Lena shrugged. She thought of all the projects she’d completed over the last two years—sculptures filled with longing and collages of regret. Ones that she’d shown repeatedly in workshop. Ones that Marcy had critiqued. I did tell you, Lena thought. Over and over again.
“Lennie?” Marcy prompted. Lena had moved to New York and had become Lennie thanks to Marcy.
Lena owed many thanks to the universe for connecting her with Marcy Barrows of Long Island. Marcy was an acrylic painter who was the youngest daughter of one of Manhattan’s most sought-after divorce lawyers. She’d grown up in the city and was as New York as Lena was not.
There was a long line in front of the venue. Young people dressed from head to toe in faded denim, plaid shirts, and clunky boots. Wild animal prints and flowing skirts. Lena and Marcy breezed past the line as Julian had told her to do. The two of them looked mildly out of place, Marcy in her designer wrap dress and chandelier earrings, Lena in her black tunic and black leggings, the uniform she had adopted since moving to the city. She was wearing the charm bracelet Julian had found at a thrift store in Oak Falls and given to her on New Year’s. It was supposed to have been a promise of their future together, the future that came crashing down a few months later.
As Marcy and Lena shoved through the line, some people shouted at them. Lena ignored the shouts; Marcy fearlessly flashed them the finger. “Oh, fuck off,” Marcy said to one guy with a nose piercing. When they reached the front of the line, a large man stood with his arms crossed.
“There’s a line, you know.”
“Yes,” Lena said hesitantly. She no longer struggled with English, but when someone was confrontational she went back to feeling like the nervous girl struggling to communicate with the customs officer when she’d first landed in America five years ago.
“So why aren’t you in it?”
“Because we’re on the list, dummy,” Marcy said, peering over Lena’s shoulder. “Julian Oliver put us on the list.”
The man looked skeptical. “What’s your name?”
“Marcy Barrows.”
“Lena Abdallat,” Lena interjected. “It should be there. My name.” She knew she sounded confused, but that’s because she was confused. Not necessarily about what was happening—but about how she was supposed to feel.
What would she say to him? Was it a mistake to have come? What would it be like to see him onstage singing those songs—those songs that she thought of as so personal—those songs that were almost certainly all about her—for the whole world to hear? Her posture stiffened as she watched the security guard check his list.
“Well, hell. Surprise, surprise. Here you are. Lena Abdallat and guest.”
Marcy raised her hand playfully. “That would be me. Guest.”
The security guard handed Lena and Marcy necklaces adorned with plastic badges that read in big block letters: BACKSTAGE PASS. As Lena slipped hers over her thin neck, the security guard eyed her warily. “Have fun,” he said, but it sounded more like “good luck” to her ears.
Marcy grabbed Lena’s hand and pulled her inside the venue. It was an old ballroom. It reeked of marijuana and sweat. The lights were turned down low and it was mostly empty since they hadn’t started to let the general public in yet.
Marcy leaned into Lena. “Are you nervous? You seem nervous.”
“No,” Lena lied. “I’m only worried it’ll be strange since I haven’t seen him in a long time.” Lena hadn’t been particularly forthcoming to Marcy about her relationship with Julian Oliver. Even when a poster of Julian’s face landed in Times Square, Lena had kept her past secret from Marcy. She certainly hadn’t explained that she’d heard seven of the nine tracks on Julian’s now-famous album, Winter in Indiana, before the album was released. That he’d played her those songs on his acoustic guitar while they snuggled in his tiny apartment as gray snow had slowly blanketed the frozen ground outside. That each and every one of those songs was about her.
Or at least she’d thought those songs had been about her. Were about her. She felt dizzy, standing in the foyer of the cavernous decaying ballroom. The sheer size of it shocked her. He was going to fill this room? And the current emptiness of it made her feel sick with nerves.
Outside it was only a slightly chilly spring day, but she was suddenly unbearably cold. She was about to turn on her heel, head back to her apartment, crawl under the sheets, and read a book (she’d recently been making her way through the Western canon and had developed a particular penchant for Jane Austen’s novels—she was presently reading Mansfield Park), when she saw him.
He was standing on the stage looking out at her. He moved toward her and Marcy. In the shadows of the hollowed-out room, it was hard to read his face. He hopped off the stage and continued to walk toward her. His pace became quicker the closer he got to her. She held her breath, almost convinced he was going to run past her.
But then, before she could really process what was happening, he’d lifted her off the floor. He twirled her and then set her back on her feet. “You came!” he said, the joy in his voice palpable. “You really came!”
She swallowed and simply nodded because she didn’t trust her own voice.
“And look at you,” he said, his eyes hungrily taking in her all-black ensemble. “You look so New York.”
“That’s taken a bit of work,” Marcy said, stepping out in front of Lena and extending her hand in Julian’s direction. “I’m Marcy Barrows. I believe we have a mutual friend.”
That was so like Marcy. Lena loved her dearly and was grateful to her for all her help, but sometimes, Lena felt like Marcy viewed her as a project—her “immigrant friend.” Sometimes their relationship was a little too White Man’s Burden for Lena’s liking, but she knew Marcy meant well.
