The Leaving Season (18 page)

That was the old Nate, the can-do Nate, the Nate who was determined to continue on his path—on our path. I couldn't deny him that. He'd suffered through so much. I swallowed my doubt and nodded. “Right. I won't fail.”

Nate was the very definition of “indomitable spirit.” While he could suddenly become exhausted, which was the residual effect of the dengue fever he'd contracted, he was always upbeat and self-assured. He did every set of reps without complaint. He took his meds and his naps in equal measure. And he responded to a ton of emails and phone
calls from people who wanted to wish him well. He'd even gotten an email from a professor at Lewis & Clark inviting him to speak to a group of students in their off-campus study program.

When it became too much, he would sink back on one of the weight benches and close his eyes. “Middie, tell me something. Anything.”

That was when I'd bring out my phone and read to him the text messages I'd tried to send. “This one is just
x
s and
o
s. You know, tic-tac-toe.”

He laughed. “You are very silly, Middie.”

“Too silly?”

“Just silly enough.”

But I was careful to self-edit. When Nate shared pictures of Honduran landscapes, I showed him Emma in her uniform or my selfies with Haley on our first day of school. My photos of waterfalls and ponds and tree forts didn't exist, just as his photos of the village children and GO doctors who died didn't either. We both had secrets to keep.

Watching him work as hard as he did, dedicated and focused and determined as he was, I couldn't
not
work hard myself. When I wasn't with Nate, I threw myself into my classes, studying every night. But one thing continued to elude me: my college application to Lewis & Clark. Nate was so certain we would go together, but I . . . wasn't. Not anymore.

After three weeks of rehab, Nate had put on ten pounds
of muscle and was no longer as gaunt and weak as he'd been when he first came home. He could walk on his own, using a cane when he was tired, but he still had a limp. The therapist told Nate he was going to cut him back to just two appointments per week and let Nate do some work on his own at home.

“Nate, this is awesome!” I told him on the drive home. “No more daily PT.”

Nate was not happy at all. “This is bullshit,” he said and was silent for the rest of the ride. At his house, he refused my help, slamming the car door and starting up the path to his house by himself.

I offered to make him a snack, but he snapped at me. “I don't need your pity.” He threw the cane down on the floor and limped to the kitchen where he opened the fridge door and leaned against it, his breathing heavy.

“Why are you so angry?” I couldn't ever remember seeing Nate upset like this. He was always so mild-tempered that any outburst felt like a total eruption.

He answered without looking at me, his eyes scanning the shelves of the refrigerator. “You heard what the therapist said.”

Had I missed something? “He's cutting back. That's good, isn't it?”

“No, it's not. And it's not ‘awesome' either,” he said, sarcastically. “It means he's done whatever he can do and that's it. Twice a week is not gonna help me get any better.”

Bewildered, I simply stood there and let my arms hang. “Two days a week is—”

“Three days less than it needs to be.” He slammed the door shut, but it closed with a soft
whoosh
. “How can I get back to the way I was if I'm not doing therapy every single damn day? I don't want to stop until I'm better.”

“You are!” I thrust a hand at him. “You're walking!”

“It's not the same! I'm not the same!” He turned and stared at me, and while his cheeks had filled in somewhat from getting his fill of his mom's good cooking, his eyes were still troubled, still fearful, still at odds with the old Nate. “What do you care? You gave up on me too.”

Stunned, I couldn't speak.
What did that mean?

“The only time you've touched me since I came back was when my dad wheeled me into the house that very first day,” he said, his voice growing quiet and hoarse. “You haven't hugged me or kissed me.
Really
kissed me.” He glanced over his shoulder, out the window. The sun was setting in the backyard and the air was growing cold, but the twins and Scotty were happily playing on the swing set with Mrs. Bingham.

I didn't know what to say. This was a new side, a vulnerable side, to Nate that I hadn't ever seen. “I . . . I didn't want to hurt you,” I said.

He turned to me. “I'm not gonna break.”

“I know,” I said, feeling suddenly and intensely shy. I leaned against the center island, aware of the distance
between Nate and me. The few feet from one end of the kitchen to the other felt like the miles between Central America and Roseburg.

