The next day, Nate, Danny, and their crew worked an extra hour to make up for the time they lost knocking off early in honor of Nate’s birthday. They ended up on a roll and not only finished digging, shaping, and planting all those front-facing flower beds (alternating pink and white azaleas were the centerpieces), and replenishing the building’s lengthy row of side planter boxes (pencil trees, jade plants, and nandinas made a formidable trio), but began the Japanese-style garden that would grace the complex’s outdoor seating area. Nate and Danny would net a tidy profit on this job and they’d share a nice chunk of it with Luis, Butch, and Edgardo—who were now talking about forming their own landscaping business. They were talented guys, tireless workers, and knew their plants inside and out, so Nate figured it was only a matter of time until they joined forces. Anyway, who couldn’t use a little healthy competition?
Jennifer had apparently thought Nate would be home around his usual time since she’d been waiting for him in front of his house for nearly an hour. Or so she told Nate, who was nothing short of shocked to see her parked in his driveway when he pulled up that night. His first thought before getting out of the Silverado was that something must be terribly wrong. Why else would she have driven all the way to Eagle Rock during rush hour—or at all, for that matter—considering they were no longer speaking to each other?
They exited their vehicles in unison and met at the edge of the front lawn, like children forced to apologize for naughty behavior.
Jennifer looked up first. “The place looks fantastic,” she said, indicating the new paint job and refreshed landscaping. Nate realized she hadn’t been to Escarpa since the day of Jim’s non-memorial memorial lunch nearly four months earlier, which, just then, seemed like forever ago.
“Thanks. I finally got to do what I’d been pushing my dad to do with it. Too bad he had to die for it to happen, huh?” Nate didn’t mean to smile, it wasn’t funny, but he was nervous and confused. Jennifer didn’t look like anything was wrong. She looked fine. Better than fine, in her V-neck tank top, skinny cropped jeans, and white Keds. But he asked anyway: “Jen, is everything okay?” She didn’t move. “I mean, you’re not exactly who I expected to be waiting in my driveway.”
“Who were you expecting?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Well, no one,” Nate answered a bit defensively. “That’s not the point.”
“I know. I’m sorry, forget it.” She kicked at the grass with the toe of her sneaker. “I just … wanted to stop by to thank you for the flowers.”
The flowers. Oh, those flowers. It had been three days already. They seemed kind of beside the point—or maybe beyond it. “You could have just texted,” Nate replied without snark. “Saved a trip.” Okay, maybe some snark. And maybe he was feeling more hurt than he was letting on.
Cody started barking from inside the house, right behind the front door. It was snappish, insistent, as if to say: Why are you out there when I’m in here?
Nate motioned to the house. “I should probably get inside.”
Jennifer reached for his arm. “Can we talk?” She let her hand rest on his for a second and then pulled away.
Nate felt grimy compared to Jennifer, who looked daisy-fresh, all glowing skin, the scent of vanilla oil wafting off her neck and shoulders. Cody’s barking quickened. Sometimes he could be the world’s most patient dog. This was not one of those times. “Uh, sure. Of course,” Nate told Jennifer as he took out his house key and started up the front path. “Come on in.”
Cody gleefully barreled into him as he opened the door, then lurched over to greet Jennifer as she followed Nate inside. She crouched and rubbed Cody till he rolled over in utter bliss. The dog looked happier to see Jennifer than Nate did, though, to be fair, their relationship was decidedly less complicated. They all landed in the living room as Cody ran figure eights around the humans.
When the pooch calmed down, Nate directed Jennifer to the couch, which was looking a bit worse for wear these days—or maybe he was just seeing the tweedy old thing through her discriminating eyes. She sat in one corner of the sofa, leaving room for Nate, but he opted for the cushiony armchair next to it. As he sat he noticed the welting around the seat pillow was fraying. He needed to think about new furniture. Maybe Max and Carter next door could give him some ideas. Nate leaned back in the chair and focused on Jennifer, who had one leg tucked under the other. She was biting her lower lip.
“Sorry I missed your birthday,” she finally said.
“That’s okay, it was just … a day.”
“Guess it didn’t come at the greatest time.”
Was she joking? Just in case, Nate volleyed back. “I tried to postpone it, but they wouldn’t let me.”
They both managed a small smile but there was a curtain of tension floating between them.
Jennifer sat up straight, both feet on the floor. Nate noticed the light grass stains on her sneakers where she’d toed the lawn. “I’ve thought a lot about us these last few weeks,” she told him.
“I have too,” Nate said, though he wondered who’d thought more about whom.
She nibbled at her lip. “And I’ve decided maybe it’s time I just accepted the way you are.”
Nate studied Jennifer’s face but it looked more troubled than reconciled. “I’m really not such a bad guy,” he said, forcing a smile. He didn’t even convince himself.
“Of course you’re not,” she replied, leaning forward, her shoulders tilting toward him. “You’re a really good guy.”
Nate lightened, feeling the pendulum swinging into friendlier territory.
“That’s what makes this so much harder,” Jennifer said, looking at her hands.
Nate reflexively slumped down in his chair. As if on cue—because who can sense pain and sadness quicker than one’s dog?—Cody stood in front of Nate, poked at him with his snout, and raised his neck for a cherished rub. This’ll make my guy feel better, he seemed to say. And if not, I’ll feel better! Nate could read Cody like a book; far better, apparently, than he could ever read Jennifer.
“So, I gather this isn’t about getting back together,” Nate said as he kneaded Cody’s craned neck.
Jennifer finally looked up from her hands, wiped a tear away with one. “Nate, I want to be with someone who really needs me,” she said, gently yet decisively. “Someone who lets me in. Lets me know when they’re hurting. And lets me help.”
