by Sara Biren
But—could he?
“I’m good,” I say. I look at the watch on the nightstand. It’s 11:18, but the windows are dark so it must still be night. I switch off the lamp and turn over, my back to the doorway.
Tuesday. I swim. I call the delivery service, send them to a nearby farmers’ market, and charge it to Chris’s account. “Bring me whatever’s in season, whatever looks good,” I say.
A couple of hours and a couple of hundred dollars later, the kitchen overflows with produce, most of which I don’t recognize and will probably spoil before we can possibly eat it all. I call Chris’s chef to take care of it. All afternoon, I hear him swearing and muttering about the young fool in love. That night, though, Chris and I are treated to salmon and an amazing array of vegetable side dishes. I try every single one.
Nothing tastes as good as Laurel’s chili with cinnamon and honey. Nothing beats sitting at their homey farmhouse table, bickering with Juniper.
It’s too hot here. The sun shines too much. There’s no variety. No rain. No hard frost.
“Do you think it’s snowed there yet?” I ask at dinner.
“Snowed where?” Chris asks.
“Back home.”
He shrugs. “Why don’t you call Juniper up and ask her?”
I push my plate away and go back out to the pool.
My neighbors, Genesis and Collins, come over to invite me to their upcoming party. They’re twins, a year younger than me, named for, well, the band Genesis and Phil Collins. I try not to hold that against them. They’re good people, even if their parents do have questionable taste in music. Their parents are loaded, both of them entertainment lawyers or something. Maybe they can help me out. We’re friends, right?
“This party is going to be so fetch,” Genesis says and giggles.
“Stop trying to make fetch a thing, Gretchen,” her brother says, mimicking Mean Girls, their favorite movie. He doesn’t get the line quite right, I think. They both dissolve into laughter.
“I’ve got plans that night.”
Genesis pouts. “But we haven’t even told you what night!” she says.
“Didn’t you say Saturday?” I guess.
Genesis and Collins look at each other incredulously. “Did we?” Collins asks. “It is Saturday.”
“I hate to miss it,” I lie.
Always tell the truth.
Genesis sits down at the foot of my lounger and pats my foot. “Gabe, we’re so, so sorry for all your troubles. Marley—she’s so lovely. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
“Thanks, Gen,” I say. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“I heard she’s out,” Collins says. “Of rehab.”
“Is she?” My stomach twists. She might be out of rehab, but she’s not knocking down my door to pay me back. “I hadn’t heard.”
“KidCo canceled her contract,” Gen says, shaking her head. “I probably shouldn’t spread rumors, but I heard that she’s planning to sue them. Poor thing.”
Poor thing. Poor Marley. Poor me.
“You look terrible, you know,” Gen says. “But let us know if you change your mind about the party.”
“Or if you need a little something to help you through this,” Collins adds. “You know what I mean.”
Oh, fuck no. Fuck Gen and Collins and their designer drugs. I may be out of my head shattered, but I’m not going to mess with that shit.
I go inside. I wander around the house and mentally catalog things I could sell. All of it belongs to Chris. I’m chasing my own tail.
I think about Juniper. I try not to think about Juniper. I wonder if she’s thinking about me.
Wednesday. Graham Briggs calls to finalize dates for the spring.
“I’m still in Harper’s Mill,” he says, “and the photojournalist from Architectural Inspiration is flying in for the first photo shoot later this week. I was hoping you’d come back before I’m due back in London so I could show you what I have in mind. I think you’ll love it. That’s quite a building you’ve got there.”
I almost call off the project, but this isn’t only about me. This is Chris’s farm, too. And Laurel’s and Juniper’s, even if their names aren’t on the deed.
“I trust you,” I tell him instead. The words sound hollow.
Thursday morning, Chris yanks the sheet off my bed while I’m still sleeping.
“Get your lazy ass out of bed,” he growls. He shoves his phone in my face. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
I rub sleep out of my eyes and look at the screen. He’s got a text conversation pulled up. Rocky. Oh, fuck. I sit up, my hands shaking, an ocean of fear and adrenaline and despair rushing through every cell.