The fear I'd heard in his voice I saw now in the lines on his face. As much as we wanted to believe nothing had changed, some things had. It was Nate's limp on the outside, and his heartache on the inside.

I'd thought helping Nate with his PT, supporting him and encouraging him, was enough to take care of him. But he could have gotten all that from his friends and relatives; that wasn't the kind of care he needed from
me
.

I crossed the kitchen in short strides and wrapped my arms around Nate's waist from behind. We stood there for a moment like that; I felt the roughness of his bony spine under my cheek, the outline of his ribs under my hands. Finally, he turned to face me and he took my head in his hands, tilting my chin up before he pressed his mouth to mine.

I closed my eyes and felt summer return. With every kiss, another day was erased. With every touch, another painful memory was taken away. His hands brushed my hair from my neck and slid down my back and his hips met mine.

Nate, my Nate . . .
He'd been the love of my life for five years, my friend for ten. I knew him better than anyone, maybe better than I knew myself.

“I want things to be the way they were,” he said quietly.

I nodded. “I do too. Just exactly the way they were.”

Relief flooded Nate's face.
Just like old times,
I read in his eyes.

I wondered what he could read in mine. I did want things back the way they were—if only I could erase the memories of what had come between.

It was remarkably easy to fall back into the rhythm Nate and I had before he left. Within a month, my daily routine returned to its old pattern of school-Nate-study-sleep and repeat. There was no room for anything, or anyone, else.

Nate too wanted everything back in order, and he resumed his volunteer work at the farm as quickly as he could. His fan club was thrilled to have him back. They nearly mowed him down when we drove up one Friday afternoon. In no time at all, they were exchanging advice about the best canes and how to get out of bed without falling.

I tried to join in, but Nate sternly aimed a finger at my backpack. “Aren't the SATs calling you?”

While he let the other volunteers regale him with stories about squash that looked like the heads of presidents, I studied. From time to time, Nate would glance over at me and smile, never once betraying a desire to flee. There was none of the vulnerability I'd seen at his house the other day. It startled me how different he was from Lee, who covered up his insecurities with goofy non sequiturs and awkward jokes. Where Nate went with the flow of conversation, Lee flailed in its waters.

On the way home, Nate quizzed me on vocabulary words.

“Anachronistic.”

“Um . . . out-of-date?”

“Correct. Sagacity.”

I tried to pare down the word to its root. Was “saga” the base word? “Long?”

“No.”

“Boring?”

“No, it's—”

“Wait! I got it. Big?”

“Middie, you won't get it,” he said with a sigh.

“What . . . Why not? Don't you think I'm smart enough?”

Nate was quick to shake his head. “All I meant was you were on the wrong track. You were thinking ‘saga.'”

I glanced sharply at him. “How did you know that?”

He laughed. “How long have I known you? I could see it in your face.”

“You saw ‘saga' in my face?” I couldn't help but smile.
“What did it look like?”

Nate scrunched up his nose and narrowed his eyebrows.

“I did
not
look like that.”

“Nah, I'm joking.” He took my right hand from the wheel and held it in his, caressing my palm and fingers. “I just know you so well. I know what you're thinking.” He kissed my hand as if he were my prince. “I thought about you all the time when I was lost.” His voice softened. “Every night when I was in the jungle, I imagined you here. I imagined us here. Together. Running. Talking. And
other
things,” he added, which made me blush.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Ahead was a stop sign, and I suddenly realized where I was. If I turned left, I would head toward Lee's house. To the right, Nate's. I'd been here before, this fork in the road. And I'd made a different choice. I put my turn signal on and drove to Nate's.

“You're having dinner with us tomorrow, aren't you? Like we always do?” he asked as I pulled the car up the driveway. Each year, Nate's family celebrated Christmas Eve out at a restaurant and then went home to get the house ready for Santa to visit. For the past five years, I had been included. “We're trying a new Italian restaurant.”

“Sounds delicious.” Of course I had to go. It was tradition.