“It seems we do,” Julian said jovially. He shook Marcy’s hand, but never took his eyes off Lena. His cool blue eyes searched hers. They had more gray in them than she remembered. And they were asking her thousands of questions. Like, How have you been? And did you miss me? And do you regret smashing everything we had together and leaving it behind?
Lena knew she should say something. Anything. But her mind was buzzing, and it was difficult enough to think, let alone in English. Millions of Arabic phrases fired through her brain, and when she was able to distill her emotions down to one isolated kernel, she realized it was: longing.
She’d missed him.
Desperately.
And when she let her heart acknowledge that, it ached under the weight of everything else she was missing. Namely, home. Namely, her mother. God, she wanted her mother. She wanted to be home. She wanted to be home so, so badly.
She blinked back the tears that she felt forming in her eyes, and Julian reached out and grasped her hands. Even though she’d always taken such pains to hide her homesickness from him, he had a sixth sense for when a bout was coming on. And even though it had been months and months since he’d had the chance to comfort her, he was still able to steady her with his reassuring touch.
He watched her eyes soften as she regained composure. “So how have you been, Lena Abdallat?” he asked. “It’s been a New York minute.”
She swallowed again. “Isn’t the better question how have you been?” She gestured toward the stage. “It’s all coming true for you.”
He bowed his head a little bit. “I told you it would. Patience.”
She tensed and pulled her hands away from him. Such a simple word: patience. But it felt like an indictment. A reminder that she hadn’t been patient. That she hadn’t waited on him to get his shit together.
Truly, though, when she’d left Oak Falls, she’d had absolutely zero faith that Julian would get his shit together. It was her turn to give him a searching look. She wondered when he’d told his father he was dedicating everything toward becoming a musician. That his plan was to leave Oak Falls, to live a life that was radically different from Mr. Oliver’s.
Julian had once told her he couldn’t abandon his
family business because his father had threatened that if Julian didn’t take over the store, he would simply shutter it. She’d known Julian was terrified of creating more emotional distance between himself and his father.
Maybe it had gone down like how he’d crooned on “Finally, Always,” the closing track on Winter in Indiana. She’d taken that track to be a personal admonition to her. But in the song, he’d sung, “Told you to be patient/But you said you had to go/You were right about your reasons/But now I’ve owned my own/So will you come back and be patient now?” and her heart had shattered when she first heard the song.
She’d thought: Yes. Finally, always.
And then when he’d called she could hardly believe it.
“I’m coming to New York,” he’d said.
“Julian,” she’d said.
“Please, Lena. I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone. That’s why I’m calling.”
She’d smiled and twisted her hand around the phone’s cord. “You’re calling me on the phone to tell me that you don’t want to talk on the phone?”
“You’re still you,” he’d said, and she’d heard relief in his voice. It was almost as though he’d been genuinely afraid that in the past two years she’d morphed into an entirely different person. But that was one of the main differences between her and him—the difference that had proved to be too insurmountable to overcome when push came to shove. She didn’t believe that people could really change. And he did. He believed in anything if it was given time.
“More or less,” she’d said.
“I want to see you.”
“When you’re in New York?”
“I was thinking that was my best shot. I didn’t think you’d agree to my offer to fly you out to come meet me right now in San Francisco.”
She’d held her breath like she was considering this even though she really wasn’t. “New York would be better.”
“I thought so.”
“Will you go to dinner with me?”
She held her breath again. “I want to hear you play.”
“You’ve already heard me play.”
“I want to hear you play these songs.”
“You’ve already heard me play these songs.” There was an edge to his voice.
“Not all of them. Not ‘Finally, Always.’ I love that song.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“You like that one, huh?” he finally said.
She wound the cord tighter around her fingers. “Yeah.”
She wanted to say: Did you write it for me? Do you forgive me for being impatient? For leaving you behind in Indiana? I’m so proud of you, Julian.
And even though she didn’t say any of those things, he still said, “You know that song was for you, right?”
“I thought so.” Her voice had turned tiny and timid. Julian used to refer to it as her mouse voice.
“So will you see me?”
She didn’t want to agree to dinner just yet. She didn’t even know if she could handle it, if her heart could handle it. She didn’t trust herself to sit calmly across the table from him. How could she be expected to share a bread basket with him, smile, and pretend like they hadn’t smashed each other to smithereens?
“Julian” was all she said.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“We destroyed each other. Do you really want to visit the wreckage?” She remembered the long fights in Oak Falls where she’d accused him of being a lazy coward and he’d accused her of being impatient and impractical and of having standards that were too damn high.
Of course I do, she’d thought when he’d accused her of that. I want more of you. I want more for you. I want more of everything. No one puts an ocean between themselves and their home who isn’t wildly, madly in search of more.
