12. Fern

Chapter 12

Fern

Mom comes up behind me at the table, leaning over my shoulder to kiss the top of my head and peek at my computer monitor. "You're doing work on a Friday night?"

I shrug. "I'm usually working working on Friday nights."

Mom pulls up the other chair at our small table for two. "I'm glad you have a bit more room in your schedule this semester. I thought you'd go do fun teenager stuff, though."

I try not to roll my eyes. "Mom, I'm 22 years old."

She winces. "Okay, okay. But still. Where's Thora?"

I suck on my teeth. "I think she's working the hockey game tonight. She got one of the bar stands that has a tip cup, so she was excited for that." Neither Mom nor I need to mention that I don't have other friends. Everyone from high school is either involved in their adult lives by now, with kids or full-time jobs, or else far away at their colleges, working weekend gigs to supplement their scholarships.

Mom tilts her chin toward the computer. "Well, what are you working on? I saw you smiling at the computer when I came for a drink of water."

I flush. "I was working on a paper, but then one of my math students was in the forum asking for help."

Mom tilts her head, looking at me strangely. "One of your students, hmm? What's that about?"

I wave a hand and close the computer. "He's someone I knew from before … one of the regulars at Fuel Up. It's been … weird having him in the class."

Mom frowns. "Fern, I don't need to tell you what can happen if you lose yourself to a man."

I press my fingers into the scratched surface of the table. We've had it as long as I can remember, and I'm pretty sure it came to us nicked and scuffed. "You don't need to tell me again, no. And like you said, Mom, I live like a monk. So, there's nothing to worry about."

Mom crosses her arms. "It's not that I don't want you to go out and experience dating and love and adventure." She sighs. "It's just all so … fragile. You know? Like there's only a tiny icicle between having a good time and making a choice you can't unmake."

I nod. We've had this conversation a lot. Too many times. This conversation is why I work so hard at my studies, but it's also why I went wild on New Year's Eve, and now I'm having to pretend like I'm not a hot mess every time I see or even think about Wyatt Moyer.

I sigh. "I'm going to go to bed. I love you."

I reach for her hand, and she squeezes mine. "Love you, too."

In the morning, I feel restless in our apartment. Mom is at work, and Thora is most likely still asleep. I take the train downtown and grab a bus to campus, head into my usual spot in the library, and freeze in my tracks when I see the very cause of my unsettled state.

Wyatt sprawls in a chair by the wall of windows overlooking Forbes Avenue. His long legs, clad as usual in gray sweats, seem to take up the entire floor. He wears a university t-shirt despite the January chill, and his baseball hat is tugged low over his eyes. His dark hair peeks out a bit from the edges of the hat. I wonder if he's due for a cut or just likes it shaggy that way. And I can't be wondering such things about one of my students.

I pause and look around, trying to find another place to sit and get some work done, but something causes Wyatt to look up, and his eyes catch mine. I have one of those moments where the rest of the room fades away, it's like I'm peering down a tube. All I can see is Wyatt, framed by bright daylight, smiling at me.

"Fern! Hey."

I nod and look over my shoulder again. Now that he's seen me, is it rude if I don't sit near him? Instructors sit in libraries with their students. I've done it myself lots of times. I sigh and walk toward the seat next to him, opposite a low table with just enough space for both our notebooks. "Hi yourself. I don't usually see you here …"

He shakes his head. "Well, technically, I'm supposed to be at cardio this morning, but I have a meeting with my agent later, and … you probably don't care about any of that. Sorry. Hi."

I swallow and tuck my hair back behind my ears even though none of it had come loose from my ponytail. I wish I had tried a little harder with my appearance today, but I'm in old jeans, an old bar t-shirt, and a huge sweater that probably has holes. "I don't mind. Will you get in trouble for missing cardio? With the team?"

Wyatt sets his book down on the table. I see that it's the same one he was reading a few weeks ago, when I met him. But now he's nearly done with it. "I won't get in trouble, no. I would have entered the MLS draft and been gone from here, but I have some shit I need to finish up." He shakes his head. "That's not what you want to hear about, either."

I fuss around with my bag, pulling out my pencil sharpener and scrap paper I rescued from the recycling bin in my classroom. "You mentioned a hard time changing your name. What's the problem with that?"

"You really want to know?" Wyatt leans forward toward me like he really wants to tell me about this, like he needs someone to listen.

"Sure. I'm a pretty good problem solver."

He laughs. "Yeah, that's true. Well. Like I said, my bio dad is a piece of shit. My step-dad has always wanted to adopt me, but dirtbag wouldn't relinquish his parental rights. It was a whole fucking thing my parents dealt with for years." His face shifts, like the memories make him uncomfortable. "I couldn't get a passport. You need both parents to sign for that to leave the country. So, my whole family couldn't travel unless they left me at home. Which, to their credit, they never once complained about where I could hear them." He puffs out a breath. "But my parents are both heavily involved with the national soccer teams, and Dad competed in the Olympics a few times…Mom coaches all over Europe. They always had to leave me and my sister home with family."

"You have a sister?" I'm not sure why this is what I latch onto in that whole heartbreaking story, but the rest of it is so foreign to me. A family that competes internationally in sports? Forget about it. My dad can't even hold down a job.

Wyatt nods. "Birdie. Yeah. She's an elite soccer player, too. Anyway, the second I turned 18 we got the passport sorted out. But I wanted to change my name, to be like the rest of my family." He bites his lip, scooting his chair closer, like someone might be listening to him. "I went to try and do it myself, and they make you run an ad in the newspaper that you're changing your name and offer a number if someone objects."

