We drove Josh’s parents home in silence. It wasn’t until we pulled into their house that any of us even moved.
“Josh can’t know about any of this,” Cordy relayed for me.
“It stays between us,” Josh’s mom agreed.
I looked at his dad but his gaze was on his lap again.
I tapped his hand and when he looked up, I pointed to the box of pictures I’d taken with me. I lifted it between us and offered it to him.
Then he did something that seemed so out of place on him; he smiled, a smile just like his son’s.
He took the box from my hands.
Followed by my phone.
He tapped it a few times and then handed it back. “Thank you,” he said.
And that was it.
Two days later I got a message.
Unknown: Don’t give up on him yet. But don’t wait three years like I did.
37
-Joshua-
“So how’s things with Natalie?” Dad asks, sitting up in his bed sniffing whatever the hell Mom had just brought in for him. I chuckle as he places it on his nightstand next to my SK8F8 trophy. “Things are good. She Skyped with Tommy last night—says she misses the crap out of him. She’s only been gone a month.”
He shrugs. “Tommy’s an easy kid to miss. I missed him yesterday.”
“Well, I get to share him around now. I’ve got Chazarae and Rob and Kim—who’s not too happy about the new Tommy schedule, by the way—and now you and mom, plus I still want him to go to daycare so he’s around other kids, you know?”
“Makes sense.”
“Besides, he told me you gave him a chocolate bar before lunch.”
Dad averts his gaze. “That little… I told him it was our secret.”
“Yeah? I guess he’s only good at keeping the secrets he wants to keep,” I tell him, thinking about him and Becca’s secret language. He still won’t tell me what holding up one, two or three fingers means. I’ve asked, numerous times, and every time I do he asks about her. Where Becs? What Becs doing? I wish I could tell him, but I have no idea. So I tell him she’s out on adventures with her camera—because that’s what I hope she’s doing. Out there somewhere in the world, making adventures, living dreams, capturing moments that make her question life.
“He’s not the only one good at keeping secrets,” Dad murmurs, and I wonder for a moment if he’s thinking about Becca, too—about their little secret. A secret I’ll take to the grave.
I shrug, not knowing how else to respond.
“And therapy?” he asks.
“Same old. There’s really not a lot we discuss. I asked Natalie to think about dropping the clause. It’s just a waste of my time and money.”
He sighs but he doesn’t press on. Instead, he asks, “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Tommy and I were going to skate for a bit… thought I’d drop by to see if you were up to coming with but looks like you’re not doing too well.”
He throws the sheets off of him and sits on the edge of the bed. “Let’s go.”
“Mom said—”
“Son, I love your mother. For many reasons. Giving me you is the main one. But Jesus Christ, that woman doesn’t quit nagging. I go downstairs and it’s twenty questions about everything. The other day she tried to sneak in getting my temperature while I was sleeping on the couch.”
He waits for me to stop laughing before adding, “Sometimes I’m just happier in here staring at the wall and sitting in silence.”
“So what? We have to sneak you out of here now?”
“Leave it to me.”
I wait for him downstairs while he gets changed and when he comes down the first thing he says is, “I’m going out, Ella, and I don’t want to hear it.”
She pauses half way through pulling a Lego out of Tommy’s pants. “What do you mean you’re going out? What’s the weather like? Did you eat? Have you gone to the bathroom? What are you wearing? Who are you going with? What are you doing?”
My dad looks at me, his hands on his hips and his eyebrows raised. “Told you,” he mouths.
I stand up, laughing under my breath. “Ma, we’re just going to skate. I’ll take care of him. Promise.”
She walks to the entryway and opens the closet, then pulls out his wheelchair and coat. “He has to be in the chair,” she says. “He gets too tired too quickly and it’s not good for his immune system if he catches a cold and—”
“I’ll sit in the damn chair,” Dad shouts, sitting in the damn chair.
“Damn chair!” Tommy yells.
I cringe.
“I’ll make you boys some lunch,” Mom says, fussing with his coat.
“Ella! We’re grown ass men,” Dad grumbles.
“Yeah!” Tommy shouts. “We grown ass men.”
“You can’t say stuff like that in front of Tommy,” I tell him.
He drops his head. “Ah, shit.”
“Dad!”
Tommy laughs. “Ah, shit!”
“Dammit!” Dad mumbles.
“Dammit!” Tommy yells.
“Hey, Warden! What’s up?” Chris, the guy from the SK8F8, says from behind the counter at Deck and Check, the only dedicated skate store in town. I slowly release Tommy from my back as I walk over to him. “You work here?”
Chris shrugs. “Something like that.”
“Like a summer job?” I ask. “Aren’t you still in high school?”
“Just graduated and nope.” He leans back a little and nods a greeting at Dad rolling in behind me. “I own the store.”
“What?” I ask, surprised. “What happened to Aiden?”
“He wanted out so I bought it.”
“So no college?”
“Nah. Not my thing.”
“And your parents are okay with that?”
“My dad’s a TV producer, Warden. All the trashy reality bullshit you see on TV… that’s his doing. He didn’t go to college, he worked hard on the AV side and slowly worked his way up in the business until he was able to meet and talk to the right people. My dad doesn’t care for college. He thinks it’s a waste of time, and for what I want to do—I agree with him.”
I nod slowly. “So that’s why you used to follow me around with a camcorder? Your dad’s influence?”
“I knew you remembered me!” he says through a laugh. “What can I help you guys with today? This your old man?” he asks, dropping his gaze to my dad.
“Yeah, that’s him.” I introduce them quickly then say, “I just need to get my kid and I some new boards.”
He eyes me for a long moment but he doesn’t speak.
“So, I’ll just take a look around I guess.”
He nods, then moves around the counter and leads Tommy and I to the back wall where dozens of boards are on display. “So the online skate world kind of blew up after SK8F8. You were the number one topic. That must’ve been cool?” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
