“Can I buy you gals a drink?”
“We’re not gals,” Georgia said. “We’re women.”
“Women, then? Bartender, another round, okay?”
“We’re on our way out,” I said.
“Oh, come on, stay,” he begged. “Hang out with me. I’ve missed you.”
“I heard you broke up with Amber,” I said.
He pulled a face. “Yeah. She dumped me.” His hand was resting on the table very close to mine, and he reached out with one finger and touched my pinkie. “Guess she wasn’t the one.”
“Or you weren’t,” I said, pulling my hand away.
“You wanna hook up?” he asked, like Georgia wasn’t even there.
“No, I do not,” I said.
“Come on, Mar. Give a guy a break. You’re not mad at me, are you? I missed you.”
Tell off the people who judged us when we were fat.
Guess I wasn’t quite finished with the list after all.
“No, Camden,” I said calmly, “you used me. For five stupid years, I waited for you to date me, but you just had drunken sex with me once in a while and then treated me like . . . like . . . nothing.”
“What are you talking about?” he said. “I texted you! Sometimes!”
“Aw, Marley!” Georgia said. “He texted you. Sometimes.”
“I know. I’m getting choked up just thinking about it. Come on, G. Let’s go home, where we won’t be bothered by dopey men.”
We stood up. “Bye, Cam,” I said.
“Screw you, Marley,” he said, standing as well. “You’re lucky I ever slept with you!” To my utter shock, he gave me a little shove. “It was a pity fuck, and you should thank—”
And then Camden staggered back, crashed into a server and fell onto the floor.
I turned and saw Georgia shaking her hand. “Ouch! Ow!” she said.
“Did you punch him?” I squeaked.
“Of course I did!” she said. “I was defending your honor.”
For some reason, that struck us as hilarious, and we were laughing, clutching each other’s arms as Camden managed to get up, his pride in tatters.
“Out you go, asshole,” said Matt, the owner.
“Me?” Camden said. “She’s the one who hit me!”
“You deserved hitting,” Georgia said calmly. “I found your manner hostile and aggressive and took measures to protect my friend. It’s called use of physical force in defense of a person, New York Penal Law 35.15. ‘A person may use physical force upon another person when and to the extent he or she reasonably believes such to be necessary to defend himself, herself or a third person from what he or she reasonably believes to be the use or imminent use of unlawful physical force by such other person.’ Photographic memory, yo.”
Alice, our server, high-fived her.
“Yale is so proud right now,” I said.
Georgia dipped a napkin in her ice water and put it on her knuckles. “As they should be,” she murmured. “As they should be.”
CHAPTER 35
Georgia
Walk the walk. (I mean, really. This is what the list is all about.)
I’d been to two of Mason’s cross-country meets earlier this season, but this one had me twisted in knots.
Hunter was coming today.
Mason’s Achilles tendon had been strained since his second meet, so while he’d been trying to practice and stretch, he hadn’t actually competed in a couple of weeks. He remained ever cheerful, admitting without envy or rancor that he was the slowest kid on the team.
That goal of his—to run the entire course without stopping to walk, as we’d done in the Central Park fun run—broke my heart and filled me with pride at the same time. Since I’d been dragged to many cross-country meets when Hunter was in school, I knew how great the difference could be between the first kids in and the last. They started in a mob, but almost immediately, the pack would string out into clumps, then into a ribbon, then the odd kid, then long stretches of nothing, then another stray kid, plodding or walking, drenched in sweat, red-faced and miserable, a completely different creature from the kids who ran as if the ground were air.
The course for high school kids was three miles long. Some kids could run that in sixteen minutes. Some in twenty. In Mason’s case, thirty-three minutes and three seconds. As a normal human, I thought three miles in thirty-three minutes sounded quite accomplished. To runners, however, it was wretched.
Mason’s coaches had only positive things to say—what a good work ethic he had, how he always smiled. Great potential, one coach said. A fantastic kid, said another. And the teammates seemed to like Mason. He wasn’t excluded from anything and seemed at ease with the other boys. He’d reported that he’d started having lunch with Christian, the team captain and a senior no less, and Christian’s friends. Mason wasn’t quite one of the gang, being four years younger, he said, but at least he wasn’t alone. Another thing to cross off his list.
The talent show fame had faded after a few days—only bad things seem to last in high school—but Mason was hanging in there. Doing better than hanging in there. He wasn’t the pale, trembling kid who’d taken eleven Tylenol PMs. His smile was more genuine these days. His phone occasionally dinged with a text. He’d gone to the Eveready Diner with the team after the last meet; I knew, because I’d picked him up and seen the careful joy on his face at finally belonging.
But Hunter, whether he intended to or not, could change that in an instant. I knew that better than anyone. How many times had he slashed any pride I’d felt over the years? Win an academic award? So what, you’re fat. Have a friend come visit? She just pities you because you’re a freak.
Obviously, I was worried for my nephew.
Generally, the parents cheered on the kids; only a few were the horrible kind, screaming at their children to “work those arms” or “stay on pace.” Most, though, had something kind to say to even the slowest.
