by JL Mac
“Okay Momma,” I say throwing my arm over her shoulders, enjoying the final quiet moments of the waning light of day. Tomorrow I’ll be gone before the sun rises again on Palmetto Grove. When it does, I’ll already be thirty-five thousand feet in the air. But first, one last stop because, you know, Self-Loathing wants her pound of flesh.
Old Bayou Diner hasn’t changed much if at all. The scent of frying oil, hush puppies and lovingly prepared seafood rushes forward the moment I tug the door open. I’m immediately overwhelmed by the urge to groan with anticipation and cry under the weight of the memories assaulting me. Half of me was hoping the owner had updated the joint by now but the other half of me sags in relief that little bits of my teen years here with Sy are still alive somehow simply because this place is still alive and exactly how it was back then. My eyes drift over to the booth that I know for a fact has a R + S carved into the bottom of the tabletop. Being the glutton for punishment that I am these days, I drag myself over to our booth and sink down into the hard bench seat. I stare out the window and get lost in memories that flash so rapidly through my mind I can’t seem to grab onto any single one.
“Hon, did ya hear me?”
“Huh,” I jerk my attention to the waitress standing beside the table with her pen and pad in hand.
“A drink?” she asks patiently like I’m a child. She’s in her mid-fifties I would guess and would be prettier with less gaudy makeup caked on.
“Oh, yes, of course,” I shake my head willing myself to snap out of my fog. “What do you have?” I ask.
“Well, let’s see, we have Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, root beer, sweet tea, coffee, lemonade and water. And if ya ask me, which ya didn’t I know, but if you wanna eat well tonight, I’d go with the catfish basket. Those suckers are huge today!” She bugs her eyes at me and I notice them for the first time since she approached the table. One blue, one brown. A little whoosh of air rushes out of me as my eyes find the nametag pinned to her uniform.
“One blue one brown eye,” I marvel.
“Only all my life,” she smiles.
Kit.
“Kitty?” I mumble mostly to myself, my brain tripping over itself in disbelief.
To Rusty with a whole lot of love from your favorite blue and brown-eyed girl. -Kitty
My mind reels back to the message that had been left in the notes section of the iPod Sy and I found all those years ago. We made up countless theories about the little note.
“We met before?” Her eyes crinkle further at the edges, her mismatched irises searching my face for recognition.
“Is there any chance that you gave an iPod Classic to someone named Rusty about…” I stop to formulate a quick estimate of how many years have likely passed since “Kitty” gifted an iPod—our iPod—the iPod to “Rusty”—the same iPod that somehow wound up on the roadside where me and Sy found it. “Had to be about nineteen or twenty years ago. Ring any bells?”
Kit’s eyes go unnaturally wide as her face blanches. “My God in heaven how on earth do you know about that?” she whisper yells while sliding into the booth seat opposite me.
“Oh, Kit, it seems our paths have crossed before,” I laugh weakly into my folded arms on the tabletop, the sound coming out muffled and altogether pathetic. I go on explaining the lurid details to Kitty pausing when she has to escape to actually work for a moment which given the how slow the place is right now, isn’t often.
“So you see? That’s the iPod we shared, the one that started our little song game, the music we listened to, the memories we made. All with Sy and me and your iPod.” I twirl the straw in my watered down lemonade sending the last slivers of ice chips around to scrape the insides of the cup.
“Rusty’s iPod,” she corrects with a scornful tone making her hiss slightly.
“How did it end up on the side of the road?”
“I threw it out the cab window of his pickup,” she says proudly, thrusting her chin outward.
“Sounds like your story may top mine,” I deadpan. I lift one brow prompting her to spill the proverbial beans. She heaves a dramatic sigh and shrugs.
“Well, let’s just say we weren’t openly dating on account of him… well, he was still married, okay?” she rushes out, spilling her confession in a hurry with her painted fluorescent pink fingernails flying up into the air.
“Oh boy.”
“We didn’t mean for it to happen. It just kind of did. Anyway I had gone into Red’s Garage for a busted radiator on my old Buick and we just hit it off.”
