I Hate to Stand Alone

by Casey Winter

  I look again at my phone, at the text Luke sent me. I’m here when you want to talk.

  It’s impossible, though. That’s the horrible truth. With our parents, not at loggerheads, at fricking boulder-heads, bomb-heads, atomic-this-is-never-gonna-work-heads … there’s no chance. I don’t want to give up. Really, I don’t. And kissing him in the parking lot, I truly believed that we could overcome anything together.

  But when Russel showed up, it was an acid reminder of just how screwed this really is. It corroded whatever foundation we might’ve built. It hurt.

  The doorbell jolts me from my thoughts. Mom sits up, yawning, rubbing at her face. “Qué hora es?”

  “It’s almost midnight, Mom,” I tell her.

  “Then who …”

  A reflexive thrill moves through me, despite the complications. Could it be Luke?

  “I’ll go check,” I say.

  When I open the door, I see Russel Nelson standing there looking odd, less aggressive, almost boyish. I’d slam the door in his face immediately if he didn’t literally have his hat in his hands, clasped in front of him, wringing it. His hair is combed. His expression is contrite.

  “Um, hello,” I say.

  “I’m sorry for calling so late,” he mutters. “I … I can come back tomorrow. But I’d like to talk to your mother, if possible.”

  “To insult her again?” I snap.

  “I deserve that. And a lot worse.”

  “She’s sleeping,” I mutter, softening my voice a little. “But if you want to come back tomorrow—”

  “It’s okay,” Mom says from the hallway, tightening her bandana’s knot. “We can talk now. What is it, Russel?”

  “I … can we do this inside, Teresa? Please?”

  When they use their first names, I’m reminded of the fact that our families were once very good friends. For years—even before Noah or I was born—they relied on each other as neighbors. They had barbeques and ran errands. Noah and I changed all that.

  Mom sighs. “Fine, yes. But if you raise your voice in my house, I will nail your testículos to the mantelpiece. Are we clear?”

  Russel smiles slightly. It reminds me of Luke. “We’re clear, alright.”

  “Okay, then come in.”

  I watch as though I’m in a dream when Mom and Russel walk into the living room, Russel taking the armchair and Mom the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. I lean against the wall. “Um, anyone want tea?” I ask. “Wine? Water?”

  “Tea, por favor,” Mom says.

  “Tea would be nice,” Russel mutters.

  “Okay, two teas,” I yell, way too loud. I can’t help but seem a little excitable, I guess. This is just so unexpected and strange. “I mean, three, because I might have one. Ha-ha.”

  I honestly don’t know why I say that last bit. It’s pretty odd, but, well, it’s not every day arch nemeses sit down for tea, is it? When I carry the mugs into the living room on a tray, I see that Russel and Mom are waiting for me. I sit next to Mom on the couch.

  “I thought you should hear this, too,” Russel says, voice catching a little. I’ve never seen the gruff, battle-scarred man like this before. “First of all, I want to say sorry, to both of you. To you, Teresa, because I took out my grief on you. I’ve behaved horribly. I’ve behaved unforgivably, maybe. And to you, Hannah, for disrespecting you, for making you believe that you and Luke could never be together. If you make him happy, and if he makes you happy … the past is the past. I think I need to tell myself that, too. Or I’ll never stop believing I killed her.”

  He killed her?

  “What?” I mutter.

  “Let me just start from the beginning,” he says, laying the mug down. “It’ll be easier that way.”

  He tells us about the tire tread and how Evelyn wanted to cook him a beautiful dinner.

  He tells us about his twelve-hour shift and how he blames himself for his wife’s death.

  As he talks, his eyes well up, but he chokes back his tears and wrings his hat so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t tear in half. It’s like watching a man transform in front of my eyes, a sort of reverse-werewolf situation. One minute, he’s this horrible, insulting jerk. And the next he’s just a broken man who wishes more than anything that his wife was still alive.

  “So I want to say sorry,” he whispers. “From the bottom of my heart. If I’ve got one.” He laughs grimly. Again, it reminds me of Luke. “I was angry and I was grieving. I had no right to take it out on you. No right at all. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I’ll rake your lawn, shovel snow, whatever it takes.”

