“It’s only a model, baby,” she had explained. “It’s not real.”
“I know,” wailed eight-year-old Nina. “But it could be real, right? Mammoths did get stuck in the tar. That’s why all their bones are here, right?”
Louise had nodded.
“Well then,” cried Nina. “This is a model, but it’s Real Life, too, and a real baby mammoth might have watched his parents get stuck and starve because they couldn’t get out and days and days would go by, and they’d keep telling him to go find food, or somewhere safe, and he would say, ‘No, Mommy, come out of the tar,’ and then she would say, ‘I can’t, baby,’ and she would have cried and he would have cried or maybe some nasty dinosaur would’ve come and eaten him and his mommy wouldn’t have been able to help and it would have been awful . . .” And then Louise, who didn’t think it was the right time to point out dinosaurs and mammoths hadn’t lived at the same time, realized it really would have been awful, and then the Tar Pits were ruined for her, too.
It was the same way with everything Nina experienced; fictional characters were as real to her as the people she met and touched every day. Eventually, she developed a tougher skin and a more critical appreciation of literature, but she still cried at endings, happy or sad. Certain books had left an indelible impression, and Liz never let her forget the occasion she’d been explaining the plot of Flowers for Algernon and had started crying in the middle of the store. Not that Nina needed reminding.
She’d arrived a little early for her appointment with Peter Reynolds and had taken a table where she could watch the door. Sipping her coffee, she examined the people coming in. Every arrival was scrutinized carefully for familiar mannerisms, walks were studied, and of course she missed her actual nephew completely. A man approached her table, a broad grin on his face.
“Oh my God, you must be Nina. We totally have the same hair.” He sounded as giddy as a kid opening a packet of Pokémon cards and finding their favorite.
Nina goggled at him. He was very tall and handsome, and debonair would be the only word to describe the tweed jacket and black turtleneck he was wearing. It was true, though: His hair was the same color as hers, though his was definitely more stylishly cut.
She nodded and started to stand up. He waved his hands at her.
“Don’t get up. I walked from La Brea, and if I don’t sit down I’m going to fall down. I really need to get in shape.” He smiled and sat, reaching across the table to shake her hand. “Peter Reynolds, your fabulous gay nephew, and how bizarre is that?”
Nina shook his hand, grinning back. She’d always enjoyed the company of gay men, and finding out she was related to one was honestly a bit of a bonus. “I’m Nina, your single heterosexual aunt, which doesn’t seem possible.”
“The single part, or the heterosexual part?”
“The aunt part.”
He turned up his palms. “But that’s the only part that’s easy to explain. Heterosexuality you can’t do anything about, of course, and the single part is presumably by choice, because you’re very pretty, although maybe you have a terrible personality . . . Do you?”
“Awful,” said Nina.
“OK, well, you’ll have to work on that if we’re going to be friends, because I have a very low tolerance for irritating people.”
“Me too.”
He seemed delighted. “Ah! Another similarity. I love it. Genetics are so fascinating.”
Nina reached for her coffee. “Wait, do you want something to eat? We are in a café, after all.”
“Of course,” he exclaimed. “I was so excited I forgot. I’ll be right back.” He got up and went to fetch food. Nina watched him charm the checkout girl, the older tourist couple he was next to in line, and the possibly also gay guy waiting for someone. There was something about Peter that was just . . . open, in a way she wasn’t. She found herself smiling at him as he came back.
“Aren’t you so excited?” He hugged himself. “I am beyond thrilled. When Sarky called, I thought it was Christmas. You’re totally going in my syllabus.”
“Sarky? Sarkassian the lawyer?”
“Yeah, we call him that.”
“Do you see a lot of him?”
“More than you would think. I’m afraid you’ve inherited one of the more bizarre family setups. Did you eat? You’re going to need all your mental faculties.”
“Oh,” said Nina, faintly. She reached for her coffee. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“Here, have half my panini. No one needs a whole panini.” He looked around the room and spotted the guy who had smiled at him earlier. “I think that guy is checking you out.”
“No,” said Nina, “he’s checking you out.” She picked up half of his sandwich and bit into it. Pesto ran down her chin and Peter handed her a napkin.
“He’s not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m spoken for.”
Nina giggled. “You are?”
Peter nodded. “I’m betrothed.”
“How old fashioned of you.”
“Here’s the thing,” said her nephew. “I am an old man in a young and, let’s face it, gorgeous man’s body. I was born fifty-six. It was very hard for me to be young. I hated it. It’s only very recently I feel like I’m becoming who I was supposed to be, which is a middle-aged professor of Anthropology with elbow patches.”
Nina looked at his jacket and raised her eyebrows.
He made a face at her. “OK, so this jacket doesn’t have them, but I will find one that does, or find patches I can add, or something. That’s not really the point; I’m wearing patches on my elbows all the time, even when I’m naked, metaphorically speaking.” He shrugged. “The professor part is fine—I’m on the faculty at UCLA; and the age part is fine—I’m thirty-three. Not yet in my prime, but getting there.” He suddenly looked concerned. “Do you understand what I mean, or do I sound completely nuts?”
Nina shook her head at him. “No, I totally get it. I think I was supposed to be born in the nineteenth century, or maybe Edwardian England. I should be wearing empire-waisted tea dresses and sitting in a window seat watching for carriages.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. I’m your aunt, but younger than you; how is that possible?”
Peter stared at her, then frowned. “When’s your birthday?”
“June 30.”
He let out a low whistle. “Oh crap. That’s not going to make things any easier.” He leaned down and started rooting around in his briefcase, a large brown leather messenger bag that looked like it had seen some heavy use. He finally found what he was looking for and unrolled it onto the table: a long, laminated piece of paper covered in some kind of diagram. It was highly complicated.
“You laminated it?” asked Nina. Not that she didn’t love a laminator—she really did; she could frequently be found randomly laminating pretty pieces of fabric or paper to use as bookmarks. “Your margins are really even.”
“Thanks,” he said. “No one’s ever noticed my margins before.”