Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

  Gemma.

  “You look so cute,” she squeals. “Are those shoulder pads?” She pokes my shoulders. I’m so thrown by her presence, which has blown up my vision of how this would go, that I simply stand there and gawk. The only thing about Gemma that’s changed is the new card attached to her lanyard that reads: event coordinator. “What have you been up to? Tell me everything.”

  I meet her wide, expressive eyes, holding my breath. And then I realize.

  I’m not here to quit after all.

  “I am here to tell you,” I say, voice quavering. My hands curl, nails biting into the plump flesh of my palms; the sensation is an anchor, keeping my feet flat on the carpet so that I can’t vacate my body. Then, with a steadiness I do not feel, I start over. “I am here to tell you that you hurt me. And that it wasn’t okay.”

  Gemma’s eyebrows jump up her forehead. “What? How did I hurt you?”

  “You were supposed to be my friend. But you tricked me, playing with my feelings, and after the truth came out, my hurt feelings still came second to yours. I am a person, Gemma. You treat other people badly. So I think somebody ought to tell you.”

  Her smile slips, lips parting in surprise. I watch her vibrant inner light go out.

  “I trusted you,” I go on, trying not to cry. It can’t be helped. I’m not sad about what she did anymore, but baring my emotions like this has me on the edge of myself, and I am so intensely exposed that the tears arrive without permission. “You lied. You embarrassed me. Used me. Took advantage of me. I don’t know how it ever got from you confessing you’d tricked me to us just pretending it never happened and you acting like everything was okay. Everything hasn’t been okay for me.”

  “I’m—” She’s sputtering. “I’ve already apologized—”

  If I let her interrupt, she’ll take control of this conversation and I’ll never get it back. Somehow, I’ll end up comforting her. “You wanted me to forgive you because you didn’t want to have to feel guilty anymore,” I say in a rush. It drops like an anvil, and she snatches her hands back from where she’s been wringing them in front of her, waiting to be held. Coddled. “Wanting to be forgiven isn’t the same as being remorseful.

  “I know you could be incredibly nice,” I go on. “You bought me a birthday cake. We went to the movies together. We went shopping. And that was fun! But I think the reason you went out of your way to be extra, extra nice was so that you could then get away with occasional cruelty. I never called you on it. I should have confronted you, but I didn’t, because even as the protagonist in my own life, my feelings came second to yours.”

  Her face is changing color, but the impossible has happened: Gemma Peterson is speechless.

  “I let you think that your apologies were enough, even though they were empty, and I could tell you didn’t appreciate the full extent of what you’d done, how awful you made me feel. I should have stood up for myself. The quick forgive-and-forget wasn’t fair to me.” My chest is unbearably tight. I do not feel lighter than air or that all has been made right with the world. Just the opposite: I’m tasting my breakfast all over again. The room spins.

  But this has weighed heavily upon my heart, and I persevere. “So here I am,” I finish quietly, “better late than never, to tell you that your forgiveness is not the point. You need to learn how to be a better friend. If you keep treating people like their emotions don’t matter as much as yours, like they’re just background roles in your life, you will end up all alone.”

  A pregnant pause follows, in which I expect Gemma to land on habits and gush apologies like she used to. Meaningless ones, because she wasn’t sorry at all—she only wanted sympathy.

  She does not apologize. Instead, she is angry.

  “Well, I am sorry you feel that way—” she spits, complexion going red and blotchy.

  I give her shoulder a mild squeeze. “You don’t have to say anything. Just sit with it, okay?”

  When I walk away, I look back once. She’s already walking away, too, in the opposite direction. She is going to go find the nearest person and complain about me, and garner their sympathy. There will be crocodile tears. I’ll be the villain in her story for a while, but then hopefully, as time passes, what I’ve said will sink in. Maybe not consciously. But maybe she’ll start to do better by others. That is going to have to be enough for me.