"What? That's nuts." I never heard of anything like that. "My mom didn't have to do that when she married my dad…not that that lasted longer than a few seconds."

Wyatt waves a hand. "If you're married or divorced, it's easy. But otherwise, they think you're trying to avoid credit card debt, so you have to go through hoops. I didn't hoop properly, and I wound up poking the bear."

I frown. "Your bio-father, you mean?"

He nods. "Yeah." He groans. "It's so dumb. I called him thinking–I don't know. That we'd be buddies or something? I wanted to tip him off that I was changing my name."

I shrug. "That doesn't sound dumb. I always hoped my dad would be my buddy, but I gave up trusting that he'd ever show up when he said he was going to."

Wyatt drags a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, once Nick caught wind of what was happening, he started threatening me."

A chill runs through me, and I hug my arms to my chest. There's something about the look in Wyatt's eye: this big, muscular athlete with a wealthy family and resources being scared of someone. "What did he say?"

Wyatt shakes his head. "I'm not getting into all that. I just can't have him stirring up shit for my parents. That's what he'd do, mostly. Create bad press. Tell lies. Drag my mom's name through the mud again." He sighs like the weight of the entire library is crashing down on his strong shoulders. "She worked too hard to get away from him and make something of herself, to get me away from him."

I bite my lip and tap my finger on my lap. "But you're kind of a big deal athlete, from what I hear."

He grins at this. "You've been hearing stuff about me, Fern?"

I roll my eyes. "Knock it off. That's my point. People talk about you."

He nods. "Yeah, and every time they do, it's only a matter of time before they run a search, and news articles come up about poor Wyatt, the kid who had to be rescued by the police." Wyatt looks over my shoulder and out the window at the bustling city. Students pour out of the 7/11 and the Dunkin' Donuts. Tourists stop at a sidewalk cart to buy university t-shirts. Here, we're just two people under a lot of pressure, in different ways, trying to keep our noses down and get through it all.

A fist of anguish punches my heart, thinking of a little boy going through that again and again his whole life as that scary incident comes up in every news article about him playing soccer. "That sounds awful. The police thing."

He nods. "I was thinking maybe I blew it out of proportion in my mind, you know? But once I actually reached out to him … he showed me that I had it right all along."

I should hug this man. Student or not … he's hurting. Unsure what to do, I reach out and squeeze his knee. "You couldn't have known that he'd threaten your family. It's been years. I get why you thought he'd work on himself."

Wyatt puffs out a laugh. I grin. "I have fantasies about my dad going on meds or something. Getting a therapist. Getting a job… buying me a birthday card." I shake my head. "What will you do after you graduate? You said you have an agent?"

Wyatt swallows, and when he meets my eyes, he looks more vulnerable than I felt the night he took me home. "I'm trying to play internationally. But I need to sort out my name to sign my contract as Wyatt Moyer. It's important to me."

We stare at one another for a long time. "Can't your agent help with that?"

Wyatt groans and sinks lower into his chair, dragging a palm down his face. "He's my dad's agent, too. And my cousin's. Like I said, I can't have any of this impacting my family. It's something I really want to do on my own. Like … a lot of stuff has been handed to me over the years. It feels like the least I can do is sort out my legal problems."

I'm not sure what to say in response to that. I know family law is a horrifying ordeal. My dad hasn't even been unpleasant or vindictive, and it was still a nightmare for my mom for a long time. So much was out of her control, always. And she always felt like she was being scrutinized by the court. I can't imagine how much more stressful that would have been if my father had been abusive.

Neglectful, sure, but never abusive. I want to reach out to Wyatt, to gather him in my arms and tell him I understand. But that feels like crossing a line, so I just press my lips together and nod. "Thank you," I stammer. "For telling me all that. I won't betray your trust."

He nods, takes a deep breath, and stares up at the ceiling while he blows it out. Then he points at his notebook. "Feel like talking me through those problems again? I'm not feeling good about the exam."

A warm current flows through me at the thought of helping Wyatt, of working closely with him on the language of the universe. "Sure. Tell me where you're the most stuck."

We spend the next few hours talking through the various word problems and I figure out that Wyatt's been forgetting how to count negative numbers. I draw a few number line sketches on his scratch paper, and it's like flipping a switch for him. He solves the rest of the problems quickly and finally jumps to his feet, pumping his fist. "Hell yeah!" He holds his hand out, I think, for a high five, and I slap his palm tentatively. And then my stomach gurgles louder than his celebration whoop. "Oh, crap. What time is it?" Wyatt looks at his expensive smartwatch. "Want to go grab lunch? The least I can do is buy you a sandwich for helping me on a weekend."

I wave a hand. "I packed. And you don't need to thank me. It's my job to help."

Wyatt puts a hand on his hip, scowling down at me. "It is definitely not your job to help on a Friday night or a Saturday. Come on." He beckons with his hand and reaches for my bag. "We can have a very public sandwich. You can tell me about your …" He glances down at the notebook I never even cracked open. "… trigonometric identities. What does that mean, anyway?"

I open my mouth to explain, and he holds up a finger. "Tell me at lunch. Come on, Fern. Please?"

Then he flashes puppy eyes at me, and I throw all my reservations on the ground and stomp on them in my sensible, well-worn sneakers as I stand up to accept lunch with my student.