Rocky: Hey it’s Rock. Any word on the cash? Mtg with Chris Jan 3. Shoot for at least a month before that so I can play around with shit.
Fucking Rocky. It’s not every detail, but it’s enough. I look up from the phone to Chris. His face is red, his jaw tight, his fists clenched. “Chris, I can explain—”
“Check your phone,” he bites out as he takes his back.
“What?”
“Check your fucking phone, Gabe. I’ll wait.” His words are a blade of steel, even and cold and sharp.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and swipe it open.
Shit. I can’t believe I didn’t hear it blowing up.
Rocky: This is Rocky. Answer your fucking phone kid we got an issue
Rocky: Not kidding here I fucked up big time
Rocky: Goddamn it we have a situation I sent a text to your goddamn dad and thought it was you
Rocky: We are in deep shit if you don’t get to that text before Chris does
Everything goes cold, my blood freezes, the hard frost.
I look up at Chris, open my mouth, nothing comes out.
“Well?” he roars. “You want to tell me what the fuck Rocky’s talking about?”
I rub a hand across my eyes. I’m between a rock and a fucking hard place, and I’ve got nowhere else to go.
I shake my head, not so much to tell him no as to clear it. This can’t be happening. How could Rocky have been so stupid?
How could I have been so stupid?
“Tell me the goddamn truth, Gabe,” Chris yells.
Always tell the truth.
I get out of bed, pull on dirty jeans and a T-shirt, and pace.
There’s no way around it now.
I tell him the truth. All of it. Marley and the drugs, Rocky, the money. All the shit that’s happened since. I tell him about Juniper and how she lied to me, and I tell him about my stupid shattered heart.
“How much?” he asks when I’m out of words and out of breath. He’s not yelling, but the lines of his face are drawn and tight. His jaw twitches. “How much did you take?”
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, aching and raw. I can’t look at him as I tell him the dollar amount. He whistles. “That’s a lot of smack,” he says. “Jesus, Gabe, what the hell were you thinking?”
“I fucked up,” I say, my voice thick and rough. “I don’t blame you if you want to call the cops or, shit, I don’t know.”
“Calm down. I’m not going to call the cops.” He scrubs a hand across his eyes.
“Don’t fire Rocky,” I blurt out. “This isn’t his fault. This is on me.”
“This is on you,” he agrees, “and you’re going to figure out a way to pay me back, but Rocky needs to own up for his part, too.”
“I begged him.” My heart’s pounding. I can’t catch my breath.
“Calm down, OK? Focus on something else for a minute. Try to breathe.”
I put my hand across my abdomen where the brick of dread lives, swallow hard, inhale and blow it out, long and heavy.
“Don’t worry about Rocky,” Chris says. “I’m not going to toss him aside for fucking up. His heart is always in the right place. Like yours.”
I shake my head. “My heart is about as fucked up as my head.”
“You’ve got a
lot of shit to fix, I’ll give you that, so first things first, we’re going back to Minnesota.”
“Go ahead,” I mutter, “I’m not going.”
“The hell you aren’t, Gabe. We’ve got a meeting with Graham to talk about renovations.”
“You’ve got a meeting with Graham. FaceTime me in. I’m not going.”
“You’re going. You owe me a shit ton of money, which you’re going to pay back with interest, by the way. And if I say you’re going back home, you’re going back home.”
“It’s your home, not mine,” I spit.
“It is your home,” he says, and he sounds pissed again. “Don’t argue with me about this.”
“I’m not going.” I can’t see her. I can’t see Juniper and own up to what I’ve done.
“You’re miserable. Go back home and work things out with Juniper.”
It’s like he can read my mind. Yes, I’m miserable. I’m so fucking miserable I don’t know what to do or how to move past the misery.
I walk to my bathroom and close the door. “I’m not going,” I say loudly.
