Page 16 of Courtroom Drama
And, perhaps equally compelling, he rides motocross. Back then, it was just an idea. One he’d tucked away in the safety of one of his letters.I DON’T KNOW HOW I’LL AFFORD A BIKE OF MY OWN. I’LL HAVE TO SETTLE FORRIDING SAWYER’S COATTAILS FOR NOW. BUT FROM THE TIME I’VE HAD ON HIS BIKE, IREALLY LOVE IT, SYD.
How easy it would have been for me to find these things out, I think. I’ve found myself ready to google “Damon Nathan Bradburn” more times than I’d care to admit over the years. But each time, something stopped me. I never felt prepared enough for what I might find. And after everything that happened back then, I shut down all my personal social media accounts and never returned.
I eat my three rolls, unsure of which of the many items rattling around in my brain to stew on—the disheartening details from the trial today, my poor showing in Cam’s silly game, or these particulars of who Damon is now, ten years removed from when there was an us. So, I vacillate between the three as I chew, wanting desperately to confront Damon about our past but equally content in ignoring it.
Eventually, Tamra heads to her room, and Cam veers back to the buffet, shoving brownies into the many pockets of his cargo pants.
Damon has finished eating, as have I, but we linger.
“Road signs, huh?” I ask finally.
He nods, leaning in. These are the first words I’ve initiated with him, and he seems slightly uplifted by the gesture.
I should get up and leave, but I feel compelled to ask, “The one a few months back on the 10 just outside Santa Monica, I think, that saidGET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR APPS AND DRIVE SAFELY?”
“That was me.”
“And the one when Taylor Swift was in town?THE OLD TAYLOR CAN’T COME TO THE PHONE RIGHT NOW. SHE’S DRIVING.”
His chin dimple twitches. “Also me.”
This brute-sized man beside me, who can only seem to shape his face into a barely there smile with great effort, writes the punny roadway signs that warm me near daily.
Better on paper.
We look at each other for a beat too long over the acknowledgment that I know his work, and that perhaps he’s even lifted my mood while stuck in traffic.
“Why do you hate hairless cats?” he asks.
“Why do you?”
He shakes his head. “Cats are too intelligent. I imagine them plotting against us all day long.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin and then places it on his plate. “Like they’re spies in people’s houses to learn the ways of us humans.”
“It seems like you’ve put quite a bit of thought into this, cats and their intended takeover of the world.”
“It’s worth the thought, isn’t it? If I’m right?”
“I feel justified in being more of a dog person,” I say, thinking of the reddish-brown indistinguishable mutt his family took in when his dad found it, scrawny and shivering, sheltering behind their recycling bin. Kara named her Phoebe after theFriendscharacter, having taken to the show at a really young age. Phoebe was a quick fan of me—not something I was used to, since I grew up pet-less and was unsure of how to interact with them. Phoebe would find my lap first regardless of who else was in the room. “Dogs go to whoever needs their love most,” Mr. Bradburn once told me.
Phoebe died of undiagnosed heart disease seven months later. A twelve-year-old Damon showed up barefoot at my front door, then cried silently with his head in my lap. It was the first time I’d seen him cry. It happened only once more—tears running along his cheeks—four years later when we said our abrupt goodbyes.
“Do you have a dog? Now?” I ask.
The corner of Damon’s mouth quirks up, and I struggle, as I always have, with where to look first: his peacock-feather-colored eyes or his twitching chin dimple. He shakes his head.
We fall silent, and I again contemplate getting up. This is the firstmoment we’ve been semi-alone, and there is so much to say. But I’m afraid if I start talking, I’ll begin to cry, and it will be a devastatingly embarrassing display of how much he still affects me. Besides, how would I explain a tear-inducing confrontation with another jury member on day one of the trial without conceding that we know each other as more than just childhood neighbors?
His voice clips my thoughts. “So was she everything you thought? Now that you’ve gotten to see Margot in person.”
I breathe deeply at the shift in conversation. I clearly can’t put off the superfan scent he’s caught onto. And at this point, I’d much rather talk about Margot than us.
“She’s beautiful. Even more of a force in person than on TV. What do you think?” I ask, trying to tread lightly and not talk about case details, just Margot.
“She seems... cold.”
Immmin noncommittal agreement. I thinkcoldis a word one might use to describe this new version of Damon upon first meeting. Or even the one who went from best friend to never speaking to me again in a matter of a few days.
“And you’re not?” I ask before I can filter the words. I can’t help the dig. I want to hold him accountable for abandoning me. Abandoningus. “It’s not that you have RBF, exactly,” I say, “because you don’t scowl. It’s more... frozen indifference, your face.” I say it teasingly, though I hope he picks up on the caustic undertone.
