Shadow and Sunlight

"Nathan, that—that's great." Harold realized he was stammering, and pulled himself together with an effort. "Congratulations."

"Thanks." Nathan was beaming, as only Nathan could beam. Harold turned his face a little aside as they followed the waiter through the absurdly expensive restaurant where Nathan had insisted on dragging him. He wasn't sure what his expression looked like, and he didn't want his friend to see it.

It was foolish of him to feel envious. If asked directly, he would have protested that he was perfectly satisfied with his quiet, bookridden, computer-focused existence. And usually he was. But there were moments when he looked at Nathan—confident, charming Nathan, drawing people to him wherever he went—when quietness suddenly felt like utter isolation.

He didn't want to be the center of attention—would have loathed it, in fact—but it was times like this, times when he realized that Nathan had so much that he would never have . . .

"Oh, and we want you to be godfather, of course." Nathan's voice broke into his thoughts, causing Harold to look up with a start. Nathan was smiling at him across the table as he pulled out his chair. There was something open and completely disarming about that smile—something that took Harold back nearly a decade.

"Hey, what's that guy's name over there? Harold, isn't it?"

"What, old Four-Eyes?"

Harold continued to eat, stolidly.

"You're kidding, right?" A short bark of laughter from the first speaker. "This is MIT, Bob, remember? Half the place is four-eyed."

"That guy's a geek even for MIT. I don't think he's talked to a single person since he got here. Never does anything but read."

"You should try it sometime. Might learn something." Out of the corner of his eye, Harold saw the first speaker give the one called Bob a friendly shove. "Get lost, I wanna go talk to him."

"You'd talk to anyone," Bob threw over his shoulder as he walked away.

Harold didn't raise his eyes as the tall student with the easygoing manner slid into a chair across from him. "Excuse me—Harold, is it?"

Harold nodded, warily.

"Nathan Ingram." Nathan stuck out a hand. Too startled to know what else to do, Harold gave it a quick shake, looking up for the first time and taking in the open, disarming smile.

"I was impressed by the way you solved that equation in class this morning," Nathan said sincerely. "Wanted to ask you about it. There was one part I couldn't quite follow . . ."

Harold suddenly felt himself smiling back, an unfamiliar feeling. "It's simple, really," he broke in eagerly, pulling out a pen and starting to scribble on his napkin. "You start by taking the square root of . . ."

Harold blinked, realizing that Nathan was waiting for an answer.

"I—of course," he blurted. "Only—I'm not sure—what does a godfather even do?"

Nathan adopted an exaggerated accent. "Make-a him an offer he can't-a refuse."

"What?"

"Never mind." Nathan looked at him with the mixture of exasperation and fondness he usually used when Harold missed a joke. "I don't think it's too complicated. Give a hand with the kid sometimes. Give him good advice. Bail him out of jail someday, if he ever needs it."

Harold couldn't help but chuckle. "I think I can manage that much. But as for good advice, I don't know . . ."

"There's nobody I'd trust more," Nathan said sincerely. Then he grinned. "Who else could explain quadratic equations to him the way you could?"

Harold found himself grinning a bit too, as Nathan turned to order a bottle of champagne. The odd little ache of envy had eased inside him. It wasn't so bad living in a shadow, when his friend was willing to share the sunlight with him sometimes.