  “Russel,” Teresa sighs, shaking her head slowly. “Don’t you think I regret that night, too? Don’t you think I’m haunted by Evelyn’s death? She was my friend. For years.”

  Russel swallows. “I know,” he mutters.

  “Don’t you think I blame myself?”

  “No, Teresa,” Russel says sternly. “Everybody has said the high-beams had nothing to do with it. It was my fault, not yours.”

  “But you didn’t know,” Mom snaps. “How could you guess she was going to go out? You can’t see into the future, Russel.”

  There’s a long pause. Russel removes his hand and picks up his mug of tea. Mom and I do the same, both of us sipping as we try to figure out where to go from here.

  “It sounds like neither of you are to blame,” I say into the semi-silence. “It sounds like it was an accident.”

  I’m letting myself hope, dream, that, maybe—just maybe—this could mean something for me and Luke.

  Perhaps we can be together.

  Mom must sense what I’m thinking. She gives me a knowing look.

  “It was never about you or Luke, dear,” Mom whispers. “It was us. We’re supposed to be grownups. But we made it all about ourselves. Me and Russel are friends now, you see? He’s going to be shoveling our driveway from this winter until his last. He’ll fill a thousand—no, a million—sacks with leaves from our lawn.” She smiles viciously. Russel grins, shaking his head, but clearly enjoying the banter. “You are free to do what you want, changuito.”

  “I agree,” Russel mutters. “I said the same to Luke. I think you two make a great couple, truth be told. And since it looks like our families might be friends, well, there’s nothin’ stopping you, is there?”

  “Except the past,” I whisper.

  Russel snorts. He traces the scar on his face. “This is the past, right here. Every time I look in the mirror, I could let myself relive the moment, let myself think about how I was discharged while my men fought and died without me. No, Hannah, leave the past where it belongs. Just ask yourself: What future do you want?”

  I’m taken aback by the passion in his voice. “Thank you, both of you,” I whisper. “It’s good to know that it’s in my hands now. I mean our hands. Mine and Luke’s.”

  “It is,” Russel assures me. He winks at Mom. “I think it’s time we butted the hell out of it, Teresa. Don’t worry, Hannah. I’m not flirting with your mother. The whole town knows she’s got her sights set on somebody else …”

  “What?” Mom cries, but she’s smiling.

  “A certain Hanlon …”

  “Jock?” I mutter in disbelief. “Jock Hanlon and Mom? She’s old enough to be his—”

  “Only finish that sentence if you have a death wish, girl.” Mom titters. “No, he’s talking about Bruce Hanlon, the dreamy, hunky pinchazo. It’s a silly rumor going around town because we happened to dance together at the Valentine’s party at The Jukebox.”

  “You kept this quiet,” I gasp in disbelief, remembering how Bruce defended Mom at Queenie’s barbeque.

  Does Bruce Hanlon have a crush on Mom?

  She waves a hand, seeming young and vivacious and so healthy I could weep. “It’s nothing,” she declares. “A silly little rumor because of some—what did Penny call it?—some bump’n grind.”

  “Speaking of Penny, I’m guessing you threatened her not to tell me.”

  “O
f course,” Mom smiles. “But, really, it is nothing.”

  “I’m just glad you two aren’t …” I nod at them, shivering. “That would make things very, very, very awkward.”

  “Oh, no,” Russel says. “You’re a lovely woman, Teresa, but I still love my wife. That’s the truth.”

  “Yes, no fear on that score, changuito,” Mom agrees. She turns to me. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “About Luke, silly.”

  “Oh …” I trail off, wondering if this is as WTF-weird as it feels. I’m having a relationship talk with Mom and Russel Nelson. “I don’t know. I guess we should meet up. I guess we should talk. It’s so funny. We started out hating each other, you know, or at least trying to. And then we—I don’t know, we grew close, fell for each other. Then you two drama queens came in the middle of us. I guess I’m not sure how we’ll function just being happy.”

  Mom pats my hand. “I think you’ll do just fine, sweetness.”