  Out in the parking lot, I find Wesley pinning my hotel brochures under somebody’s windshield wipers. Little pink rectangles wave in the breeze on every car in the first two rows. He revolves to take me in, squinting against the sunlight. “Well?”

  I sigh.

  “Didn’t talk to my old boss. Didn’t give the middle finger to Christine.” I hang my head, still nauseated. My skin is overheated yet clammy, my arms and legs weak. Not at all how I thought victory would feel. “So. Didn’t exactly go down in spectacular flames like I set out to.”

  Wesley tips my chin up with one finger. One corner of his mouth lifts. “Of course you didn’t.”

  “You didn’t believe in me?” I return, half in jest.

  “Just the opposite. My Maybell is not a vengeful person. Her head is in the clouds because she can see the beauty in the world from up there. Going down in flames doesn’t suit.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, choosing to lean my cheek into his palm. At thirty years old, I am finally accepting that I am simply nobody else but myself. I will always only be me. A little bit naïve, a lot idealistic. In the regard of many, understated to the point of forgettable, and easy prey, because my heart is so large a target. But those who deserve to be in my circle will like me just as I am, and will treat me the way I deserve to be treated.

  “On to the next,” I announce, linking my arm in his. “It’s your turn now.”

  At that, Wesley’s tender expression falters. “I feel like your part of the deal was easier.”

  “Yeah, but yours is gonna be way more fun.”

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  IT’S A FIFTY-MINUTE DRIVE to the airport in Knoxville, in which we dream about what we hope Scotland will be like. We hope the weather will be sunny and the Loch Ness Monsters in the mood to be glimpsed by humans. We hope we won’t get stuck behind people who like to recline their seats on the plane. I am doing most of the hoping. Wesley is mostly nodding along to all my chattering and growing progressively more pale. When we park the truck and get our luggage out of the back, his face is alabaster.

  “Hey.” I rub up and down his arm. “Okay?”

  My brain zings in a billion directions. He’s mad at you, it suggests. You did something wrong. Did I? I scan for anything I talked about on the drive over that might’ve offended him.

  A darker thought creeps in: maybe he’s thinking about last night and regrets it.

  I study his figure, which hunches over slightly, and feel my forehead crease with worry. He was in such a great mood last night, or at least I thought so. Now I’m second-guessing. It’s possible that I was so preoccupied with how fantastic I felt that I projected my good mood onto him and didn’t notice he didn’t feel the same . . . except, that can’t be right. He was happy. He expressly told me so.

  After spending the night with someone, you don’t see them exactly the same way come morning. Sleepovers are a level unlocked in intimacy. I’ve been thinking we’re closer now, but what if he’s reconsidering me? Us? Going on a trip with someone you’re reconsidering being in a relationship with would certainly render a person pale and quiet.

  I overcompensate for his quietness by being extra chatty. “Little disappointed that the connecting flight in Chicago only leaves us an hour of wiggle room. We could’ve gone sightseeing. What are some good sights in Chicago? I think they’ve got an important baseball field there, if you like baseball. Probably some museums. Deep-dish pizza. Maybe we’ll find somewhere in the airport that serve
s deep-dish.” We wend our way through clusters of people in the busy airport.

  “This place is packed,” he grates, pressing himself into the side of the escalator we’re ascending as far as he can manage. A man bumps him with his bag anyway.

  “Sorry,” the man says.

  Wesley grants him a wincing smile and then faces straight ahead like he’s on his way to a guillotine.

  “Do you want to get some snacks for the plane? I think there’s a Cinnabon past the gates.”

  He responds with a curt shake of the head. A string of people pass us on the other side of the escalator and he guards me with his arm.

  “What about reading material?”

  He shakes his head again.

  “Wesley.” We step off the escalator, heading for security. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I think the pancakes are giving me an upset stomach.”

  “Oh, no.” I smooth a hand down his back. “I can go buy you some Rolaids.”

