So Much It Hurts (4 page)

It's only when I look more closely at the photograph that I notice something's missing. The photograph has been cut, but not just so it'll fit into the plastic sleeve inside Mick's wallet. No, someone's been cut out of the photograph. The cut marks are jagged. I don't have to ask who's missing from the photograph. It must be Nial's mother—Mick's wife.

And Mick's the one who cut her out.

CHAPTER 5

“He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 1, SCENE 3

I
can't believe how easy it is to talk to Mick. Easier, even, than talking to Katie. Katie's fun and we've been friends since kindergarten, but we're really different. She thinks I put too much energy into school and Theater Workshop when I could be out at the clubs with her. I think she likes making me feel she's cooler and more mature than I am.

Mick stays next to me on the banquette. I love how he watches my face. He's interested in everything I say and think. When I tell him I can barely remember my dad and how my mom won't talk about him, Mick squeezes my hand. “That must've been rough—growing up without a dad. Especially for a little joey.”

“A joey?” The word makes me laugh.

“I keep forgetting you're not an Aussie,” Mick says. “A joey is a baby kangaroo.”

“I've never heard that word before.”

“How do you like it?” I know he means the word
joey
, but it also feels like a bigger question—like he wants to know if I like being here with him.

“I like it. A lot.”

Mick takes off his fedora and rubs his forehead. When he catches me watching him, he puts the fedora back on.

I think it's cute that he's self-conscious about his hairline.

Mick says he understands what things must have been like for me. He was seventeen when his father died of a heart attack. Mick says that before he got into directing, when he was in acting school in Melbourne, he used to summon up the grief he felt after his father's death.

“I used that grief—that sense I'd been abandoned. I found a way to transform it into something else. You'll do that too, Iris. You've already begun doing it.”

When Mick says that, it's as if something buried inside me starts to come to life again. There's a stirring in my chest. I've felt the same way as Mick—abandoned. Why hasn't my father tried to stay in touch with me all these years? Can he have forgotten his own daughter's existence?

I want Mick to know how much what he's just said matters to me, so I say, “I guess I always felt kind of sorry for myself. For not knowing my father the way other k— ” I stop myself from saying
kids
. I don't want Mick to think of me that way. “The way other people do. What you just said…it really means a lot. It makes me think that, in a way, the stuff I've gone through has had a purpose. Maybe I can summon that grief…that sense of being abandoned…and transform it into something else.” It's only after I say those words that I realize they're the very same ones Mick just used. He doesn't seem to think that's a bad thing. He just nods and smiles, as if I've said something really deep.

“You know what, Iris?” he says when we finally get up to leave the café. “Being with you makes me feel everything is possible.” He takes my hand, then lets it go, as if he's changed his mind and decided that holding my hand isn't the best idea. “You make me feel like a kid again.” I can still feel the cool dry touch of his fingers. I want him to hold my hand and not let go this time.

“You're not old, Mick,” I say, dropping my voice.

“I feel old. Compared to you.”

Except for two worry lines—small train tracks—over the bridge of his nose, Mick's face is smooth. Only his hairline and his eyes hint that he's a lot older than me. When I look into his eyes, I can feel he's been through a lot. Felt a lot. Seeing that makes me feel closer to him. Is this what falling in love feels like? I know I've never felt this way around Tommy.

“How old do you think I am?” Now Mick's tone is playful, teasing.

I've never been good at guessing anyone's age. I don't want to say the wrong thing. “Well, you've got a kid. So you must be at least…I don't know…” I do the math in my head. “Twenty-two.”

My guess makes Mick laugh. “Twenty-two? That would be sweet.” But he doesn't say how old he is.

“I could take the metro,” I tell Mick when he offers again to drive me home.

Mick insists. He's staying in a furnished loft in an apartment building a few blocks from where Mom and I live. He's also rented a Jeep with a camo paint job. He comes over to my side to help me step up into it. Again, he takes my hand, but only for a few seconds.

