Page 71 of Between the Lines

What does it say about me when I’m disappointed that fate picked Cal?

I’m ashamed. Guilt forms a rock in the pit of my stomach. He picks up on the fourth ring, only deepening the sick feeling, because he was probably in the middle of something.

“Hey, Nate! What’s up? You don’t usually call unless it’s Sunday.”

“Hello Cal. I just…”

I swallow. I’m typically not at a loss for words, considering how few I use. He is correct: We keep our standing Sunday calls because Ican store up important bullet points and ensure that the call has a purpose. Now that he’s picked up, I’m not sure what to say.

“…wanted to check in. I received a voicemail from Dr. Marty about your visit?—”

“Oh, that. It’s probably nothing, Nate. He’s just erring on the side of caution.”

He has always been the optimistic one between the two of us. I wish I could tell him how much it frightens me, how much it tears me up inside to evenfathomlosing the only family I have left. But I can’t bring any more darkness into his life than I already have.

“How is residency going?”

“Everything’s great here so far! Mass Gen has been good to me. I forgot how nasty this food was though.”

He chuckles, and I feel myself following suit. Silence follows.

“Well, hey, listen Nate, I’d love to keep chatting, but you actually caught me on my way out. Would you want to maybe talk later in the week? Or we can move up our call to this Sunday instead of next?”

I can’t dump my fears on him. The guilt I have locked so deeply inside. I don’t have it in me to tear him down when he has worked so hard to build himself back up.

Instead, I close the shackles to myself, prisoner in my own head, tell him yes, hang up, and spend the rest of my evening alone in my study, staring at my empty armchair, refusing to drag another ball of sunshine down with me.

twenty-nine

claire

I’mafraid to knock on his open office door and I don’t know why.

Nathan and I didn’t just cross the line this weekend, we jumped right over it and lofted ourselves into the deep end. Apparently, it’s easier for me to spread my thighs and let the man call me hisdirty girlthan ask him how his day was. The backwardness of it all is mind-boggling. And yet, despite how very aware of it I am, I’m still chewing on my thumbnail after Rocco’s after-school tutoring session, hesitant to knock. To ask him how his day went. Because sharing your feelings is one hundred times more intimate than stripping down for someone.

I debate for a second if I should just recreate the little show from my knees when one, I can still hear athletes and other teachers in the hall, but more importantly, I can hear Nathan’s fingers tap-tap-tapping against the solid oak of his desk. I slither just a fraction to peek into his space.

He’s drumming his fingers on his desk, cell phone in hand, staring at it like the device has grown arms and feet and a face. The color has drained from his skin, leaving him a flushed eggshell, and he ceases the errant finger drumming to tug at the tight collar of his necktie, where he actually loosens it.

Anxious tapping? Loosening his tieinsidethe school building?

“Hey, are you okay?”

I’m inside his office, closing the door behind me before my earlier nerves can catch up.

Nathan blinks up at me, and it’s almost as if I’ve startled him from a dream. His eyes are glassy, his features tight like someone pulled them back and hooked them to a peg like a rubber band in a slingshot.

“Claire. I didn’t know you were still here.”

I smile tightly.

“It’s only four-o’clock.”

He gulps, blinking rapidly as his gaze flares to the clock.

“Oh. Yes. It sure is.”

He swallows again, and I check that the lock on his door is secured before I go to him, gently crashing into his lap. I cup his cheek, directing his eyes to me. But he won’t meet me there. He’s facing me, but his eyes fall to my lap.

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