Mason was the slowest. Not just among the kids on his team. Among all the kids.
In those two meets he’d run, Mason always forced a smile and a little wave, even if he was breathing hard, his face bright red, even when he’d been reduced to walking. Parents would call out encouragement, and he’d break into a painful trot, and my heart would nearly burst from worry and love and pride and fear.
Today I felt ill, because there was one parent who would definitely care about times and stride and form, who would be ashamed at seeing his son finish last, who might well humiliate him in front of his hard-won friends.
Hunter. It was a curse word in my mind. My brother was a runner, the kind who finished the 26.2-mile New York City Marathon in two and a half hours. Which meant he ran roughly three times faster than his son.
Marley had an extra-busy day, Dad was in DC, my little sisters had a mandatory dance practice before their recital, and Mom had had filler injections last night and was icing her face. So it was just me and my dog, set to go into battle if Mason needed us.
It was a sickening feeling.
I wished Rafe would magically appear, but I also had the feeling that after the night he’d had to babysit me, we wouldn’t be running into each other so much. It had felt a lot like good-bye.
Admiral nudged me with his pointy nose, and I shook myself out of it. The kids were jumping around, warming up, stretching, doing little sprints. Mason saw me and trotted over.
“Hey, G! Thanks for coming!” He bent down and hugged Admiral, who wagged his tail and licked Mason’s ear once.
“I wouldn’t miss it, honey.”
“Is my dad here yet?” He bit his thumbnail.
“I haven’t seen him.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders. “Okay, well, we’re starting in about fifteen minutes.”
“Good luck, honey. I’ll be cheering for you. Does your Achilles
feel okay?”
“Oh, yeah. I think so. I mean, we’ll see, right?” He smiled a little, but it didn’t fool either one of us. He started to walk away, shoulders tight.
“Mason! Mason! Hold up!”
Hunter. Mason froze.
My brother cut me a glance as he strode across the field, walking his designer bike—he’d bragged that it cost $10,000—geared up from his helmet to his toes. Yellow jersey with sponsor names, special sunglasses, mirror on the helmet, special gloves, special shorts, special socks, special shoes, lest anyone suspect he was a mere mortal.
“Son. Listen up. You pick the leader and you stay on his pace, you hear me?”
“Uh, Dad, Christian’s times are way ahead of mine. I can’t keep up—”
“Yeah, well, you can’t pansy-ass this sport, can you? Make the decision to excel.”
“Just do your best, Mason. That’s all anyone can ask,” I said loudly.
My brother turned on me, his face abruptly vicious. “Did anyone ask you? Don’t you have a life of your own?” He turned back to his son. “It’s all mental. Just make the decision to stay with the leader and don’t pussy out.”
“Okay. I’ll try.” Mason cut a glance at me, then quickly looked back at his father. “I . . . I have to go.”
“Good luck, sweetheart,” I called.
Mason trotted off, his shoulders drooping.
“Stop swinging your arms like a girl,” Hunter yelled. “You can’t be a great runner if you don’t use every part of your body. Walk like a winner, run like a winner!”
“Jesus, Hunter, tone it down, okay? Just let him be. He’ll give it his best.”
“Said the fat girl who never did any sport of any kind.”
“And yet somehow my life has been okay just the same.”
“Has it? You’re a lonely, divorced kindergarten teacher who lives with her gay best friend and had to buy a dog for company.”
“For one, it’s preschool. For two, Marley and I are both straight. For three, Admiral is a rescue. I didn’t buy him. I adopted him.”
“Who even cares, George? I’m gonna go watch from somewhere else,” Hunter said, mounting his bike in a smooth motion. He glided off down the course, just enough to keep distance between him and me. God forbid people knew we were related.
The boys gathered at the starting line, the gun went off, and they pounded past.
By the end of just twenty or thirty yards, Mason was already falling behind. As he passed by, I yelled, “Looking great, Mason!”
My words were drowned out by Hunter, despite his distance from me. “Use your arms! Pick up those knees, Mason! Stay with the pack!”
We onlookers migrated to the next lookout spot; the course brought the kids in a figure eight, more or less. Hunter ignored me, ignored everyone, looking ridiculous in his Lance Armstrong outfit, sticking out like a neon lighthouse.
The fast kids were already charging up the hill from our second vantage point. There was Christian the Wonderful leading the pack by a ridiculous margin already, his parents cheering him on. “Go, Christian!” I said as he flew past.
“You’re Mason’s mother, aren’t you?” Christian’s mom asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hunter approach. That yellow was hard to miss.
“His aunt. Hi, I’m Georgia Sloane. Christian has been wonderful. Mason thinks the world of him.”
“He’s a sweet boy. Both of them are,” she said, smiling.
“What camp do you send him to?” my brother asked without so much as an introduction. “Does he have a private coach?”
“No, just the school coaches.”
“He could be great if you invested in real coaching.”
Christian’s mom stiffened. “He already is great.”
“On many levels,” I added.
“Thank you, Georgia. See you at the finish line.” She didn’t bat an eyelash at Hunter, just headed over to where she’d watch her son win, as he usually did.