Maybe driving super slow is another Aussie thing. The closer he gets to my street, the more slowly Mick goes. The Jeep has a stick shift, so he needs both hands to drive. “Do you drive a Jeep in Melbourne too?”

“Yup. And always a stick. You get more control with a stick. Which I happen to enjoy. A lot.”

“You don't have to take me to the door,” I say when he's turning the corner to our street. It's not just that I don't want him going out of his way. It's also that I'm not sure how my mom would feel if she happened to be looking out the window and saw Mick and me together.

Mick doesn't ask me to explain. He pulls the Jeep over to the side of the road. When he puts his hand on mine, I swear I can feel his pulse in his fingers. It's like I'm holding his heart. “I know this might sound crazy,” he says, “but I really want to get to know you better, Iris.”

“It doesn't sound crazy,” I manage to say.

“Maybe we could have dinner sometime?”

“That'd be—” Something catches in my throat. Me, having dinner with this totally cool, totally hot guy? “—awesome.”

I notice more crinkly lines around Mick's eyes when he smiles. They suit him.

“This Friday, then. Eight
PM
. I'll meet you here,” he says, looking up at the house where he's stopped. Mick's not asking me; he's telling me. I like the way he takes charge, the way he wants to look after me.

“Okay.” I don't want to move my hand away. Ever.

That's when I realize I want Mick to kiss me. Really kiss me. I wonder if he can tell that too. If he does, he doesn't do anything about it.

He's the one to take his hand away first. “One more thing,” he calls out as I step out of the car. His voice has turned a little gruff, making it even sexier. “Let's not tell anyone about this, Joey. Got that?” Again, it's not a question.

“Got it. And thanks so much for the dress. Really, Mick, you shouldn't have.”

What is it about Mick's telling me—warning me, really—not to tell anyone about us that bothers me? It doesn't make any sense. I'm the one who didn't want him dropping me off in front of my house. Besides, who would I tell? Katie would never believe me.

I don't want to think about that. I want to think about how amazing Mick's hand felt on mine. And I want to imagine what it would be like to kiss him. The thought is so delicious and distracting that for a second I lose my footing and nearly fall off the sidewalk.

CHAPTER 6

“
Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
”
—HAMLET
, ACT 1, SCENE 2

I
t's a go-go-go kind of day. We have two quizzes—one in Cal, one in World History. I spend recess sitting cross-legged in front of my locker, reviewing my notes on World War I. “You've got to be kidding,” Katie says when she sees me.

The extra studying pays off. I can answer every question on the history quiz. “I guessed half of them,” Katie tells me when we leave the exam room.

After classes are over, we go straight to rehearsal. Mick is there, scribbling notes. He looks up when I come into the room, and when our eyes meet, he smiles, but so quickly I'm not really sure it happened.

After that, I make a point of not looking at him. It's hard to do. It's even harder to believe that in forty-eight hours we'll be having dinner together. Me, Iris Wagner, with Mick Horton! I've already planned my outfit: the dress he bought me, black opaque tights, and my clunky black boots with the wedge heels. I'll wear my hair away from my face. I've been wearing it that way ever since Mick said I should. Mick has a great eye for detail. Theater directors have to notice everything.

I get home that afternoon before Mom. She phones from the car to say she went for coffee with a friend but that she's bringing home pizza from the Italian bakery and could I set the table.

The pizza is half pepperoni (for Mom), half tomato-and-mushroom (for me). “Come sit with me on the couch for a bit,” Mom says after we've eaten. “You haven't told me how your tests went.”

Mom sighs as she stretches out on our corduroy couch. I sit at the other end. When she puts her feet on my lap, I can't help feeling a little trapped.

I know Mom counts on my daily report. I also know I could never tell her about Mick. She wouldn't understand. She'd be like Polonius and try to talk me out of seeing him. Keeping secrets from her is a new feeling for me— one I'm not used to yet.