  “No, I’ll be all right.”

  “You sure?”

  He nods jerkily.

  “But are you totally sure? You look a little green.”

  He pats me on the top of the head, a little messily. “Shhh. Don’t worry yourself.”

  I am an idiot. I smack my forehead. “It’s the people, not the pancakes. You’re bothered by all the people!”

  If Wesley slopes his shoulders any farther inward, he’ll topple over. “Shhh!” he repeats, glancing erratically around. “The people will hear you.” We’re at the security checkpoint now, tugging off our shoes.

  “I won’t let anyone talk to you,” I vow. “Not that anybody would. I think most people just want to go about their business.”

  A woman in line smiles at us. “Good morning. Or afternoon, I guess. Just about!” She checks her watch. “I’m on my way to Miami. What about you folks? You flying together?”

  Wesley’s face becomes a mask. I’ve forgotten this Wesley: the one who clams up around strangers, whose default setting in these situations is to glare. I see this behavior now for the defense mechanism that it is, wanting others to perceive him as rude so that they won’t come any closer. He shows everybody else a lie, which is a real shame. They don’t know what they’re missing out on.

  “We’re flying to Scotland!” I exclaim.

  “Oh, that’s fun! What’s the occasion?”

  Wesley bristles. Don’t worry, I’m not giving away anything private of yours, I think, willing him to hear it. “Just want to see if it’s really as green as it looks in the pictures,” I reply breezily. He relaxes somewhat, but not all the way.

  The woman and I go back and forth a few times until it’s her turn to deal with TSA.

  “Okay, well, I’m sure the people in Chicago won’t be as friendly as the people in Knoxville,” I mutter in Wesley’s ear.

  He forgets to remove his belt when passing through the metal detector and fumbles nervously with the buckle while trying to get it off.

  “You all right, buddy?” a TSA agent jokes. The comment is lighthearted, but I notice the shell of Wesley’s ear turning pink and it makes my heart hurt.

  “Soon enough, we’ll be in Loch Ness and we can avoid everybody,” I promise him once we’re both in the clear. “Just you and me and the monsters.”

  We make our way to the plane, only one bag for carry-on. We’ve got his sketch pad inside, and for me, a ton of Mad Libs. I hate to keep asking if he’s okay, since I think it just makes things worse, but I can’t help saying, “You still want to do this?”

  “I’m fine.” He laces his hand in mine.

  Once we’re inside the plane, however, he freezes up. Right there in the middle of the aisle.

  “What’s wrong?” I peer around his shoulder from behind.

  He doesn’t respond, staring at the tiny seats. “There’s not enough room.”

  Right. He’s not a small person, and legroom is going to be a distant memory soon enough. “You can use up my space for legroom,” I assure him. “I don’t mind. Take my armrest, too.”

  We sit down. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply in and out.

  I don’t know what to do, how to make him feel better. All I can think is to hug his arm and rest my head on his shoulder. Other people are packing in, fitting their bags into the luggage compartment. Elbows and jackets brushing. Loud voices of parents instructing their kids. I dig in my bag for chewing gum.

  “Atmospheric pressure,” I say, offering Wesley a stick. I think he’ll smile, like we did yesterday when he offered me gum for our pretend trip into the clouds. But he looks miserable.

  “I’m going to throw up.”

  I stare, fighting panic. Wesley is miserable and I need to make him feel better but I don’t know how. “I think they have bags for that.” I rummage around for one, but he rises unsteadily to his feet.

  “Bathroom.”

  “Okay.”

  I watch him go, then turn back around in my seat. I’ll have to distract him during takeoff. Tic-tac-toe, maybe. I page through his sketchbook for a blank sheet and stumble upon a cartoon of two people in an old-fashioned elevator. The man is standing over the woman, body curving almost protectively, but he is smaller than I know him to be in real life. His profile is angled, hiding most of his front. The focal point is clearly the woman, gazing up at him, the only one privy to his beautiful face. He’s drawn a thought bubble over his head connected by three white puffs, and inside it, an explosion of hearts.