“Holy shit. Rusty is Red?” Distantly, my subconscious self-cringes at the redundancy of that revelation.
“Yep. Everyone knows him as Red on account of that auburn mop of his but his family calls him Rusty.”
“Super original,” I muse sarcastically.
“Anyway, I bought one of those iPods thinkin’ he’d love it, ya know. Everyone was goin’ nuts over them,” she says rolling her eyes. “I gave it to him one night when we were sneaking out together. I was real proud of the time and effort I put into that gift,” she pouts.
“And,” I lead.
“And he just about bit my head off over it. Said his wife would find him having an iPod odd since he didn’t even own a computer or nothin’. Then he accused me of trying to get us caught so his wife would give him the boot which was asinine. I think he was just gettin’ bored with using me.” She visibly deflates.
“Wow, Kit. I still have the iPod. Turns out we both threw it at one point over a dumb man so it’s busted but I’ll bring it back to you if you want it.”
“Nah. What the hell do I want a broken hunk of junk for? Better yet, why are you holdin’ on to it?” she quips pointing one finger at me. “That’s the better question if ya ask me.”
“I don’t know why I have it.” I shrug and look down as I give myself a moment to mull that one over. We sit in companionable silence for a stretch.
“I have my momma’s piano in my garage. It’s no more valuable than firewood now. It got destroyed at momma’s house in New Orleans during hurricane Katrina but I hawked three diamond rings and a strand of pearls to afford the movers who carefully took it out of her house, loaded it into a truck, strapped it down securely, drove it here and moved it into my garage where it collects dust,” she smiles but her eyes mist over. “My momma had Alzheimer’s and hadn’t played that piano in a long time since she’d been moved to a nursing home once she couldn’t be left alone any more. She passed on three months before Katrina,” her voice thickens and she swallows hard. “She obviously can’t play the thing any more and she hadn’t been able to for quite a while before she passed away but she still plays in here,” she says touching her index finger to her temple and the palm of her other hand to her chest over her heart. “Sometimes even broken junk holds onto its value in the eye of the person who it belongs to, who made memories with it.”
“True. I’m glad you got your momma’s piano,” I say resolutely. “If I were brave, I’d do what you did and toss the damn iPod out the window. Let it go.”
“Sometimes it’s braver to hold on when letting go seems to be the better thing to do,” she muses, studying me in that way wiser women study younger, dumber women.
“Doesn’t feel brave to hold on,” I mutter. “Feels mostly like shit.”
“Funny thing about courage is a lot of the time it just feels like fear. What I had with Rusty was foolish and not worth the trouble.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Sounds like—and more importantly—it looks like what you had with Sylas was, and maybe still is, worth the trouble.” She raises her brows at me. “You understand?”
“I do,” I whisper hoarsely, my chin wrinkling up as fat, embarrassing tears steamroll down my cheeks and all my resolve to keep my emotions in check.
“Think on it and decide if that gadget still plays music for you, in your heart. May mean something.” She quirks up one overly arched brow and slides from the booth. I thank Kit for her time and advice, pay the seven dollar a
nd eighty-three cent bill and leave her all the cash in my wallet. I didn’t count but I hope a pile of one hundred-dollar bills and several twenties may help her buy new pearls.
Chapter 27
Sylas
“Knock-knock,” Chick says poking his head around the edge of my front door before letting himself fully inside my house.
“Toss ‘em in the fridge,” I say dispassionately, nodding my head toward the case of beer in his one hand and the whiskey bottle in his other.
“Check and roger, boss,” he salutes, poorly. “So you wanna tell me why I was summoned to an emergency bro’s only event?
“She’s leaving. Again.”
“Oh,” Chick exclaims with his mouth rounded into the shape of an O and his eyes darting side to side before finally settling on me.
