Finally, the abandoned railroad bridge comes into sight, metal arches hunched over the tracks like old bones. The creek below it dried up long ago, and the ravine is overrun with weeds and litter. The tracks are broken, the rust-coated sides and foundation scrawled with graffiti.
Darius jogs to a slow stop. Relieved, I stop too.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Sure,” I wheeze, bending to catch my breath. “If you call on the verge of collapse okay.”
“It gets easier the more you practice.”
“So does advanced physics, but I’m not doing that for fun either.”
A grin flashes across his face. “Let’s take a break.”
“Fine, but only because you clearly need to.” I straighten and drag in another breath.
We walk to the railroad tracks. Sunlight spears through the metal arches. Weeds push up from between the broken wooden tracks.
“One of my first assignments was a photo essay on graffiti artists in LA.” He scans the words and images scrawled over the structure. “Not artists who made a living from it or were sponsored by anyone, but people who had something to say. A story to tell.”
I look at the words Why not?, spray-painted in looping, pink and purple cursive. Zephyr. Nerds Unite! Make Art Now. Bright, colorful tangles with images of faces, shapes, tags.
“It’s like a proof of your existence without anyone knowing exactly who you are.” I look up at the metal arches. “Like I was here.”
“Exactly.” He studies an illegible word in black paint. “And it can be anything from an outright declaration to a secret code that only you understand.”
Like a personal diary compared to a published book. Or a photograph that you keep to yourself rather than showing it to anyone.
“Come on.” Darius points his thumb in the direction of downtown. “Before we head back, I’ll buy you a coffee.”
“And a scone?” I ask hopefully.
“Orange chocolate-chip.”
“I love running.”
He laughs. Not a polite chuckle, but an actual resounding laugh that settles deep inside me and spreads an unexpected warm glow through my entire body. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh like that since he arrived.
We leave the train tracks, and he pauses to pick a few autumn wildflowers growing among the thicket of weeds. We walk-jog to Dream Bean for three take-out coffees and an assortment of scones before returning home. Darius puts the fresh wildflowers in the vase, and I set out plates and napkins.
Despite my discouragement over how out of shape I’ve gotten, I’m happy that he and I did something totally normal together. Something that has nothing to do with him being my teacher or my father’s oldest friend.
“Good morning, you two.” My father enters the kitchen, patting me on the shoulder as he passes behind my chair. “How was the run?”
“Grueling and painful.” I polish off the last of my scone.
“She did great.” Darius hands my father the coffee we brought him.
“Oh, please.” With a huff to hide that I’m secretly pleased by the compliment, I get to my feet. “Save it for the parent-teacher conference.”
“But she also runs with scissors and doesn’t play well with others,” Darius adds.
My father chuckles. “I suspected as much. What’s on today’s agenda?”
He and Darius briefly relay their schedules before beginning a discussion about the morning news.
I find it kind of fascinating that Darius is still so interested in the world—after what he endured, I’d think he’d want to retreat like a turtle withdrawing into a shell. Instead, he has an informed opinion about everything going on internationally, from local elections to global climate initiatives. He’s even still involved in counterterrorism initiatives aimed at cutting off financing sources for groups like the People’s Liberation Front.
I can’t imagine ever meeting a man who knows more, has done more, and has lived through more than Darius Hawke.
“Nell, can you finish typing up my notes this weekend?” My father sits at the table. “I want to start working on my paper for the conference in December.”
“Sure. Just leave them on your desk.”
“Also, I mentioned to Darius that we’ve been invited to a museum lecture and reception next weekend.”
“Oh.” I’ve never been to one of my father’s work events, likely because he never goes to any. “I’ll have to get something new to wear.”
“I meant Darius and me.” My father flicks open the paper. “I’ll give you money so you can order a pizza.”
My insides twist—whether at the reminder that I’m not included in the we, or because the pizza remark makes me sound like a child given the treat of staying home alone. Or both.
Well, it doesn’t matter. The fact that my father is actually going out to a social event is a big deal, so I choose to focus on that.
I take in the picture of them sitting at the table—Darius big and powerful, his hair messy, his shirt wrinkled and still sweat-damp in places. And my father in his navy robe and slippers, his forehead creased with concentration. They’d be an interesting photo, a study in contrasts.
I tug my hair away from my neck. “I’m going to get ready.”
After returning to my room, I take a quick shower and dress. My father hasn’t undergone some dramatic change since Darius came to stay with us, but he seems more relaxed and at ease. As if Darius has somehow balanced things out.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Their friendship runs deep. They’d both attended the same boarding school when they were teenagers, Darius having been sent there to curb his rebellious tendencies, and my father because of his academic excellence.
Though they were both from wealthy families, they were about as different as two teenaged boys could be. My father was studious, mild-mannered, and a frequent target for bullying. Darius was defiant, bold, and unruly.
Their initial meeting achieved legendary status in their later years. A group of boys had been physically attacking my father when Darius intervened and fought the bullies off. He shrugged off my father’s gratitude, claiming he’d been looking for an excuse to fight so he’d get kicked out of school. My father told him he’d be better off getting out by graduating—and offered to help him academically if Darius agreed to be his unofficial bodyguard.
The agreement lasted for two years until they both graduated. It also planted the seed of their friendship, which grew and endured.
Against Conrad Hawke’s orders, Darius went to work for a news wire service in LA instead of attending college. My father accepted a full scholarship to Stanford. Though he no longer had need of Darius’s protection, they remained close friends and saw each other whenever Darius was in the Bay Area and more often after he moved to San Francisco.
Then one casual evening at a pub, Darius introduced my father to Katherine, unknowingly setting them all on a twisting, unpredictable path. One that included me.
I still find it strange to consider all the circumstances and events that had to take place before I was even born.
After I finish getting dressed, I pick up my book bag and walk to the second-floor landing.
Fragrant shower steam wafts from beneath the closed bathroom door into the hallway. That orange-spice scent is becoming so familiar—whether it’s Darius’s soap, shaving cream, shampoo, or a combination of all three.