  I’m so absorbed in the illustrated Wesley and Maybell that I don’t immediately tune in to the This is your captain speaking. I don’t start really paying attention until it becomes clear that we’re about to take off. Right now.

  I’ve buckled myself in but unbuckle to get up. The flight attendant points at the lit seat belts on sign, and I say, “I’ve got to go get my—” I’ve never thought about him in these terms before, but: “Boyfriend. He’s in the bathroom.”

  The flight attendant frowns and bustles past. Opens the door. “He’s not in here.”

  “Then where—?” I break into a cold sweat, but she’s hailed by someone who needs help, so I’m on my own. “Wesley?”

  The plane isn’t that big. If he were here, he’d be able to hear me. If he heard me, he would respond. Which means Wesley is not here.

  I need to get up. I need to find him.

  But lucidity has fled, my legs have locked up, and I’m lost. How can I go find my Wesley when my legs won’t work and I can’t think straight? Where did I go wrong? I have to fix this. I have to move.

  Except I can’t, because the plane already is.

  Chapter 21

  I LAND IN CHICAGO AT 1:36 p.m. Alone.

  I don’t have the faintest memory of what I did on the plane. I don’t think I opened my bag to utilize any of the prepared activities. If I stared out the window the whole time, I don’t remember it. The next thing I know I’m in a vast, busy terminal standing outside of a duty-free store. Which is not where I need to be.

  I go through the motions of finding my gate, sidetracked by every man of tall proportion. I know that Wesley isn’t here, but I can’t help trying to find him, anyway.

  I wonder, as I’m boarding another plane without him, if he’s still in the airport in Knoxville or if he’s at home right now. I hope his stomach has calmed down, and that he feels better. I don’t stop to ask myself why I’m still here until I’m already in my next seat. I should have booked a flight home. What’s the point of going to Scotland now? This is Wesley’s dream, not mine. I’m just supposed to be along for the ride.

  When I turn my phone back on, a new text message pops up and relief surges over me until I see that the message isn’t from Wesley. It’s from my mother.

  Thinking about you! Come visit soon.

  I stare blankly at the screen. This is ordin
arily the part where I respond with Thinking about you, too! Yes, we need to make some plans.

  And then we never make plans.

  I’ve spent a long time feeling like I torpedoed my mom’s dreams, her future, by existing. But if I’ve learned anything from living with Violet Hannobar’s ghost, it is that life is short, and the single most important thing I will ever do on this earth is showing the people I love that I love them.

  You’re invited to come to my house this summer. Second week of August. Please know that you always have a safe place to stay if you need one.

  After sending the text, I pull a brown paper envelope out of my bag and lay it across my lap. My intention was to open it together with Wesley, but he’s not here and I desperately need to busy myself with something, anything, to avoid dwelling on what he may be thinking about right now.

  The fifth treasure.

  I slit the envelope open, a sheet of familiar lilac stationery tipping out.

  To my Mighty & Majestic Violet, Most Wonderful Wife, Everlasting Star, 1989 Blount County Fair Blue Ribbon Winner of Best Rhubarb Pie,

  And so you’ve reached the end of another treasure hunt! I don’t know how long it’s taken you to get here, or how many hunts you’ve completed so far. There are nine other maps hidden within the house and grounds. I hope you draw them out for years, and that each treasure makes you smile and remember me.

  I love you so very much. You are indomitable. An inspiration. I’ll be watching and cheering you on from beyond.

  Yours,

  V

  I lay the paper back down. I fold it in half, tears welling in my eyes, but then I see—

  There’s more. Different handwriting scrawls across the back of the paper.

  I love you and I miss you so much, you cannot imagine. I’ll wait to go on my next adventure until you and I can be together again.

  Violet knew where the treasure was.

  She’d found them after all.