“Have it your way,” Chris calls after me. “But know that I’m putting this house on the market. You have one week to get your shit together before my real estate agent starts showing it.”
Friday. Chris leaves for Minnesota. I stay in bed until two in the afternoon. The house is too empty, too quiet.
I text Rocky.
Me: Sorry for the mess. I’ll fix it, I swear. Hope he wasn’t too hard on you.
Rocky: Your dad’s a good guy.
A good guy who’s selling this house. I search for rental properties closer to the beach but close the app after five houses. I have no money to rent a place.
I watch the documentary about Graham Briggs and the stone barn recording studio. I listen to Heartbreak Holiday, the first album recorded there.
I go down to the basement studio and play guitar for the first time in days. I take Chris’s Telecaster down from its place on the wall and play “Somebody to Shove.”
I find a mandolin. I teach myself “The Battle of Evermore.”
The weight of missing Juniper and the farm sits heavy on my chest.
I think about texting her back, calling her. I power off my phone and shove it under my pillow.
I grab my phone and power it back up. I type “therapists venice ca” in my search bar. I scroll through the results, click on a few. I change the city to “frederick lake mn.” The results list is smaller. I read through them all until I find an anxiety guy whose bio says he’s on a mission to hike in all fifty states and he likes to go to concerts. Odds are he likes country music. I take a chance and make an appointment.
I search for last-minute flights to Minnesota.
God, I miss her. I miss her eyes and her smile and her laugh. I miss arguing with her. I miss her stubborn streak. I miss that she’s so stuck in her routines. I miss that she was willing to try new things because I encouraged her. I miss our adventures. I miss us.
I fall asleep on the living room sofa, my arm thrown over my eyes to block out the goddamn sun.
When I wake, it’s late, dark.
When I wake, the hole in my chest from missing her has tripled in size.
Then I remember.
She betrayed me. She broke me.
I cancel my appointment.
I delete the Delta app.
I delete her contact.
Saturday. A letter arrives from Minnesota.
One word is written in the upper left corner where a return address should be.
Blue
Stare at the envelope for what feels like an hour.
Take a shower.
Check the refrigerator. Make scrambled eggs with tomatoes, spinach, even radishes. We still have so many vegetables.
Play “High Hopes” on the grand piano in a great room designed specifically for the instrument. The acoustics here are amazing, but still it doesn’t sound nearly as good as Gran’s out-of-tune, hundred-year-old upright.
Go for a run, the first time I’ve left the house in days.
Take another shower.
Stare at the envelope.
Dig through the cupboards to see if Chris has any tea. In luck. Find sealed plastic pouches with loose tea and labels in Juniper’s handwriting: Bliss Blend, Serenitea Now!, Summer Sunshine.
Google how to make tea.
Too fucking hot. Wait for it to cool down.
Open the envelope.
In the envelope, I find a single sheet of thick paper that looks like it’s been torn from one of the journals in her greenhouse. The notebook where she jots down her ideas. The paper is bursting with color, like Juniper herself, a rainbow of words and doodles: clouds, flowers, a waterfall, headphones, a pizza, a ghost. Across the top, in a blue the color of her eyes, she has written 30 Days of Adventure. Below is a numbered list:
1. Eat a slice of pepperoni pizza
2. Go out for Mexican instead of pizza after the football game
3. Listen to Led Zeppelin IV on vinyl
4. Watch Singles
5. Hike (part of) the Willard Munger Trail
6. Go to a haunted house
7. Drink a cup of coffee instead of tea
8. Adopt a rescue dog*
9. Visit a fire station
10. Visit an art museum
11. Make egg rolls with Youa
12. Drive a stick shift
13. Sleep in a tent (brrr)
14. Bake a pumpkin pie
15. Order ribs instead of chicken from Happy’s
16. Play touch football with Ted and Frankie
17. Write lyrics to a song**
18. Shear a sheep***
19. Photograph the round barn
20. Make a candle
21. Finish a crossword puzzle
22. Deliver Meals on Wheels
23. Volunteer at the food shelf
24. Travel the entire Skyline Parkway in Duluth
25. Dye my hair
26. Eat peanut butter M&Ms
27. Fly a kite
28. Wear jeans (!!)
29. Go rock climbing at the Y
30. Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air
*if Mom says it’s OK
**with guidance from a professional (you)
***this will have to wait until spring
Beneath the list, there’s a note.
