Us for Life - Feltson

Chapter 2

She was gone already, gliding away, down the boulevard in a black car, tinted windows, out of sight. Tom turned his back to the car as it drove away, walking in the opposite direction even though it wasn't the one that would take him home. He'd wander for awhile, in the dusk, sunglasses in the pocket of his jacket, smoking a cigarette as if it kept him alive. 

The wind coming in off the Pacific was gathering strength, still warm but brisk enough to lift his hair, tearing the clouds of smoke from his lungs away -- tiny breaths, nothing to no one. He swore to himself and crushed the butt of his cigarette into one of the ashtrays the neat, orderly municipality had put up all along the walkway. Bad guy indeed.

The truth was he lost Emma Watson ages ago. He lost her through his own hapless childishness -- which was not really anyone's fault. They were literally children, after all. But then he lost her through his own choices. And at last he lost her through her choices -- choices she couldn't help but keep making as she became more and more amazing, polished, whole. 

So she was going to make herself into a mother now. It had been coming for awhile. She would throw her entire self into it. No more last minute meetups with stragglers from her past. And all her talk tonight like she wouldn't find a man to step in as father in time -- it was rubbish. There was a whole family waiting for her, arriving in a matter of a few short years, months, possibly. This visit, this walk on the beach -- it was the end for them. Another end, the final one. Unless...

Stop it, Felton, just stop, he told himself.

He'd given her an opening, risked saying out loud that line about choosing a father from among the people she already knew. He'd spat it out of himself and let it hang like a puff of tobacco smoke between them. And she'd done nothing with it -- had no answer. That was his shot, and she let it sail past her, off into oblivion.

Where the hell was he? As he'd wound himself up, he'd walked faster and faster, and now he was farther from home than he'd intended to go. He'd worked through to the end of all his confusion and pain and left himself exhausted. Sinking onto the bench behind himself, he reached for his phone.

"Are you at the house?"

"Yeah, Bro. Why aren't you here?"

"Went out for a bit. Last minute thing."

"Woman thing?"

"Not so much. Can you bring me my board?"

"Dude..."

"Help me out. She asked me not to bring it and now I've wandered off and need some wheels to get back."

"Woman asks him to leave board behind, and now he's out roaming around like a lost puppy. It's an Emma thing."

"Dude, are you helping or not?"

Two cigarettes later he was coasting home, his jacket folded and slung over one shoulder, his sleeves rolled over his elbows. Most of the time, skating cleared his head -- cleared it of everything but this. That bloody interview over a decade ago where she'd sighed over his infant self's skateboarding prowess. She'd infiltrated this. He pushed hard against the pavement, as if to outrun something.

He tipped his ankles, curving in a wide, gentle arc into the drive in front of the house. It was dark now but he could still see the car sitting there, right where his friend must have left it after dropping off his board. Park it yourself, Felton. Serves you right.

Only this wasn't his car. Fine, one more round. He took a breath and stepped inside.

Emma was perched on a stool, leaning on the counter, laughing as his friend told her stories. She made a high, happy sound, like a chirp at the sound of the door closing behind him.