“Yeah,” I huff out a big breath of air and down the second half of my beer in one shot. “I thought I had won her back. The real Rae. I thought she was with me. Not the bitch on TV playing the political game and all that shit. I mean my Rae. She spent these days with me, and I thought for sure I’d won her over—fuck Chick, I basically proposed to her and I swore to myself I saw yes in her eyes.” I groan tossing my head back into my couch cushions as I pinch my eyes shut. “I don’t fuckin’ get it.”
“Well, I’m shit in the long-term, committed relationship department but I’m a crack sidekick in terms of getting thoroughly drunk. So, as your best friend it is an honor and a privilege to get you rum-dumb wasted tonight. Let’s do this,” he proclaims, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and two glasses from my kitchen. He slams them down roughly on the coffee table in front of me and pours us both a large amount of booze. Chick shoots his in one gulp. I sip mine, my brain too concerned with working out the puzzle that is Rae to be tempted by the idea of getting blackout drunk.
“Maybe you should try to talk to her momma. If there’s somethin’ she knows that you don’t, she’ll sing like a bird. That woman can’t keep a secret, not even for Rae.”
“What’s the point? If Rae is not willing to see what we could be together, if she’s not willing to try to work this out, then why bother asking her momma anything at all?”
“Closure?” He shrugs, pouring himself another round of whiskey. I don’t bother responding because while half of me thinks closure would be smart, the other half, the Gabriel Oak half of me refuses.
I watch for the next hour and a half while Chick gives me terrible advice as he drinks enough to get both of us drunk. I pushed the alcohol aside an hour ago, too lost in sorting out my own thoughts to want to muddle them further with booze. “C’mon, Haas,” I grunt as I lift Chick up from the chair he’s half passed out in. “Guest room for you.” I shoulder his weight and basically carry him to the room down the hall. I drop him on the mattress and toss the blanket from the foot of the bed over him. Chick falls asleep soundlessly and I’m left alone with my thoughts and aching heart.
Wandering over to the built-in shelving in my living room, I browse over the things I’ve tucked away on these shelves. My eyes land on the picture of the guys and me from my second tour in Afghanistan. I ache looking at their faces, the loss of their lives a deep wound that never quite heals.
Is the loss of Teddy what has changed Rae so much? Can she not stand to look at me because I remind her of her brother’s service which ended with his death in combat? My brain tells me it’s a very real possibility but my gut isn’t onboard with that hypothesis. I’m missing key information. I can feel it. If I could only find out what it is, maybe she’d come back. My pride rebels, screaming fuck her. But my heart, as always, resides with Rae, the traitorous thing.
As though I can’t help myself, my eyes land on the novel that was the fight bell that clanged loudly at the start of things. This copy of the book is the same one from 10th grade. It’s the same one I read with determination just to find out what made Rae tick. She had disappeared between those pages that summer, several times by the looks of it. She had been fascinated with the characters and I was fascinated with her. I took this same copy with me to boot camp, to training where I became a radio operator for the United States Marine Corps, to war twice… now it sits on a shelf, silent with all its war stories and grand adventures and love found then lost, broken men and a guarded, enigmatic woman. I pull it from the shelf, fanning the pages with the pad of my thumb. Long ago I took a highlighter to my favorite parts. When my highlighter dried up in the arid climate overseas, I began marking my favorite passages with folded gum wrappers. I always had plenty of that. Some pages are just folded in on themselves to make for easy reference. I open the old book and turn to the place I feel drawn. My eyes read over the lines, the lump in my throat aching, my vision growing blurry. “Goddammit,” I huff, blinking away my emotion. Without another thought, I rip the page from the book and grab my keys. I don’t have to have the page in my physical possession. I know the passages by heart. Every line, every word. I don’t have to have it in my possession to recall every letter that made up the magic bits. They’re written on my heart, burned into my mind same as Raegan Kennedy Potter.
Chapter 28
Raegan
The floorboards still creak in the same places and fortunate for me I recall all of them from my youth. I would hate to wake up my parents and in reality saying goodbye again, when I don’t plan on returning if I can at all avoid it, is something high on my list of things I’m not in the mood for. Instead, I said my goodbyes last night, enjoying a quiet evening with them.
