snotty nose. I don’t remember saying I’d take care of anything. I just remember him saying we would be ok.
“I didn’t know I was going to get expelled,” I say. “You never told me that was going to happen.”
He lifts his shoulders. My bad, oh well. “Even if it wasn’t spelled out, it must have been obvious that was the only way we were going to wrangle our way out of the utter hell that threatened us.”
“You mean it was the only way you were going to get away with not going to jail.”
“Well, yes,” he agrees. “That was absolutely part of my thinking. Of course it was.”
“But what about me?”
“What about you? Look at you. Aren’t you ok? You certainly look ok. You look beautiful.”
My body reacts even if I don’t want it to. An intake of breath so sharp, air whistles through my teeth.
“Look,” he says, “I understand that you’re angry, that you feel hurt. But I did the best I could. I was terrified, you know? So instincts kicked in. I wanted to protect myself, sure, but you were at the forefront of my mind as well. Getting you away from Browick saved you from an investigation that might’ve wrecked you. Your name in the papers, a notoriety you have no control over following you like a pall. You wouldn’t have wanted that. You wouldn’t have survived it.” His eyes travel over me. “All this time, I assumed you understood why I did it. I even thought you’d forgiven me. Wishful thinking, I guess. I could’ve projected too much wisdom onto you. I know I did that at times.”
Something cold trickles down my spine—embarrassment, shame. Maybe I’m being dense, simple-minded.
“Here.” He puts a beer bottle in my hand. Numbly, I say I’m not old enough. He smiles and says, “Sure you are.”
We sit in the living room, on opposite ends of the couch. Little things are different—the pile of junk mail moved from the kitchen counter onto the coffee table, a new pair of hiking boots lie kicked off by the door. Otherwise, it’s the same—the furniture, the prints on the walls, the position of the books on the shelves, the scent of everything. I can’t get away from the smell of him.
“So,” he says, “you’re heading to Atlantica soon. That will be a good place for you.”
“What does that mean? That I’m too stupid for a good school?”
“Vanessa.”
“I couldn’t get into any of the ones you picked out for me. We can’t all go to Harvard.”
He watches me take a long swallow of the beer. The familiar floaty fizz travels down my throat. I haven’t drunk alcohol since Charley moved away.
“And what are you doing with yourself this summer?” he asks.
“Working.”
“Where?”
I lift my shoulders. The hospital cut its budget so I can’t go back there. “My dad has a friend who says I can work at this car parts warehouse.”
He tries to hide his surprise, but I see how his brows jump. “Honest work,” he says. “Nothing wrong with that.”
I take another long swallow.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You can say anything.”
I shake my head. “I don’t feel like I know you anymore.”
“You’ll always know me,” he says. “I haven’t changed. I’m too old for that.”
“I’ve changed.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“I’m not naive like I was when you knew me.”
He tilts his head. “I don’t remember you ever being naive.”
I take another drink, a third of the bottle gone in two swallows, and he finishes his, goes to the fridge for another. He gets one for me, too.
“How long are you going to be angry with me?” he asks.
“You don’t think I should be?”
“I want you to explain why you feel this way.”
“Because I lost things that were important to me,” I say. “While you lost nothing.”
“That’s not true. To many, I lost my reputation.”
I scoff. “Big deal. I lost that, plus tons more.”
“Like what?”
Tucking the beer between my legs, I count off on my fingers. “I lost Browick, my parents’ trust. There were rumors at my new school as soon as I got there. I never even had a chance to be normal. It traumatized me.”
He makes a face at traumatized. “You sound like you’ve been seeing a psychiatrist.”
“I’m just trying to make you understand what I’ve gone through.”
“Ok.”
“Because it isn’t fair.”
“What isn’t fair?”
“That I went through all that and you didn’t.”
“I agree that it’s not fair that you suffered, but me suffering alongside you wouldn’t have made it fair. It only would’ve resulted in more suffering.”
“What about justice?”
“Justice,” he scoffs, his expression suddenly hard. “You’re looking to bring me to justice? To do that, honey, you have to believe that I unduly harmed you. Do you believe that?”
I fix my eyes on the unopened beer bottle sweating on the coffee table.
“Because if you believe that,” he continues, “tell me now and I’ll turn myself in. If you think I should go to prison, lose all my freedoms, and be branded a monster for the rest of my life just because I had the bad luck of falling in love with a teenager, then please, let me know right now.”
I don’t think that. That isn’t what I mean by justice. I just want to know he’s been miserable, a broken man like Jenny described. Because here, in front of me, he doesn’t look broken. He looks happy, the teaching award propped up on the bookcase.
“If you think it hasn’t been painful for me, you’re wrong,” he says, as though he knows my thoughts. Maybe he does, always has. “It’s been agony.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
He leans toward me, touches my knee. “Let me show you something.” He gets up, goes upstairs. The ceiling creaks as he walks down the hallway into his bedroom. He returns with two envelopes, one a letter addressed to me, dated July 2001. The first lines turn my stomach inside out: Vanessa, I wonder if you remember me, last November, moaning into your soft warm lap, “I’m going to ruin you”? My question for you now is, did I? Do you feel destroyed? There’s no safe way to get this to you, but guilt may make me willing to risk it. I need to know you’re ok. Inside the other envelope is a birthday card. He’s signed the inside Love, JS.