As I backed out the driveway and into the street, I saw a flash of blue in my rearview mirror and glanced
up. A scooter—Lee's Vespa. My heart began to thump in my chest. I wanted to wait to see where he was going—would he pass me, follow me, ignore me? But another car swerved around him and the driver started to lay on his horn, urging me on.

I hadn't seen him since the party at Nate's house. No texts, naturally, no calls, no invitations to do something crazy . . . It was as if our relationship—whatever it was—had never existed for him. I slowed my car down and pulled over to the shoulder, waiting for the impatient driver behind me to pass, and then I glanced in my side mirror.

Lee was gone. Had he turned up Nate's driveway? He and Nate
were
friends, after all.

And what are we?
What could Lee and I possibly be to each other now that Nate was back? We'd never figured that out.

That night I fell asleep with my books surrounding me and my laptop on, only to awaken at three in the morning in a sweaty panic. I was going to fail: school, the SAT, and Nate. I was going to disappoint everyone in my life.

I dug my phone out of my purse to read a message I desperately needed.

breathe

Christmas Eve dinner was at a small Italian restaurant in town. Nate's family was dressed up in their best clothes; even Scotty wore a jacket and tie. But all the fancy attire in
the world couldn't hide the holiday energy the kids brought with them. The only thing that kept them seated was the promise that Santa would only visit if they were good.

After we were seated, the waiter and house manager appeared at our table, beaming with delight. Both men were in their forties, mustachioed brothers with immaculately white shirts and sharply pressed black pants.

“We saw your name on the reservation list.” The manager thrust his hand at Nate. “You're Nate Bingham, aren't you?” Nate barely had a chance to nod before the man's face split into a grin. “Son, you're a hero.” His brother, standing at his elbow, bobbed his head in agreement.

Nate demurred, even as his parents patted his shoulder and whispered encouraging words. “But I didn't do anything. A hero saves people.”

“You saved
yourself
,” the manager said. “Your dinner is on me tonight.”

“On
us
,” his brother added.

“I insist—”

“
We
insist.”

“Thank you so much,” Nate's mother said. “That is very kind of you.”

A moment later, the brothers brought sodas and a bottle of wine to our table. “On the house.”

Nate's dad was gracious. “You are very generous, thank you.”

“Wow, free stuff!” Scotty said as he claimed a soda for
himself. Mrs. Bingham split a can of soda for the twins, pouring a small amount for each of them, while Mr. Bingham poured wine into the rest of the glasses.

“None for me,” I told him. “I'm driving.”

“You can have some of my soda,” Scotty said. “It was free.”

I laughed and thanked him for the Coke. “You being nice for Santa?”

Scotty narrowed his eyes at me. “Middie, there's no such thing as—”

“Scotty! Hey, why don't you tell me what you want to eat?” Mr. Bingham said quickly before he could spill the beans.

The whole family was in high spirits: Nate's parents were thrilled he was home for Christmas. They couldn't take their eyes off him, couldn't take their hands off him. Mrs. Bingham was constantly touching Nate's cheek and forehead, checking for fever. Mr. Bingham sneaked sideways glances at him, as if worried he would suddenly disappear again. And through the entire meal, I felt Nate's hand on my hand, fingers reaching for mine, for extra assurance that he was here.

Around nine, Nate's parents packed the kids up and hustled them back to the house to get ready for Santa's visit. I held up my glass of soda to remind them I would be fine to drive Nate home as soon as we were finished with dessert.

“Take your time,” Mr. Bingham said. “We've got to make cookies for Santa.”

Just after they'd left, the restaurant manager brought an elderly couple to our table, introducing them as regulars who'd heard about Nate and wanted to tell him how proud they were of him. Nate thanked them both, as graciously as his parents had, holding his tongue until they'd left. “I didn't defend our country,” he said to me when they were out of earshot. His words were slurred; I didn't realize how much wine he'd had to drink. “I didn't even save a kitten from a burning building.” His eyes held mine. “I just got lucky. I managed to play dead, and then I escaped when no one was looking.”

“It wasn't just luck—”

“It was! Those guys may have killed a lot of people, but they weren't the sharpest tools in the shed, you know. They were dumb. I took advantage of it and I ran away.” He blinked back tears. “I didn't save anyone. They were all dead. I didn't do anything.”