I scribble a note on Momma’s grocery list notepad stuck to the refrigerator then sneak, silently from my childhood home. The toad with wheels lights flicker once when I click the unlock button on the key fob. I carefully load my belongings into the hatchback then round the car to find an envelope wedged between the frame and the door. I inhale deeply through my nose and pluck the envelope up, rolling it in my hands in search of a name. It’s blank but my gut tells me it’s something from Sylas. Instead of opening the envelope, I opt to stow it in my bag, slipped inside my closed laptop between the keyboard and screen. Deciding I’ll open later once I am out of Palmetto Grove, I try to pretend it isn’t there, weighing heavily on me. God knows what’s inside the envelope and if I know Sylas it’s likely something that is going to make me question everything. No, it’s safer to put it away.
The flight home was smooth sailing and though I would normally love that first moment when I open the door to my apartment and the scent of the home I’ve created for myself hits me. Today I can’t bring myself to love the smell or to be happy to be in my home.
So far away from Sylas, Regret adds nastily.
It is the only path forward. We have no choice, Self -Preservation levels Regret with a look that says to sit down and shut up. I drop my bag on the foyer console and wheel my luggage to my bedroom. A voice somewhere in the back of my mind—not of the inner circle variety—thank fuck—whispers to me that I’m busying myself around my place so I can pretend to forget all about the envelope tucked into the closed laptop in my workbag when the reality is I should just rip the Band-Aid off. Get it over with.
I just can’t.
Once I have showered, cleaned the place up a little, caught up on emails, filed my nails, dusted the silk plant in my kitchen and cleared my fridge of anything old, I grab a bottle of red wine, a glass and meander around the place feeling like a house guest instead of a woman in her private space. There is a disconnect that I can’t understand. Is this what going home does to me or is this what Sylas does to me? Is this feeling caused by the fact that I have no friends here and I work twenty four seven in an industry that thrives on the worst of the worst of human nature? Perhaps it’s a custom brew of all of the above. I drag my sock feet across the wood floors, shuffling down the hallway to my guest room. I flip o the light and go into the space that no one has ever used. I furnished it nicely and decorated with care all the while knowing I’d never have someone over to enjoy my efforts. I tug the door of the closet open and scan the car
dboard boxes for one in particular. I pull it from the shelf and drop it to the floor at my feet.
With one hand holding my wine and the other flipping through things in the box, my hands find what I was looking for. A Palmetto Grove Gators Baseball is emblazoned on the front of the tee shirt in jungle green. I flip the shirt over and read the back. BROUSSARD and the number 44. I used to tease him and say I’d stolen the shirt, parading it around often but the truth is he gave it to me. He’d confessed he liked his name on me. That admission had sparked several conversations with us lying on a blanket beside the bayou, talking about our future together. The girl that coveted this stupid T-shirt would have never believed how things turned out. With the shirt in my hand I crawl into bed. The first glass of wine goes down with balmy smoothness. The second glass goes down smooth even with a knot in my throat getting in the way. The third glass is trickier. The knot is bigger, the tears keep welling and I keep blinking them away.
I miss him.
I even miss Palmetto Grove because it’s where he is.
Coward, Self-Loathing taunts. You ran off on that poor guy yet again. You probably gave him a complex.
We can figure out a plan, Practicality says tapping her chin, and she paces slowly.
Years. Years you’ve been pacing coming up with one of your plans and we’ve yet to see one that works, Negativity says snidely.
On that note my brain turns into Jerry Springer and this is an episode I very much want to turn off. I finish off the glass of wine in my hand in two big gulps and rifle through my bag before I get wise enough to abandon opening the blank envelope while fairly drunk and extraordinarily depressed. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and sniffle, looking down at the rectangle of paper. Gently bending the fold back I pluck the contents from inside. A folded sheet of paper with something inside is what I find. With a deep breath I unfold the paper, finding Sy’s neat handwriting scrawled across the blank white sheet.