Right Where You Left Me

an unplanned reunion

"Nate?"

The front door slams, and Nate and I turn to look at each other. We had gotten home a few minutes ago and we were cleaning the kitchen, but I had not anticipated Nancy's early arrival home.

"Fuck," we whisper at the same time.

"How does she know I'm here?" he whispers frantically.

"She must have seen your bike," I reply. "Did you text her like you were supposed to?"

He doesn't answer.

"Nate?"

"Nope," he says sheepishly.

"You dumbass," I hiss.

Nancy steps into the room. Her eyes meet mine. And then they settle on Nate.

"Nate?" she repeats. Her purse drops to the floor. Her keys fall too. They stare at each other for a few seconds.

I think Nate begins to cry first.

A tear slips down his face. He sighs and takes a step forward. "Hey, grandma," he says quietly.

Nancy bursts into tears on the spot.

I quietly excuse myself from the room. Their reunion is a private thing that I don't need to witness. Murmurs and sniffles drift their way upstairs, and although I can't hear what they're saying, I can hear their murmured conversation.

I take a deep breath and lie back against the bed.

Nate has hurt us. A lot. But he was just a kid when he left, and that has to count for something.

I find myself wondering more about what happened when he left. Those are the pieces of his life I don't know about, and I really want to learn. Who did he run into that gave him drugs? Who helped him get sober? What made him come back?

But it's not my place to make him relive the memories that might be painful. So I resolve to get through senior year. Nate has been civil, but there is a big elephant in the room that neither of us have addressed yet; why he disappeared so suddenly, and why he came back just as quickly. And we can't move on until one of us addresses it.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

It's well past midnight and I'm craving a slushie from the gas station. I slip on jean shorts and put a hoodie on over my tank top before grabbing my phone and stepping out of my room.

Nate's room is across the hall, and I walk past it. It's strange to know he's sleeping peacefully in his bed. Or maybe he's lying in his bed, scrolling through his phone. Or maybe -

Stop imagining Nate in his bed, I think to myself.

I walk the three blocks to the gas station. When I get inside, a girl my age works the register. She's vaguely familiar; probably in one of my classes last year. Her long legs are wedged into tight, black jean shorts; the tank top she's wearing is red and cropped and low cut. Several beaded and silver necklaces dangle from her neck. She looks up when she sees me, but goes back to reading the magazine in her hands. A cigarette dangles from her plump lips.

I walk through the aisles and select a package of Twinkies, the wrapper crinkling as I pluck it from the shelf.

I approach the register and slide the Twinkies over to her. "That'll be $3.98," she says. I hand her a five dollar bill.

"How was your night?" she asks as she fishes in the register for change. It's conversational enough, but her bland monotone voice suggests she's only asking it because she has to. I can sympathize; it doesn't seem fun spending your midnights during the summer working at a gas station.

"Shitty," I reply honestly. She cracks a small grin at that and hands me my change.

"Have a great night," she says as I turn to leave.

"You too," I say, pushing the door open and letting the cool summer night air wash into the too hot station. "Get home safe, okay?"

She nods, and then I leave.