Lock and Key(104)

He said this so easily, so matter-of-factly, that it kind of broke my heart. “You know,” I said to him as he opened another box, “you could tell her that. How you feel, I mean.”

“Oh, I have,” he replied.

“You have? When?”

“Over Christmas.” He picked up a bottle of shark-cartilage capsules, examining it, then set it aside. “We went down to Garfield’s one night after closing, for drinks. I had a couple of margaritas, and the next thing I knew . . . it was all out.”

“And? ”

“Total bust,” he said, sighing. “She said she’s not in a relationship place right now.”

“A relationship place?” I repeated.

“That’s what she said.” He emptied the box, folding it. “The KeyChains are selling so well, she’s got to focus on her career, maybe expanding to her own store someday. Eye on the ball, and all that.”

“Reggie,” I said softly. “That sucks.”

“It’s okay,” he replied. “I’ve known Harriet a long time. She’s not much for attachments.”

I looked over at Harriet again. She was laughing, her face flushed, as the photographer took another picture. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

“That’s very nice of you to say,” Reggie replied, as if I’d complimented his shirt. “But sometimes, we just have to be happy with what people can offer us. Even if it’s not what we want, at least it’s something. You know?”

I nodded, even though it was exactly what I didn’t believe, at least not since Nate and I had argued on Valentine’s Day. The space I’d once claimed to want between us was now not just present, but vast. Whatever it was we’d had— something, nothing, anything—it was over.

As a result, so was my involvement in the carpool, which I’d decided to opt out of after a couple of very silent and very awkward rides. In the end, I’d dug out my old bus schedules, set my alarm, and decided to take advantage of the fact that my calculus teacher, Ms. Gooden, was an early bird who offered hands-on help before first bell. Then I asked Gervais to pass this information along to Nate, which he did. If Nate was surprised, he didn’t show it. But then again, he wasn’t letting on much these days, to me or anyone.

I still had the gift he’d given me, if only because I couldn’t figure out a way to return it that wasn’t totally awkward. So it sat, wrapped and bow intact, on my dresser, until I finally stuffed it into a drawer. You would think it would bother me, not knowing what was inside, but it didn’t, really. Maybe I’d just figured out there were some things you were better off not knowing.

As for Nate himself, from what I could tell, he was always working. Like most seniors in spring semester—i.e., those who hadn’t transferred from other schools with not-so -great grades they desperately needed to keep up in order to have any chance at college acceptance—he had a pretty light schedule, as well as a lot of leeway for activities. While most people spent this time lolling on the green between classes or taking long coffee runs to Jump Java, whenever I saw Nate, either in the neighborhood or at school, he seemed to be in constant motion, often loaded down with boxes, his phone pressed to his ear as he moved to and from his car. I figured Rest Assured had to be picking up, business-wise, although his work seemed even more ironic to me than ever. All that helping, saving, taking care. As if these were the only two options, when you had that kind of home life: either caring about yourself and no one else, like I had, or only about the rest of the world, as he did now.

I’d been thinking about this lately every time I passed the HELP table, where Heather Wainwright was set up as usual, accepting donations or petition signatures. Ever since Thanksgiving, I’d sort of held it against her that she’d broken up with Nate, thinking she’d abandoned him, but now, for obvious reasons, I was seeing things differently. So much so that more than once, I’d found myself pausing and taking a moment to look over whatever cause she was lobbying for. Usually, she was busy talking to other people and just smiled at me, telling me to let her know if I had any questions. One day, though, as I perused some literature about saving the coastline, it was just the two of us.

“It’s a good cause,” she said as I flipped past some pages illustrating various stages of sand erosion. “We can’t just take our beaches for granted.”

“Right,” I said. “I guess not.”

She sat back, twirling a pen in her hand. Finally, after a moment, she said, “So . . . how’s Nate doing?”

I shut the brochure. “I wouldn’t really know,” I said. “We’re kind of on the outs these days.”

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “It’s just . . . it got hard. You know?”

I wasn’t expecting her to respond to this, really. But then she put her pen down. “His dad,” she said, clarifying. I nodded, and she smiled sadly, shaking her head. “Well, I hate to tell you, but if you think keeping your distance makes it easier not to worry . . . it doesn’t. Not really.”

“Yeah,” I said, looking down at the brochure again. “I’m kind of getting that.”

“For me, the worst was just watching him change, you know?” She sighed, brushing her hair back from her face. “Like with quitting swim team. That was his entire world. But in the end, he gave it up, because of this.”