Page 92 of What Boys Learn

Rita gestured ahead of us, where a fast-moving mob of black surrounded a small blond figure. “Good luck.”

Geneva was almost to a black car parked at the curb when I heard a familiar voice say, “Anything I can do. Anything at all.”

I sidestepped two elderly people in time to see Curtis kissing Geneva on both cheeks while she gripped his hands. “You’ve already done so much. Jack and I failed you.”

“Of course not,” he said.

As her petite head disappeared into his chest, several onlookers discreetly stepped away, realizing this would be more than a quick, obligatory hug. When they separated, Geneva’s face was slick with tears. A moment later she was hustled into the car’s back seat by a younger woman. I’d lost my chance. In any case, I was too surprised to speak. Curtis had never said anything about knowing the Mayfields.

I was surprised, halfway down the block, when I heard Curtis calling for me to wait up.

“Going home?”

“Yes.”

“Your car—?”

“No, I walked. I knew the parking would be tricky.”

He caught up and gripped my elbow—a touch that gave me an unexpected electrical zing.

“Those shoes can’t be the best for a long walk.”

“They’re all right.”

“Nonsense,” he said, pointing to a bright orange sports car parked on a small paid lot across the street. “My car. I’ll drop you.”

The first surprise, or rather second, coming after the Mayfields revelation, was that Curtis had a flamboyantly decked-out metallic orange Jaguar; his plain white SUV was in the shop, he told me. The next surprise was that he suggested lunch at Ray’s rather than heading directly home.

“Funerals hit me hard,” he said, uncharacteristically frank. “Maybe it’s because I expect the next one to be my father’s.”

“And it’s gotta be harder when you know the family.”

He took my pointed comment in stride. “Now you know. Jack and Geneva were among the last of my client couples. I think my own divorce extinguished my brief zest for marriage counseling, so I returned to my specialty, helping young men.”

More candor. Was this flirtation or simply a softening, now that we were away from his office?

“I remember at the pool, when I first told you I lost two students,” I said. “You gave no hint of knowing either one.”

“How could I?”

True. I didn’t know why I felt like I had some right to understand his connection to the Mayfields. To change the subject, I said, “Benjamin didn’t want to come to the funeral.”

“No point in pushing someone when they’re not ready. Forcing kids to mourn the way we do is just another way to encourage deception.”

We caught a yellow light on Main Street and as Curtis brought the Jag to a smooth stop, I said, “You would have zipped through that if I weren’t in the passenger seat.”

“Absolutely,” he said, with a deep belly laugh. There was the Curtis I hadn’t seen since the pool, or maybe since college. Completely unguarded.

“I hadn’t pegged you as a sports car guy.”

“Bought it seven years ago during my midlife crisis, postdivorce. Typical, right?” He reached across to tap my knee. A second zing. I snuck a sidelong look at his face—the dark eyelashes framing kind eyes that first attracted me, years ago.

“If the worst thing you did was buy a fancy car, I’d say that’s pretty good.”

“You’re assuming the best. That’s generous.” He glanced over, smiling. “I did some healthy things, like losing the weight. I did some foolish things—indulging appetites long suppressed, one could say—as divorced men sometimes do.” He ran his fingers around the leather-covered steering wheel for a moment, eyes on the road. “I could have sold it, but the car’s a souvenir in a way. A way to remember. We all have those less stable times in our lives, but they pass.”

“Self-compassion is important,” I said, but he didn’t seem to hear.