“I brought a picnic!”
For the first time, he saw the basket in her hand. It was expensive-looking woven dark wicker with leather trim and brass hardware. They settled on a spot to sit as he struggled to find the voice that had come so easily that first night they had talked. He knew that if he spoke at that moment he could barely get out her name. He loved her name. Heather. So feminine, such poetry in it. Heather was his favorite name. He knew that much.
“Ants!” She emptied two-dozen small, black creatures out of a Ziploc bag. He almost recoiled before realizing they were made of plastic. She set them out across the concrete surface between them, playfully putting one on his shirt. He pretended he was going to eat it and she made a face, her eyes lovely saucers of mock surprise. That was progress, no?
“I saw your dad on TV,” she said. “Does he ever talk to you about his work?”
“He’s my step-dad,” John managed.
His step-dad was still convinced he was a druggie, all from a single night two years before when John had stayed out until three a.m. and had come home smelling like pot. Running with the wrong crowd, his mother put it. She sent him to a high-priced counselor in Montgomery. It was the only time he had smoked pot. But his step-dad was a hard ass and John felt forever branded. Druggie. Pothead. Addict. Two years and nothing had changed in his step-dad’s mind. Later, his first and only lover had told him how impressed she was that he had good judgment for someone his age, but what did that mean?
“So, Mr. Portland, how did you like the Northwest?”
“It was amped. I really liked it. They say it rains a lot but it doesn’t rain that much. It’s not like here, where you don’t see the sun for a month at a time. There’s so much to do, like all these indie movie theaters and a real local music scene. They have light rail and trains…” He felt as if he was running on.
“So you’re going back to Portland State? What does your mom think about that?”
“She hates it.”
“She’s thinking, ‘Why did we spend all that money sending him to Summit Country Day and he’s not already finishing Harvard?’ ”
Her laugh was a magical sound, making him laugh, too. She was right, of course. His mother was impatient with him and didn’t understand the Portland adventure at all. He had only spent a semester in college and didn’t do well. But looking at Heather, and beyond to the limitless blue Midwestern sky and electric green of the trees along the river, it was easy to put those worries away.
“I was accepted at Yale and Princeton and Stanford and, oh, Northwestern,” Heather said, ticking them off on slender fingers. By this time they were relaxing on the top steps, watching the people and the river. The sun gave her hair a rich, dark copper glow.