There was a long pause on the phone. She wondered where he was calling from. Maybe San Francisco. He’d mentioned San Francisco. She imagined him at a pay phone on a hilly street, but then quickly corrected that mental image. Did successful musicians use pay phones? He was probably calling her from some fancy hotel room with a fluffy bed adorned with five-hundred-thread-count sheets. There was probably some model next to him right now, her silky blond hair spilling over the neighboring pillow. The thought made Lena’s stomach coil, though she knew she had no right to be jealous. She’d given up that right when she left him standing heartbroken on the back porch of his family’s home, his whole face begging her not to go, his blue eyes ringed with red.
When Julian hadn’t said anything for a whole minute, she pressed the phone’s receiver closer to her ear. She heard his shallow breathing and was filled with relief that he hadn’t hung up, but then chastised herself for caring.
“Yes,” he said. “I do. I do want to visit the wreckage, Lena. I want to rebuild everything. With you.”
The relief she’d felt moments before was amplified. And a fluttery feeling of hope bubbled in her stomach and got stronger as she replayed in her head what he’d just said.
Despite knowing better, despite knowing so much better, she said, “Fine. I’ll come to your show. Are tickets still available?”
He laughed, and the sound of his laugh amplified her hopeful excitement. “Don’t be silly. I’ll put you on the list. When you get to the venue, just walk past the line to the guy at the front. Tell him your name and he’ll let you in.”
“Okay.” Her head was reeling. She couldn’t believe this was his world now. Lists. Nondescript security guards. Doling out free tickets like candy.
“And Lena?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to get there early so I can see you before the show.”
“Okay,” she said again.
“Okay then. I’ll see you in April.”
She heard the phone click, him hanging up, but she didn’t put the receiver back in its place. She held on to it, handling it with care as though it were a fragile object, as though it were a bomb.
“Lena?” Julian said, bringing her back to the present. “I was only teasing about the patience because . . .” He hung his head and slid his hands into the pockets of his pants. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I know,” she said, her eyes greedily taking him in. He was dressed in a green flannel shirt and tight black jeans. A variation of the outfit she’d seen him wearing in the various profiles of him that had been printed in various newspapers. “The Grunge God,” the newspapers had declared him. One publication had gone so far as to deem him “The Prince of Melancholy.” She’d rolled her eyes at this and imagined—hoped—he found those monikers laughable too. Though she’d, of course, clipped out all of the articles and saved them in an unassuming manila folder.
For posterity, she’d told herself. Only to remember.
After all, she was an immigrant. She was practiced in the art of remembering—in false memories and nostalgia. In the magic of keeping the past alive.
“Of course you do,” he said, and his lips spread into an easy grin. His eyes shot around the ballroom, and she found herself wishing he’d focus on her. In the entirety of their relationship, she’d never struggled to get his attention, let alone hold it. “So what do you think of this place?”
An unexpected feeling of discomfort and disorientation overcame her. “It’s fine, I guess.”
“Fine? Man, I know you’re hard to impress, but Jesus.” He ran his hand through his hair. It was blonder than she remembered. Maybe they had him dye it. Something about that thought made her irritated.
She shrugged and stared down at her shoes. They were the nicest pair she owned, but in the dusty light of the ballroom she could see all of their scratches and discoloring. They felt insufficient. She felt insufficient.
“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, Julian. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.” She turned on her heel and darted toward the exit.
He followed behind her. He touched her arm gently. “Lena. Wait.”
“Um.�
�� Marcy cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to be awkward, but . . . do you guys have some kind of history that I don’t know about?”
Julian and Lena stared at each other for a moment. They’d both forgotten Marcy was even there. That she’d been standing beside them the whole time. They started to laugh, high-pitched and uneasy.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Marcy said. She whistled and tossed her hair back. “Is there a bar in here?”
Julian laughed some more, the nerves giving way to a more easygoing and joyful sound. “Yeah. I don’t know if they’re open yet, but Mikey can take care of you.” As if he’d simply been hiding in the shadows, waiting to be summoned—which, sadly, he probably had—Mikey appeared beside Julian.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Boss?” Lena said, her mouth gaping slightly. She clasped her hands together with excitement. Mikey gave her a blank stare. “Mikey! It’s me.”
Mikey looked confused for a moment and then the wave of recognition hit him. “Lena! Of course! Julian said we’d be seeing you in New York.”
She briefly felt wounded by that statement. She knew she shouldn’t have been, but it made her feel like just one of the various women Julian had arranged to see on this tour. Melissa in New Orleans, Tabitha in Denver, and Lena in New York.
Mikey opened his arms and pulled her into a big bear hug. Though she knew it was just her nostalgic mind playing tricks on her, she swore she could still smell the cheeseburger grease on him, the faint sweetness of a vanilla milk shake. When she pulled away from the hug and studied him, she found him to be untouched by time. He still wore his brown hair shaggy, his skin was still lightly pockmarked, and he still had the hunched-forward posture of someone who was always reaching for something.
“It’s good to see you, Lena,” Mikey said, and he sounded like he really meant it.
“Boss?” she said, repeating the phrase she’d heard Mikey use earlier.
Mikey’s face flushed red. He seemed both pleased and embarrassed. “A joke,” Mikey said. “You know, since I was his boss back in the day at the diner and now he’s, well you know, he’s Julian Oliver.”
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