Page 41 of Courtroom Drama
I take in the tattoos above his elbows, all an endless stream of Damon trivia. I regard the intricate compass pointed due north along his right upper arm, which he told me last night in one of his notes is a matching tattoo with his dad, who is a fisherman and believes it to be a sign of good fortune. I’ve always held a soft spot for Mr. Bradburn.
Damon’s body is a map of his life and the people in it, a legend notating the important people and things and moments. Passion in this particular form, and on him, is undeniably sexy. It’s a new feeling to explore—outright sexual attraction to Damon Bradburn. I was attracted to him back then, sure. But it was more of an appreciation for him and exploration of what he meant to me, versus the escalating itch of craving I now find myself having to push down.
He takes his shoes and turns around, leaning against the counter. It’s a bit odd to see him now in person after a night of note passing. The list of material secrets between us keeps growing.
“You confident enough to take me on?” he asks.
“Definitely.”
He raises a chestnut eyebrow. “Great.”
Damon waits while I get my shoes and follows me to the bay of my choosing.
We end up sharing a lane with Cam and Tamra. The scoreboard reads:TAM,CAM,DAM, andSYD.
“When’s the last time you went bowling?” Damon asks as we wait for Tam and Cam to take their respective first turns. He sits beside me on the hard bench with the color and shine of cherry nail polish.
“I don’t know that I ever have,” I say, the realization hitting me. Another one of those things most people did for the first time in childhood that I somehow missed.
“Seriously?”
“You know how my parents were. We never did stuff like this.” I tuck my knee under my chin, watching his throat as he swallows.
He stretches his arm along the back of the bench, grazing my hair as it rests. I get a flash of the day he got his driver’s license, honking outside my house in his dad’s silver Tacoma truck. I was his first passenger. He stretched his right arm behind my seat as he backed out of my driveway, forearm pressing against my loose hair. My stomach fell through a trapdoor at the excitement of it all that day, at the notion that Damon and I could go places freely. Anywhere. Everywhere.
He doesn’t immediately speak, but his eyes offer anI’m sorryin their squint and quick release. Eventually, he says, “I guess part of me hoped they’d change after everything.”
I shake my head. “It meant I could go get into serious trouble without anyone caring, though. Sex. Drugs. Robbing banks. I did it all after your family left.”
He huffs. “You didn’t do any of those things.”
“No. I read. Watched TV. Got good grades. Tried to be invisible but worthy of their attention at the same time.”
His eyes flash with something like guilt. A week ago, I would have gladly welcomed guilt from him. Now, I don’t want him to carry any of it.
“Thus your love of reality TV and Margot Kitsch was born,” he says.
I’m dying to know what he thinks of Margot, of the case. I’ve been wondering since that first day. But I can’t ask him outright.
“What about you? When’s the last time you went bowling?”
“With my parents and Kara. After everything happened, they leaned into being the quality time types.”
“Oh?” My chest burns. I think about how his family dynamic changed. How mine didn’t. “What was that like?”
He considers for a moment. “It was okay. I think it was mostly for Kara, I guess, to have us all spending time together. I found it incredibly performative. Though we could definitely get a bit competitive. Don’t ever play Monopoly with us.”
“Deal.” I evaluate Damon, reality surging through me. I cannot imagine being particularly welcome at any Bradburn family game night.
I used to wonder if his parents stayed together all these years. My assumption was always that they would, that they would make it. Something inside me is pleased with the notion that they did. And this casual conversation about our families, well, a big part of me is astonished by it. Does this mean we’ve both gotten over it all? Or does it simply mean we’re ignoring it? Either way, I’m at least momentarily content.
“Damon, you’re up, man.” Cam points to the scoreboard, where Cam and Tamra are tied with eight points each.
I slide forward on the bench as Damon approaches the line with his ball. He bends, swoops the ball forward, and earns a strike. He strides back to me and takes the seat by my side, his arm returning to the back of the bench. I think of him in middle and high school, how I’d watch him play lacrosse. How he moved with such ease, innately athletic and staunchly capable.
“It’s really annoying how naturally good you are at everything.”
He turns to face me, though he doesn’t affirm or deny.
