“Honestly? I think it’s human,” he says, his thumbs circling my foot again. “Either way…I think it’s okay.”
We don’t talk about it anymore, and after a few minutes, Nate picks up his books and hauls them back to his room. He has early workouts in the morning, and we’re leaving for his parents’ house later in the day, so he said he wanted to let me really focus to finish up my paper. And in my gut, I felt a little pang over him leaving, like there was something else, something unspoken. He didn’t want to be here. But I also didn’t fight to make him stay. That small conversation put something in both of our heads. And I was thinking about Josh tonight…more than I wanted to.
Plane rides were definitely better with Nate. It took about three hours to get to New Orleans, and another hour or so to get from the airport to Nate’s parents’ home in Baton Rouge. Their house isn’t large, but it’s old. The grass out front seems to stretch forever until you get to a porch flanked by white posts and stretching the entire expanse of the home. It’s yellow, like sunshine, and with the sun setting behind it, I swear I’ve stepped into a postcard.
“I love your home,” I say, and I realize it comes out kind of corny, like the thing you’re supposed to say to be polite. But I mean it—I really love his home. It feels like I fit here. I keep that part to myself, though, because that sounds crazy.
“Yeah, I guess it’s nice,” Nate shrugs, lifting our bags from the back of their family van. Nate’s father picked us up from the airport, which made it nice since there were three of us. Nate pulls Ty’s chair from the back and unfolds it next to the van; I watch as Ty lifts himself into it. The move takes seconds, and I wonder how long it took before it was easy.
“Your mom ordered pizza; I hope that’s okay,” Nate’s father says as he pushes Ty’s chair up the sidewalk to the ramp at the side of the porch. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Ty not push himself, and when I realize I’m staring, I shake my head and look away quickly, hoping nobody noticed.
“It makes Dad feel good to do it sometimes,” Nate whispers into my ear. I just mouth oh and smile.
Pizza was the perfect idea after our trip, and maybe I was just starving, but the slices were gone from my plate in minutes. With dinner done, Nate pulls our bags to the bedrooms down the hall, and he gives me a quick tour of his family’s home. The living room and kitchen are one big room with a giant stoned fireplace and a TV mounted to the wall above it. The floors are long, wooden planks, and every wall is adorned with a collection of family photos or art. I notice a few paintings in the kitchen—signed by Nate’s mom, Cathy; I wonder if the others were done by friends.
“I like these,” I say, running my finger along the bottom of an ornately carved frame.
“Thank you,” Cathy says, coming up behind me, her hand on my shoulder in a way that feels nice—like acceptance. “I painted them in college.”
“What about these?” I ask, motioning to the ones I know are done by someone else.
“Those,” she starts, but pauses, her face sliding into a large smile. “Those are Ty’s.”
“You’re kidding!” I’m unable to mask my surprise. I get closer, and I can recognize the signature now, and I’m blown away. The paintings are oils. Abstracts, but full of color, the shapes almost making something recognizable, but always not quite—they remind me of dreams.
“He still paints sometimes. For fun,” she says, turning to look at Ty who is lost in some basketball game playing out on the TV while he talks with his dad. “My boys are full of surprises. I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen everything they’re capable of yet.” She watches him with pride in her eyes for a few seconds before taking a quick deep breath and turning her attention back to Nate and me. “Come on, let’s get you settled in your room.”
The Preeter home is one big circle, with a hallway that starts and ends in the family room, looping around to four bedrooms—all with views of the big yard and giant trees that surround the back of the house. My room is next to Nate’s, and I can’t help but wonder if he’ll sneak in to see me at night. I sit down on the full-size bed, and I can tell the lavender quilt was washed recently, the smell of fabric softener still strong in it.
“This is lovely,” I say, wondering where this sudden formal version of myself is coming from. Nate mocks me behind his mom, mouthing the word lovely and holding his hands up to his face with wide eyes. I glare at him, and he laughs silently.