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Russel says, standing. “And it’s late. I think I’ll sleep like a baby tonight. It feels good, doing the right thing. Maybe tomorrow morning I’ll be able to look at myself in the mirror.”

  Once he’s left, Mom gives me an open-mouthed look. In Spanish, she says, “Who would have expected that, little monkey? Maybe we should buy a lottery ticket. Tonight it seems like anything can happen.”

  —

  Before I go to bed, I send Luke a text: Maybe we can get a bite to eat after the video shoot tomorrow? Xoxo

  I want to wait up for his reply, but, honestly, I’m just so tired. I collapse onto the bed like all my bones are turning to Jell-O. This day has been such a trip, from running into Luke in the parking lot, to having Russel yell at me … and then apologize to Mom. And now they’re friends.

  As sleep drapes over me, I think about how quickly things can move.

  Maybe it has something to do with this being a small town, because in small towns things are more concentrated, more … what?

  Pure?

  That’s probably not right.

  It’s more like, heck, there’s just not a lot to do, so I see Luke every day instead of every weekend or every few days. What would take six months in a city—seeing each other between the hustle and the bustle of city life—takes six weeks in a small town.

  Even if it seems fast, it also feels right.

  —

  When I wake up, I check my phone and see that Luke has replied. Sounds good, twinkle toes. I caught the fella that was vandalizing Family Roller last night, too. You won’t believe who it is. I’ll explain when I see you xoxo

  I reply: Okay, Mr. Mysterious. I’m guessing it wasn’t Jock, then? Xoxo

  I also have a text from Penny: Swing by my place for breakfast?

  She sent this at six in the morning, which is just oh-so-Penny. She’s the sort who either sleeps until gone midday or who’s up before the crack of dawn being super-productive when I’m still smearing sleep from my eyes.

  Only if you make me scrambled eggs.

  Deal. But your get your booty here ASAP.

  It’s seven thirty by the time I’ve showered and gotten ready, but Mom is already up, sitting at the window and with her easel open, painting. She smiles at me around the side of the canvas, without her bandana on, not seeming self-conscious about her patchy hair at all. It’s starting to grow back. Fingers crossed, she won’t need another round of chemo.

  “What are you painting?” I ask.

  She nods at the coffee table. I walk around the side and look at it, smiling. It’s a photograph of me and Mom when I was first born, Mom with her luxurious, long black hair, looking incredibly young and beautiful and healthy and happy.

  “Is it okay if I go to Penny’s for breakfast?” I ask. “I might skate down.”

  “You don’t have to ask for permission,” Mom chides lightly. “Look at me, as healthy as horse …” She winks. “And as pretty as one, too.”

  “Ha-ha,” I mutter sarcastically. “You’re way prettier than that, and we both know it. You’re a fricking angel. But I’ll only go if you promise to call me the second you want me to come home.”

  “Yes,” she snaps, giggling. “I have my phone right here.” She nods at the windowsill, a few inches from her. “Alejandra is coming over at eight o’clock, anyway.”

  “Okay. Well, I love you. I’ll be back at like nine or half nine. I’m pretty sure Penny has her creative writing class today. And school will be starting again soon, so she has to get everything ready for that.”

  “It’s been an interesting summer,” Mom mutters.

  “That’s like the biggest understatement in the universe, but, yeah.”

  I put on my skates and soar down to the modern apartment buildings. I check my phone twice, but there’s no response from Luke. I wonder who the vandal is, if it isn’t Jock or Will or somebody they hired. But then, Will and Luke have become sort of friends. That’s what Bruce told me when I ran into him at Barry’s last week, anyway. They’ve been training martial arts together. But still, if not a Hanlon, who?

  I call Penny when I’m outside her place. She buzzes me in, and I walk upstairs in my skates.

  As usual, her apartment is an organized bombsight, paper and hastily-scrawled notes and paperback novels scattered all over the place. But she’s cleared a space for me at the small table near the kitchen-living room partition. I sit down, stretching my legs out.

  “Are you going to try and discipline me, Banana?” she teases, peaking over the partition as she fixes the eggs. “I try and keep it tidy, I truly, sincerely do. But then some funky magic happens and I wake up to find it messy again. But I—”

  “Know where everything is,” I finish, grinning.