“You
couldn't
do anything,” I said to him. “It wasn't that you chose not to.”

“I know, but . . .”

“But what?” I reached across the table and took his hand in mine. “Nate, you were lucky to have survived at all. And you can talk about your experience and maybe that will help even more people. Maybe you could write a book.”

He squeezed my hand. A tear fell from his eye and he wiped it away with a linen napkin that had a stain of red sauce, like the kiss of a ruby lipstick. “I don't want to go any
where,” he said urgently, holding fast to my fingers.

“You mean, like college? Or med school?”

“I mean, I don't want to do any more Global Outreach work. I want to stay here with you and I want things to be the way they were before.” He sounded a bit like Emma with her wishes. “We still have our plans, right?” he asked. He leaned over the table and grabbed my hands. “You and me? College and med school and marriage and family?”

I snorted a laugh. “Med school for
you
, not me.”

But he was serious. “We've talked about this our whole lives. Our future is with each other.”

“Of course it is,” I heard myself say automatically. “Absolutely, one hundred percent.”

He kissed my hands and I felt another tear fall from his cheek and onto my fingers. He was so positive about us. Even after all that had happened to him, he still wanted to be with me.

On the ride home, Nate rolled the window down, cool air on his face, holding my hand the entire time. When we got to his house, we stayed in the car for a bit longer, our arms wrapped around each other, whispering and giggling until the windows fogged up. Nate drew a lazy finger in the steam on the windshield.
NM4eva
.

He lowered his head to my lap and stared up at me. “You're my rock, Middie. You were the one thing I could anchor myself to when I was delirious in the jungle.”

“Really?” I felt my heart beat faster. While he'd been
dreaming of me, I'd abandoned him. I felt ashamed of myself. I wished I could take it all back, undo it all, just as Emma wanted. Make it all go back the way it was.

Nate pulled me to him, pressing his hand at the back of my neck and kissing me deeply, passionately.

Lee.

My eyes flew open and I pulled back from Nate.
Whoa, what the hell was that?

Nate, upside down, looked quizzical. “Middie? You okay?”

“Um, yeah, yeah. . . .” I closed my eyes and sent the image of Lee—his scent, his voice, his taste—away from me and concentrated on Nate. I let him kiss me again, his tongue lightly tickling mine, his lips lingering on my neck and earlobe, my cheeks and chin.

Lee,
I thought again, and this time I did sit back and take stock. What on earth was happening?

Nate sat up but kept his arms on either side of me. “Bad pasta?”

“Uh, yeah, maybe.” I didn't feel sick to my stomach, but there was definitely something wrong with me. I should not be thinking about Lee.

Nate held the back of his hand to my forehead. “You feel a little warm. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep.”

I nodded. “Okay.” When he started to get out, I did too, but he stopped me.

“I'm a big boy. I can walk in by myself.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.” He came over to my side of the car and bent down to kiss me through the window. Just a quick peck on the lips. “Merry Christmas. I hope Santa brings Emma everything she wants.”

I waited until he'd slowly made his way inside the house and turned out the front light on the landing. Then I backed my mom's car out of the driveway and headed home. I left the windows rolled down and stuck my head out like a dog with its ears flapping in the breeze.

Lee was creeping back into my thoughts, into my world, and I had to make it stop. Nate loved me, and I wanted to love him back. I couldn't keep planning our future together if my present was all fucked up.

Just before bed, I pulled out my phone and found Lee's last text to me. I took a deep breath and clicked Reply.

it's meredith. merry xmas

I paused. I wanted to send him a text that he couldn't help but reply to. If he did, then I would know . . . something. If he didn't . . . I would know that too.

joining the circus, wanna come?

Text in haste, repent in leisure? I clicked Send and quickly shoved the phone back into my purse, then finished undressing for bed. Five minutes later, there was no reply from Lee.

Twenty minutes, nothing.

An hour, still nothing.

When I awoke in the morning, the only thing I saw on my phone was the tiny word Delivered. He'd gotten it.

And I'd gotten my answer.