Mom wiggles her toes the way she does when she's happy. “Cal went fine,” I tell her. “And I'm pretty sure I aced World History. Most people think World War I was caused by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, but there were other factors, like territorial disputes and the growth of nationalism across Europe.” I don't know why I'm telling Mom all this. Maybe it's because I'm afraid I'll let something slip about Mick.

Mom doesn't seem to be suspicious. In fact, I think she's enjoying the world history lesson. “I've noticed that when things go wrong,” she says. “There are usually lots of factors.”

“Are you still working on that walk-in closet in the condo downtown?” I ask her.

Mom nods. “I'll be there for at least another week. That closet is bigger than your bedroom, Iris. The client wants a whole wall just for her shoes and boots. If you ask me, it's ridiculous. On the other hand, her shoe-and-boot habit pays our bills.”

Mom wants to know if I have studying to do, and if I want to do it on the couch. “I could read my magazine,” she says.

I lift her feet off my lap. “I need to start my English essay.” Mom knows I prefer to write in my own room.

“You can read it to me when it's done.”

Once I'm in my room, I let myself daydream about Mick. I see us walking along Mount Royal Avenue and sitting together in the café. I think about how much I want to kiss him.

I know I should start my essay before I get too tired. Even if I only do the first couple of paragraphs. I will not be the kind of girl who lets her schoolwork slide because of some guy.

I flip open my laptop and create a new document. I write my name and the course code at the top of the page.

Maybe I'll just take a short Facebook break. I check the time at the top of the computer screen. I'm not going to spend more than five minutes on Facebook, I promise myself, then I'll go straight back to the essay.

I scan the latest postings. Antoine has posted a link to a squirrel circus. A squirrel circus? No wonder Antoine's failing chemistry. Katie's posted photos from today's rehearsal. She must have shot them with her cell phone. There's a photo of Tommy, adjusting a microphone. He's wearing a
Star Wars
T-shirt that makes him look like he did when we were in third grade—sweet and goofy. In the background, I can just make out the tip of Mick's fedora.

I'm in the next photo. Mick is right—I do look better with my hair off my face. My posture's better too. Even though I've only known Mick for a short time, I know it's because of him that I'm standing straighter.

Someone is sending me a personal message. I figure it's Katie, asking for help with the English essay. But it isn't her. The message is from someone named Nate Berg.

Oh my god. How weird is this?

Nate Berg is my father.

I nearly call out for my mom. She's still on the livingroom couch, lost in the latest
Home Beautiful
magazine. But no, Mom would freak out.

My fingers tremble as I move the mouse to click on the message. Then I think, what if I don't open it? I've managed all these years without a father, thank you very much. Why do I need one now? I could delete the message without even looking at it. I could.

But I don't. I can hear my heart thumping under my T-shirt. I suck in my breath and click on the message.

My name is Nate Berg. I'm looking for the Iris Wagner
who was born in Montreal on May
11, 1995
. I'm her dad.
Can you let me know if you are her? If you're not her, sorry
to have bothered you.

It is him. My father. Nate Berg. I click on his name. There is no photo of him on his profile page. I check to see how many Facebook friends he has. None. That means Nate Berg opened a Facebook account to find me. But why now?

So much for my English essay.

I don't move. I just sit frozen in front of my computer screen, looking at Nate Berg's message, reading it over and over, as if it contains a secret meaning I might somehow have missed.
Can you let me know if you are her?

I think about deleting the message. I could pretend I never got it. I could go on living my life the way I always have—without a father. But something stops me from deleting the message. Curiosity, I guess. What kind of a man is Nate Berg? Am I anything like him? And why has he waited so long to contact me?

I could answer the message right now and tell him that yes, it's me, Iris Wagner, and that's my birthdate. But I'm not sure I want to answer him, not sure I even want to be in touch. I've got to think about what to do. Besides, he's made me wait all these years. Now it's his turn to wait for me.