His happy expression falls, and he shrugs. “It’s fine, I guess.”
I frown. “Just fine?”
“Yeah.”
Jesus, I forget kids suck at conversations.
I pivot to open-ended questions and try to steer things in a positive direction.
“What’s something fun you’ve done with your grandma since you’ve been there?”
He thinks for a minute. “We did a paint night together, watching a YouTube video.”
I don’t know what the hell that means.
“That sounds interesting. Tell me more about that,” I say.
“Grandma set up the family room like an art studio. We each had our own table with paint stuff. She made snacks, and then her and Bill and I watched a YouTube class on how to paint a bird.” He takes a big bite of his burger, and I watch in slow motion as more sauce drips down his hand and onto his shirtsleeve. “I thought it would be lame, but it was fun,” he says with a mouthful of food. “I liked it.”
I can’t help but smile. “That’s cool, buddy. Sounds like something Jordan and I will have to check out.” I hesitate, then ask cautiously. “And school’s still good?” I try to sound casual, like I’m not poking around. “You still crushing on Abby?”
“I guess.”
Damn.
I debate asking him straight out, but I don’t want to throw Cece under the bus, and I most definitely don’t want him to feel like shit. I know I have to be the parent, but I’m trying to put myself in his shoes here.
I’ve just decided to sit on it a bit longer, talk it out with Jordan, when he takes another bite and asks, “Matt—did you ever ditch class?”
Cool. He came to me.
Shit.He’s askingme.
I’m not one to bullshit, so I answer truthfully. “Sure did, bud. Not a lot, but… yeah. Occasionally. I really hated my English class in high school. Sometimes I’d slip out with Jordan to go hang out. Why?” I ask. “Have you?”
He takes a sip of his lemonade. “Yep. Just once, though.”
“Yeah?” I stay neutral. “What class?”
“English.” His gaze drops to the table, silence following.
I sense there’s more he wants to say, so I wait it out.
Finally, he sniffs and says, “We’re supposed to be writing about our hero…”
He trails off, wiping at his cheeks, staring at his food.
My stomach drops.Fuck.
Nate.
He folds, burying his face in his arms, and lets out a sob.
I’m in the booth beside him in a matter of seconds, hand rubbing his back, tears stinging behind my eyes.
“Fuck, bud.” I know I shouldn’t say fuck.
Butholy fuck.