Nate popped up from the chair, bailing on Cody mid-scratch, and sat next to Jennifer. He took her hand, still damp from tears. “I can be that guy,” he told her, meeting her moist eyes with every ounce of sincerity he possessed.
She held his gaze. “But what if you can’t?”
Nate moved in closer, tightening his hand around hers. That she hadn’t let go yet gave him resolve. “I’m not a psychic, Jen,” he said, flashing on Lena and her murky living room. “I can’t predict how anything’s going to turn out. All I can do is try.”
She pulled her hand away. “Like you’ve tried with your mother?” Nate looked like someone had shot him with an arrow, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. “I spoke to her,” Jennifer continued. “She told me what’s been going on. What happened up in Fresno. Which, case in point, is more than you did.”
“Wait, you called Amy?” No, that couldn’t be right. “What did you do that for?”
“She called me. At the studio. She was worried about you, you idiot.”
Jennifer stood, leaving Nate alone on the couch. Cody’s snout found Nate again, but his eyes were locked on Jennifer. She was staring out the front window, arms crossed in front of her.
Nate could feel his blood simmer. He didn’t want it to; he wanted to stay calm, rational, contrite. Be the man Jennifer wanted him to be. The man he wanted to be. But he was up on his feet and in her face before he could stop himself. “Did she tell you that my father paid off her parents so he could ‘own’ his baby son?” Nate asked. “That was a heartwarming little surprise.”
Jennifer watched Nate warily—his jaw was tense, his eyes flaring. “Yes, she told me,” she answered evenly. “And honestly? I think you’re blowing the whole thing out of proportion.”
Nate swallowed, balling his hands into fists. He hated how he felt, how he knew he was going to sound. And yet: “She shut me out for thirty years. I think almost any reaction I’d have is justified.”
“Not if you want to have a mother,” Jennifer replied with a near-mystical certainty.
Nate’s fists tightened, fingernails digging into his palms. He counted to five in his head. “Sorry, it’s just not that black and white,” he finally said, his voice wavering. “Anyway, this is between Amy and me. I don’t expect you to understand.”
Now Jennifer looked like the one shot with an arrow. But she quickly recouped, lifted her chin, and threw her shoulders back. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” she asserted. “I do understand how you feel about her. What I don’t understand is why you think I wouldn’t.”
Nate gazed at her, unable to respond, to form an even remotely satisfactory answer. It was still so complicated to him, as if those past weeks of psychotherapy had never existed. Why could he talk these things out with Mira but still not with the woman he loved?
“I’ve got to go,” Jennifer finally said. “I’m teaching tonight.”
“You are?” Nate didn’t mean to question her but, as far as he knew, she rarely held classes past eight o’clock. And it was already seven thirty.
“No—I’m actually not,” she replied without apology as she headed for the front door. “But I still have to go.”
And she was gone before Nate could think of one more stupid, unconvincing thing to say.
“It pissed you off that she talked to your mother about you, didn’t it?”
The light had changed dramatically in Mira’s office in the time that Nate had been seeing her. They were transitioning from summer to fall, it was getting darker earlier, and a pair of floor lamps—one in each corner of the room—was now needed to augment the muted brightness that once filtered in through the single window. The framed beachscapes looked softer, the philodendron leaves a tad less perky, and a cocktail would not have seemed entirely out of order—for the time, if not the place.
Although Nate had been talking about his latest tense encounter with Jennifer, all roads kept leading back to Amy—which he found more annoying than enlightening. But Mira insisted on connecting those dots and it made Nate wonder if he’d been missing even more clues than he’d imagined.
“Well, I guess it would’ve been worse if Jen reached out to my mom than the other way around,” Nate realized. “But I still don’t like being talked about behind my back.”
“Why? What are you afraid of?” Mira’s pen was poised over her writing pad. (At first, he was uneasy when she made notes, and now felt weird when she didn’t—did he need to bring that up?)
“What am I afraid of?” he repeated, mulling, unsure. He took a stab: “Not being there to defend myself?” He watched Mira’s large, shimmery eyes as she considered this. She’d blown out her dark hair; it looked straighter and fuller than usual, and Nate realized he knew absolutely nothing about this woman beyond what he could intuit from within the four walls of her office. Therapy didn’t seem like a particularly level playing field.
“Are you asking me or telling me?” she asked. Nate had decided there was little that his therapist didn’t already know—like a teacher with all the test answers—but he still felt she was owed a response.
“Somewhere in the middle, I’d say.”
“Do you think you need defending?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure I’d need … explaining.”
She pinned a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “You know what I think?”
“That’s kind of why I’m here.” That made Mira smile. Nate so liked it when she seemed amused. He didn’t know why, but he still wanted to entertain her.
“I think you need to start doing some of that explaining—to the people who deserve to hear it.”
Nate rearranged himself on the couch but couldn’t get comfortable. “What if I can’t?” he wanted to know. “Can’t explain, can’t … go there. Wherever ‘there’ is?” He dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck, I don’t even know what I mean anymore.”
“Look, just start somewhere. It’s better than nowhere.”
“That sounds like an old song lyric,” Nate said with a sullen stare.
“Okay, how’s this: You don’t have to have all the answers about your feelings before you begin to share them—as if they’ll somehow be used against you.”
Nate raised his head, a chord struck. He was reminded again of his father’s “women like a little mystery” theory; Mira’s words sounded like a distant cousin.
Mira looked squarely, unequivocally, in his eyes, and said, “Nate, I don’t often give my patients direct advice, direct orders—but I’m making an exception.”
“I’m listening.”
“Call your mother.”