Gabe, I want to live in the sunshine, swim the sea, and drink the wild air with you by my side. I want to try new things and go on adventures with you. Thank you for challenging me. Thank you for seeing me. I love you with all my heart. I’ve never meant anything more than I mean that. And I’m sorry for everything and anything that hurt you. Please forgive me. Please come home.
My heart fills with the magnitude of her words. All the stress, the heartache, the worry, the panic, everything I’ve felt for such a long time melts away. I don’t know whether to laugh at her ridiculous aspirations or call her and ream her out for even thinking about dyeing her beautiful hair. I fold the letter and slip it back into the envelope, lift it to my nose. Somehow, it smells like her, like cherries and vanilla.
In less than three hours, I’m at LAX waiting to board a flight back home.
Chapter Forty-Six
JUNIPER
Sunday morning, I get up early to work the farmers’ market, but Mom waves me off.
“Janie and Izzy are managing the booth today,” she says. “I think you could use the break.”
“What about you?” I ask. Mom hasn’t missed a farmers’ market since—well, ever.
She shrugs. “I don’t mind a break once in a while.”
I go back to bed for another hour. I drink cup after cup of tea. I research the Willard Munger State Trail and nearby haunted houses. I order Singles on Blu-ray and find an online candle-making tutorial. I search the basement for our old tent. Later, I’ll set it up to air it out. This will have to be one of the first things I do, before it gets too cold or sno
ws.
I take a long shower with one of Guinevere’s aromatherapy tablets. I leave my curls wet and braid half around the crown. I pull on olive-green cargo pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt that reads, Hike More, Worry Less. I should do both of those things. I peek out the window. Sunshine, blue skies. Maybe after lunch, I’ll hike to the overlook.
I’ve felt better since sending Gabe the list—and much, much worse. Worried that he’ll toss it in the trash without even reading it. Send it back. Burn it.
Mom pops her head in a few minutes before noon. “Glad to see you’re up and moving. Lunch is ready and we’ve got company.”
I sigh. I’m not sure that I’m in the mood for company, but I follow a few minutes later. I walk downstairs into the kitchen, expecting to see Mom or Chris at the table. The kitchen’s empty, Gabe’s favorite chili bubbling on the stove. When I turn toward the window to see if they’re in the backyard, I see Gabe standing at the door. I gasp.
“Hey,” he says as he takes a step toward me. I take one back and bump up against the counter. I blink. He’s really here, standing in my kitchen. He looks exactly like he did the last time I saw him—wearing Chris’s Army jacket and a pair of worn jeans. His T-shirt’s different, though. Today, he’s wearing Soul Asylum. His hair’s still a mess of dark curls, the skin under his eyes still dark and shaded. He looks terrible, but so terribly good.
“What—what are you doing here?” I ask, clearing my ragged throat.
“I got your letter,” he says. “How are you?”
That’s it? I got your letter? That’s his reaction to my adventure list, my apology, my heart on the page? I’m happy to see him, but I’m sad and worried and frustrated, too. And pissed.
“How am I? How do you think? I’m miserable! You didn’t respond to my text messages or answer my calls. You haven’t given me a chance to tell you that I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions and acted like a complete bitch. And I lied to you and the whole mess with the honey and the vinegar. And I miss you, Gabe. I miss you so incredibly much, I don’t know up from down! I miss you so much I must have checked flights to LA three thousand times this week even though I hate to leave home!”
“I’m sorry you’ve been miserable. Would it help to know that I’ve been miserable, too?” he asks.