Chương 15
Ethan had repaired nothing on it.
There was nothing to repair.
He brought it from the garage.
Noah turned it in his hands.
“Can we buy another one?”
“Absolutely.”
“The expensive one?”
“Nice try.”
Noah smiled.
Two weeks later, Margaret invited Ethan to lunch.
Not a barbecue.
She made that very clear.
They sat inside at her kitchen table with sandwiches from a deli.
Ryan was not there.
Brad came by briefly to return a ladder and apologized again for sending the video.
Ethan told him he accepted the apology.
Brad looked suspicious.
“That easy?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
They shook hands.
Then Brad said, “For what it’s worth, I should’ve stepped in before you did.”
Ethan looked at him.
“You froze.”
“Yeah.”
“So did everybody.”
“I keep thinking about that.”
“Me too.”
Brad picked at a crack in the ladder’s plastic cap.
“I heard the threat.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know.”
Brad flinched.
Ethan sighed.
“Sorry.”
“No. You’re right.”
“I’m not trying to punish you.”
“I know.”
They both stopped.
Then laughed.
Brad said, “We have got to stop saying that.”
After he left, Margaret carried plates to the sink.
“You forgive him?”
“Brad?”
“Yes.”
“Mostly.”
“Ryan?”
“No.”
She nodded.
Ethan looked at her back.
“Do you?”
She turned on the faucet.
“No.”
That surprised him.
“You still answer his calls?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
Margaret rinsed mustard from a plate.
“Because forgiveness and answering the telephone are different things.”
He considered that.
“You always talk like that?”
“Only since everyone decided I’m supposed to be wise.”
“You started that yourself.”
“Probably.”
She dried her hands.
“Ryan started counseling.”
Ethan said nothing.
“He asked me to tell you.”
“Why?”
“I think he wants credit.”
“That sounds like him.”
“Yes.”
“You giving it to him?”
“A little.”
Ethan smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Margaret sat across from him.
“He sold the car.”
“That was fast.”
“The lender was going to take it.”
“Less noble.”
“Most human decisions are.”
Ethan looked toward the backyard through the sliding door.
The grill stood covered beneath a black vinyl tarp.
“Is he moving?”
“Smaller apartment.”
“Job?”
“Interviewing.”
“Good.”
“You don’t have to mean that.”
“I do.”
Margaret studied him.
“I don’t want his life destroyed.”
“No.”
“I just don’t want him near Noah.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
He pointed at her.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
She laughed.
In September, Noah started playing hard again.
Not all at once.
For two games, he checked where every parked car was before warmups.
For another week, he stopped chasing balls that rolled beyond the sideline.
His coach never made an issue of it.
Then, during practice on a cool Thursday evening, Noah chased a pass too far.
The ball crossed the line.
Rolled down a small slope.
Bumped into the front tire of a parked SUV.
Ethan watched from the bleachers.
He felt his whole body tense before Noah’s did.
The driver’s seat was empty.
Noah stood twenty feet away.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then he walked to the ball.
Picked it up.
Looked at the SUV.
Put the ball down again.
Kicked it back toward the field.
Not hard.
But not carefully either.
He ran after it.
Ethan released a breath.
Lauren, beside him, said, “You saw that.”
“Yep.”
“Don’t make a big deal.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were about to.”
“I literally did nothing.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is private.”
“It is visible to the public.”
He smiled.
They watched the rest of practice.
On the drive home, Noah did not mention the SUV.
Neither did Ethan.
In October, Ryan wrote Noah a letter.
It arrived at Margaret’s house because Ryan did not have Ethan’s permission to contact them directly.
Margaret called first.
“You want it?”
“What does it say?”
“I didn’t open it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s addressed to Noah.”
“You used to open my mail.”
“When you were eight.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you want it?”
Ethan thought.
“Yes.”
He picked it up that evening.
The envelope was ordinary.
No return address.
Ryan’s handwriting had always leaned forward as if even his letters were impatient.
Ethan took it home.
He did not open it.
When Noah came over Friday, Ethan placed it on the kitchen table.
“This is from Ryan.”
Noah stopped.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Can you?”
“If you want.”
Noah stared at the envelope.
“What if it’s mean?”
“Then you don’t have to read it.”
“What if he says sorry?”
“Then you decide what that means to you.”
Noah sat down.
He slid one finger beneath the flap.
The letter was one page.
Noah read silently.
His face barely changed.
When he finished, he handed it to Ethan.
“You can read.”
Ethan did.
Ryan had written:
Noah,
What I did with your soccer ball was wrong. What I said to you was worse. You didn’t damage my car. Even if you had, I had no right to scare you.
I was angry about things that had nothing to do with you, and I acted like they did.
Your dad did not make me say what I said.
Your grandma did not make me say it.
You did not make me say it.
I did.
I’m sorry.
I don’t expect you to write back.
Ryan
Ethan read it twice.
Noah watched him.
“Well?”
Ethan folded the paper along its existing crease.
“I think he means it.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Noah smiled faintly.
“You say that a lot now.”
“Trying something new.”
Noah took the letter.
“Do I have to forgive him?”
“No.”
“Can I later?”
“Yes.”
“Can I not?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
Ethan leaned against the table.
“I don’t know yet.”
Noah nodded as if this answer finally made sense.
He carried the letter upstairs and put it in the drawer beside his bed.
Not on display.
Not in the trash.
Three months after the barbecue, Margaret asked Ethan whether Ryan could attend Christmas dinner.
Ethan said no.
May you like
She did not argue.
That hurt more than an argument would have.
