Page 97 of Drive
“It was my father’s,” I said as he clicked it on and gently put the needle to the record—Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”. My parents had come down the past weekend with the last of my things from my room, including my father’s old turntable—my prized possession, which sat on a solid oak stand in my large closet next to my other prized possession, my collection of Converse.
“These are your favorite,” he stated, grabbing my ruby red, canvas high tops with black laces and “Drive” lyrics written all over them.
“How could you tell?”
“Least worn. The rest are worn.”
“I’ve had them since high school.”
“So, that’s when the little habit started?”
I bit my lips to hide my smile. A true reporter to the bone, Nate left no stone unturned as he carefully picked through my life, pictures, and cards. I slapped his hand when he grabbed my high school journal and he gave me a panty-melting smile. “Anything good in here?”
I shrugged. “Teenage thoughts. I think there’s a passage where I got felt up for the first time.” Nate cradled it in his arms and eyed the book in my hand. “I’ll take this one instead.”
“The hell you will,” I said, mortified. “No.”
“It was worth a shot,” he said, placing it back on the wire rack he’d taken it from.
It was surreal that this beautiful man was in my closet at three in the morning making the space seem so small. I grabbed myMadame Alexanderdoll my mother brought for me and felt the tug of her absence.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed to see their faces until they were at my front door.
After a lecture from my father about the importance of communication and a good slap on the forehead from my mother, we spent a day in Austin together. I showed them around campus before they went to visit Paige. My mother was furious we still weren’t speaking, but I had stood my ground. In the end, I was left with a reluctant goodbye group hug from them both.
“Softball,” he said as he grabbed my tiny brass and marble trophy.
“Yeah,” I nodded as Nate invaded my space, like he was anxious to get to the bottom of things, ofme. Satisfied, Nate leaned against the frame of my closet, his arms crossed. The air around us shifted as I held his book in one hand, my doll in the other. Hungry eyes trailed over my face, down my body and then back up.
Michael Jackson sang about Billie Jean. “Good song.”
Swallowing, I replaced the doll and started to straighten the mess he made. “I love this record so much. My dad taught me how to dance to it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and with total abandon. He just let us go wild, Paige and me. Gah, I was such a moro—”
I caught myself staring at Nate, who stood stoically, waiting for what I said next, and in his eyes nothing was more important than hearing my story. He was exploring and I was the destination. There were no mixed signals, nothing to second guess. It was refreshing.
“What?” he asked, his arm propped on the frame. His jacket long gone and the sleeves of his once crisp shirt rolled up to his forearms.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Yes, now tell me.”
“I got all dramatic and I—” I shook my head. “You see, we had this mantle over our fireplace—”
“I think I know where this is headed,” he said, a rumble in his chest. “Clumsy kid, weren’t you?”
I nodded. “It was his deceased mother’s clock, my grandmother who I’d never met. She died before I was born. Anyway, the mantle wasn’t exactly attached to the brick. And I used it as an anchor to do a dramatic dip, I went allFlashdanceand—”
“You went backward with the whole thing,” Nate chuckled.
“So bad. It wasso bad. I really don’t know how my parents survived me,” I said with wide eyes. “I broke the clock.” I let out a sigh. “And you know what my father did?”
Nate took a step forward. “What, Stella?” He was close, so close, and I didn’t back away. Instead, I leaned forward.
“Nothing. He didn’t yell or get angry. I saw it, though, the sadness. It was one of the last pieces of her. He just picked it back up, put it on the shelf, and told me to keep dancing.”
