“He was always building stuff,” I say, smiling at the memory. “When we went out to a restaurant, he’d be piling matchbooks on the table the whole time. He couldn’t help himself.”
Uncle Jake’s eyes are watery. “He was something, your dad.”
My mind is humming, moving so fast my thoughts are tripping over themselves. I hesitate, wanting to be sure of myself, then push forward before I can think again. “I’d love to hear more.”
Uncle Jake seems surprised. “More?”
“About my dad,” I say, suddenly nervous. “Not just when you were kids, but later too.”
It’s been forever since I asked this of him. For so long now I’ve just assumed this particular door was sealed shut. But maybe time doesn’t make it harder to get through; maybe it makes it easier. Because now I find myself turning this new piece of information over like candy on my tongue: once upon a time, my dad used to build boxcars. It’s not much, but even such a tiny sliver of knowledge feels like stumbling across something rare and precious. And I find I’m not ready to let go of it just yet.
“Alice,” Uncle Jake says softly, looking apologetic, and my heart sinks.
“I know it’s hard for you to talk about him,” I say before he can go on. “It is for me too. But…it’s also getting hard for me to remember him sometimes. And that’s so much worse.”
He looks stricken by this, and for a long time he just watches me, as if weighing something invisible to the rest of the world. Then, finally, he shakes his head.
“Maybe,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a maybe. It sounds like a no. It sounds like the closing of a door.
I want to say something more. I want to ask him a thousand questions. I want to lie on my back on the basement floor and listen to all his stories.
But instead I just give him a feeble smile, trying to hide my disappointment as he turns his attention back to the scattered pieces of our hapless boat.
That night, Sawyer insists on picking me up at home, which gives my aunt and uncle an excuse to hover near the windows on the second floor, trying—and failing—to be nonchalant as they keep watch for him. When he finally comes into sight—tall and thin and lanky, his blond head bent, his eyes on his sneakers—they both let out a shout.
“Have you guys ever heard the expressionbe cool?” I ask, unable to keep from laughing at the two of them with their noses pressed to the window.
“He’s never been cool a day in his life,” Aunt Sofia says.
Uncle Jake frowns. “Neither has she.”
“This isn’t a big deal,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t even know if I like him.”
“But he’s so cute,” Aunt Sofia says, still peering through the window.
“And punctual,” Uncle Jake adds with a note of approval.
“Unlike some people,” she adds under her breath, and it makes me want to burrow under the floorboards, because they can only be talking about Teddy, which means I’ve obviously done a much worse job keeping my feelings hidden than I thought.
“He’s a junior,” I say as below us Sawyer turns up the walk. “And I’m graduating soon. What’s the point?”
“What’s the point of anything like this?” Aunt Sofia says. “You date. You enjoy each other’s company. You have fun. Maybe you make out a little.”
“Sofe!” Uncle Jake says, leaning back from the window to glare at her.
“Well,” she says with a smile, but then her face rearranges itself into something more serious. “All I’m saying is that it doesn’t have to be complicated. This is supposed to be the fun part, you know? So go have fun.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rings.
“I’m not inviting him in,” I inform them as I start to head downstairs. I’m still wearing the same worn jeans and plaid button-down I’ve had on all day. I’m determined not to think of this date as a big deal. Because as much as I like Sawyer, and as clear as it is that nothing more will happen with Teddy, it still feels somehow dishonest. My heart is a balloon on a string, and I’m not ready to let go of it entirely.
“What,” I hear Uncle Jake call as I hurry down, “are you embarrassed by us?”
“Yes,” I say emphatically, though really it’s just that I’ve never had a guy pick me up here before—at least not like this, not in a way that feels so oddly formal. We don’t live in the suburbs, where it’s easy to cruise over in a car and honk a few times. In the city, going somewhere usually means taking public transportation, and it tends to be more convenient just to get there on your own. Teddy comes over all the time, but if we had plans to go out in an entirely different neighborhood, it’s almost impossible to picture him showing up on my front porch beforehand just to personally escort me there.
This doesn’t exactly bother me. But it does make me a little sad. Because Sawyer is different.
Sawyer is here.