More runners passed, some tall, some short, most skinny, but some not. Good for them, I thought. Good for the kids who carried some extra weight and didn’t let that stop them.
The tension radiating off Hunter was rancid and thick, growing with every runner who was faster than his son. And that was every single runner.
“Where the fuck is he?” he muttered.
“He’ll be along,” I said.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
If only Hunter would get transferred to Outer Mongolia and give me Mason.
More runners passed, huffing along. The slow kids.
Maybe Mason had fallen. Maybe his Achilles tendon was hurting again. I almost hoped so, since it would explain his slowness and give him an out with his father, but then I felt guilty for the thought. Of course I didn’t want Mason to be hurt.
Another runner came out of the woods. Still not Mason. Hunter and I were the only adults left; all the others were at the finish line.
Once Mason came into view, he’d have a half mile to go to the end of the race. I didn’t know how he could keep it up.
Then, finally, thank God, there he was. Hunter ran to the bottom of the hill to meet him. “Dig in, dig in, dig in!” he screamed. “You can do better than this! Work this hill, Mason! Get your ass moving!”
Mason’s head went down.
Damn you, Hunter.
“Hang in there, Mase,” I called as he climbed the hill, so slowly, but still technically running. “You’re almost there.”
“I haven’t . . . stopped . . . yet . . .” he panted.
Oh, my God! He was doing it! Finishing the course without walking! “That’s great!” I said. “Good for you, honey. You can do this.” Then he was past me, disappearing into the woods for the final stretch. My legs burned just watching him.
Hunter had already stalked off to the finish line, his sinewy body tight with anger. I followed at a distance, Admiral trotting at my side, and joined the crowd. Almost all of the kids had finished.
There was Christian, barely even sweaty. “Great race, Christian,” I said. “You came in first, I assume.”
“I did,” he said, grinning. “Thanks. How’s Mason doing?” It touched me that he knew who I was.
“He’s doing well,” I said. “He said he hasn’t had to walk yet.”
“Good for him! He’s working so hard.” He flashed a smile and ran off (ran!) to his friends.
Time stood still. “Is everyone done?” one of the away-team coaches asked.
“One more runner out there,” someone said.
Not many kids had the guts to run a race knowing they’d be last. I was so proud of Mason, but I was also dying for him.
There he was, coming out of the woods, the finish line a couple hundred yards away. He was still running. His face was a mask of pain and concentration, and he looked . . . awful.
And then, something miraculous happened.
As Mason came onto the field, Christian and all the other boys—and the entire girls’ team, too—gathered along the last leg.
“You got this, Mason!” Christian yelled, and as my skinny little nephew chugged along, Christian fell in next to him. The rest of the team followed behind, trotting slowly behind their captain, yelling encouragement. For Mason. No one cared how slow he was. They only cared how hard he was trying.
My nephew’s face went from a mask of pain to wonderment. He picked up speed, his stride widening.
“That’s the way, Mason!” one of the coaches yelled. The parents started yelling and clapping, and it didn’t matter that he was the last kid, the slowest. Many of them called him by name. “That’s right, Mason! Way to finish strong! Good job, kid!”
Mason started running faster, Christian keeping pace with him easily, talking the whole time. And then, with twenty yards to go, Christian fell back, letting Mason f
inish alone.
Mason’s breath rasped in and out of his lungs, and his brows were drawn. Somehow, he was sprinting, the crowd was roaring, the coaches yelling, and Mason crossed the finish line with a time of 26:43.
The last one in.
His best time ever.
It was a hero’s welcome. Christian hugged him, the other kids high-fived him and Mason went to a trash can and threw up, as one apparently does.
I was trying not to sob.
“What a race he had!” Christian’s mom said to me. “Congratulations!”
I gave a little wave, my throat too tight to answer, and she gave me a big smile and went off to her wonderful, wonderful son.
I stood alone, wanting to hug my nephew, kiss his cheek, tell him how proud I was, but he was having a moment with his peers. His aunt, no matter how beloved, didn’t belong. I watched with love burning in my heart, so happy I felt like I could float away.
Oh, Leah. Are you seeing this? Look at your little boy!
“Am I the only one here who knows shit about running?” Hunter said. “That time was utter crap. And those kids having to run him home like he’s some sort of . . . Jesus.” He started to walk toward Mason.
Something snapped. I ran up behind my brother and grabbed his arm. Hard.
“You shut your ugly mouth, Hunter,” I ground out. “Your son just set a personal record. He never stopped trying. He was amazing, and you’re the only one here who doesn’t see it.”
“Are you kidding? He was ten minutes behind the winner on a three-mile course!”
“What’s wrong with you?” I said. “Mason just ran his heart out, the entire team admires him for it and adores him for how hard he works, and all you care about is if he won. Don’t you see what you’re doing to him?”
“I’m making him strong, idiot,” Hunter said. “What the hell do you know about raising kids, huh? From what I can see, you’re a failure in everything. Divorced, fat, dead-end job, lonely—”
“This isn’t about me, Hunter. You hate me, I get it, message received a couple decades ago. This is about Mason. Your son. My nephew.”
Good Luck with That Page 38