Where You Are. J.H. Trumble

a few minutes first.”

      His guy. Hmph. Nic talks about all his friends like they’re his personal possessions. My guy, my girls. Tonight he’s hanging out with his girls—cheerleaders, all of them. And I’m not invited. I imagine they’re going to do girly stuff like paint their faces and their nails and talk about boys.

      He’s like their little mascot. I think it’s degrading; he doesn’t see it that way.

      That last part—the talking-about-boys part—sticks in my craw a bit. Apparently having a boyfriend and lusting after hot guys is not mutually exclusive. Sometimes I wonder what I ever saw in Nic. He’s cute, he’s funny, he’s smart. All true. And he’s gay. A definite plus. Beyond that, though, we don’t have much in common.

      He’s never even been to my house. He doesn’t do sick people, he told me once. But when I told him my dad was dying three days ago, he’d gushed and cried and carried on like someone had just run over his pet turtle.

      Nic does do drama.

      “Look, I made something for your dad,” he says. He pulls something out of his backpack and hands it to me. It’s a book, carved up with the pages glued together. Most of the cover and a good many pages have been cut away, framing the page beneath, which he’s painted over with something white that allows the words to seep through just a little. Some of the words are still completely exposed—a word here, a word there—and he’s circled them with a black Sharpie. My eyes trail across the page—you—are—loved. Off to the side he’s drawn a pink daisy with a yellow center and a green stem that weaves among the words. I turn the book over. On the back in red ink: B+.

      “Do you think he’ll like it?” Nic asks excitedly.

      Your B+ art project? “Yeah.”

      “Oh, good!” He kisses me on the cheek. “I gotta go,” he says, already backing away. “Can’t keep my girls waiting.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “You want to hang out tomorrow? I don’t have anything else to do.”

      He doesn’t wait for me to answer.

      I pull my car up next to a Dumpster and toss the book in.

      Andrew

      “One beer,” I tell Jen.

      She eyes me and nibbles on a tortilla chip. “Were you always this stuffy, Drew?”

      “Not stuffy. Just not stupid,” I say in my defense. “This place is crawling with gossips. I’d just as soon not be one of their subjects.”

      “Aaah, come on. We’ve been locked up with hormonal teenagers for four months now. It’s our turn to let it all hang out.”

      I laugh. “Sorry, partner. I’m not lettin’ nothin’ hang out tonight.”

      “You’re no fun.” She inches her chair closer to mine, then gathers her long blond hair and pulls it over one shoulder, twisting it in a move that I assume is intended to be alluring. I decide to change the subject.

      “So, what are you going to do with that novel when you finish it?”

      “I joined the Romance Writers of America. A hundred ten bucks, can you believe it? But they’ve got this special-interest chapter—Passionate Ink—for erotica writers. And I’m thinking . . . maybe my roommate had the right idea. She paid her way through college writing dirty novels. And, hey, I can write erotica. I’ve had sex.”

      I try not to grin too broadly as she goes off into a long, animated monologue about her publishing plans and pen names and the steamy scenes she wants to write. The music is loud—Journey, I think—and I lose some of her words in the beat.

      I find myself thinking again about Robert. Would he actually call? And why me? Maybe he gave his phone number to all his teachers. Don’t know, not going to ask. But I can’t help speculating. And I can’t help feeling that there’s something about me that’s more approachable than other teachers, some special quality that Robert intuits.

      “Pride goeth before a fall,” Jen says.

      Most of her chatter has fallen on deaf ears, but this little indictment somehow grabs my attention. I look at her, and she nods toward Philip, who’s making his way to our table.

      “He thinks he’s got this so under control,” she says, snidely. She grins widely up at him as he approaches. I’d like to warn him, but I can see it’s too late.

      “Hey, you two, what are you up to for the holidays?” he asks. He pulls out a chair across from us and sits.

      “Just hanging out with the family,” Jen says brightly. “I bet your kids are excited about hanging out with their dad for two weeks straight.”

      He smiles. “Actually, Diana’s got a honey-do list for me a mile long. It’s going to be a working holiday for me. What about you, Drew?”

      “I’m headed to Oklahoma to see—”

      “Hey, is Liz here?” Jen interrupts. “I wanted to ask her about her trip to Mexico.”

      Philip looks uncomfortable. He glances around the room. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her.” Then he gets up and tells us he’ll catch us later.

      “You are shameless,” I say to Jen.

      “He deserves it. He’s got four freaking kids at home.”

      “He’s a nice guy.”

      “He’s a douche.” Jen grins and drains her mug. “I’m gonna get another beer.”

      Chapter 4

      Robert

      When I get up Saturday morning, I find Aunt Whitney in the kitchen surveying empty cabinets and drawers. She has taken everything out of them and stacked it on the counters. And she’s obviously been here awhile; the old shelf paper is gone too, and new green spongy stuff has been precisely fitted to each shelf and drawer in its place.

      It’s just a shot in the dark, but I’m guessing Mom didn’t ask Aunt Martha Stewart here to rearrange her kitchen for maximum efficiency. She’s going to be pissed when she can’t find the manual can opener later.

      I take a glass and pour some milk. “Where’s Mom?” I ask.

      “Out running errands. I told her she should wake you up to do the errands, but she vetoed me on that. She acts like she can’t get out of this house fast enough most days.”

      No kidding. Can’t imagine why.

      “You want something to eat? I made your dad a breakfast burrito.” She sighs. “He barely picked at it. There’s still some eggs and bacon left. I could put one together for you.”

      I mumble a no, thanks, but take a piece of bacon anyway.

      “I think your dad’s asleep now.” She stoops to size up a bottom cabinet, then reaches up for a large saucepan and sets it on the shelf inside. “I think he was up all night again. He doesn’t like being alone, you know.”

      He wasn’t alone. Mom was right there in the bed next to him. It’s a slight, another tiny dig on my mom—the bad mother, the bad wife. They hate her—for getting pregnant in college, for dropping out, for marrying Dad, for supplanting them in my dad’s life, for existing. She’ll never be good enough to bear the Westfall name. I know that, and so does she.

      Aunt Whitney straightens up and leans against the counter. She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “You look so much like your dad did at your age. You should be very proud of him, Robert. He’s a very brave man.”

      I want to scream at her. How? Tell me how having cancer makes you brave or good or noble? But I don’t.

      Aunt Whitney sighs. “He would have been such a good doctor.” Her voice catches in her throat.

      She seems lost in