  She pouts. “Well, it’s true. Do you want ketchup with your eggs?”

  “You know I do,” I say.

  “You seem … happy?” she offers, bringing the pan around to the table and pushing the eggs onto my plate. “It’s weird not seeing you with a morbid, depressing, downer-of-the-week cloud hanging over your head.”

  “Jeez, thanks.” I laugh. “But yeah, I am, I guess. I mean, I don’t know yet, but I think me and Luke, we might—might—have a chance.”

  “What?” Penny drops the pan in the sink and soap suds fly everywhere. She runs back to the table. “Explain. Now.”

  “Can’t I eat first?” I laugh.

  “No,” she says flatly, sinking into her chair. “You can’t.”

  She looks at me. I’m guessing she’s been up for most of the night. Her eyes are bloodshot. For once, her red hair is down, tangled around her shoulders. She interlaces her long fingers and places her chin on them, glaring. “Well?” she snaps.

  Between mouthfuls of egg, I tell her everything that happened last night, starting with the parking lot and finishing with Russel’s apology.

  “What. The. Hell.” She gawps. “That’s craaaaaaaaaazy. I mean, well, it takes a lot to make me speechless. You know that, Banana. But I am. I’m speechless.” A moment’s pause, and she smiles. “But you’re right. This is huge for you and Luke.”

  “I’m seeing him tonight, at the video shoot,” I whisper, suddenly nervous. “It’s so funny, hon. But, like, when there were all these obstacles and stuff in front of us, I don’t know, it was normal. Like that was our status quo. I don’t know how we’ll handle just being together.”

  “I think you’ll handle it fine, babe,” Penny says. “You’ll have all these confusing thoughts and feelings and then he’ll hold you in his arms and kiss you and you’ll forget all about them.”

  “I hope so,” I mutter.

  “Of course you will,” she beams. “It’ll be just like a story.”

  “Not like one of yours, I hope,” I tease.

  “Well, unless he’s only been pretending to be Luke Nelson this whole time, and his ploy was to make you fall in love with him, and then kidnap you, then, no, probably not.”

  �
�Fall in love with him,” I repeat in a whisper.

  “Well—what?” Penny snaps. “You love him and he loves you. There’s no point beating around the bush.”

  “We haven’t said it,” I murmur. “I think we’ve come close a couple of times. But is it even possible, to fall in love with somebody in …”

  “Almost two months?” Penny says, looking at me like I’m being silly. “Are you crazy, Hannah? People fall in love in two weeks. Love is … okay, not to, like, remove the romance from it. But love is a chemical reaction between two humans to ensure that they stay together, you know, from our hunter-gatherer days. If it took too long it wouldn’t be effective.”

  “Okay, so you just failed.” I laugh. “Not to remove the romance from it, you said. Jeez, Penny, are you really that cynical?”

  “I’m not being cynical,” she protests, tossing her head. “It’s just the truth. It’s actually a good thing, because it proves that you and Luke most definitely are in love.”

  “I just don’t think you’d describe it like that if it was your relationship,” I point out.

  “Well, it’s a good job I’m never going to have a serious relationship,” she says matter-of-factly, looking sad for a moment. She laughs it away, waving her hand. “I’m slowly morphing into a crazy old spinster, remember? All I need is a few more years to get really unkempt and maybe two—no, three—dozen cats.”

  “You’ll find someone,” I say. “You’re smart, funny, talented—”

  “Screwed in the head …”

  “Stop it. You will find someone.”

  “Look at Miss Romantic,” Penny giggles. “Found love and now she’s an expert matchmaker.”

  “I think I do love him,” I whisper. Saying it out loud hits me like a mountain of bricks. “Jesus, Penny, I’m in love with Luke Nelson. Doesn’t that just sound like the craziest thing ever? It’s not just loneliness, it’s not just not wanting to go back to being a nomad. It’s not just that I hate to stand alone, Penny. It’s that I want—no, need—to stand with Luke.”

  “Are you going to tell him, then?” Penny asks, picking up a pencil and using it to tame her hair into a bun as she smiles broadly at me, as though silently cheering on my blossoming happiness.