A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  “I haven’t eaten at all today, have you?” Paloma asks.

  “You clearly haven’t spent enough time with my parents,” I answer. “My mom was up early making sure I had a proper, nutritionally balanced meal before I started my day.”

  “Well, that was nice of her,” she says. I want to ask her more about her parents, but they feel off-limits for some reason.

  “It can be,” I admit. “Mostly I think she just wanted to be nosy. Wanted to know where I was going, didn’t believe that I didn’t know.”

  “Wanted to know who you were with?” Paloma asks, nudging her shoulder into mine.

  “That too.” I roll the bottle of water she gave me back and forth between my palms. I haven’t taken a drink yet, even though she only has a couple of sips left in her own bottle.

  I can see my reflection in her polarized sunglasses. My lips are cracked, and my skin has a weird grayish undertone.

  “You’re not thirsty?” she asks, sounding worried. “You’d better stay hydrated; the sun is wicked hot up here.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. Slowly, I unscrew the bottle and take a small sip of the water. I wonder if she can see me cringe behind the bottle. I wonder if she notices how my hands shake so badly, the plastic bumps against my teeth, or how I fumble putting the cap back on. It drops to the ground and I lunge for it, gripping it hard in my palm like I’m not quite sure what to do with it. Like I’m paralyzed.

  “Are you feeling okay?” She puts a hand on my wrist, and I jump back, eyes wild.

  “Oliver?”

  “I’m fine.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get myself under control. When I open them, I make sure to have my smile ready. Just like I’ve practiced since that night.

  Like I really think there’s a shot I could trick Paloma.

  “What just happened there?” she demands.

  “What do you mean?” I recap the bottle with a deliberate twist of my fingers and smile again.

  “I don’t know, something was weird. That was more than dehydration, Oliver, you looked … scared.”

  I offer nothing. Not a single thing. No blinks. No twitches in the corner of my mouth. Paloma stares back, like she’s hoping to catch me with a tell.

  When I give nothing up, she says, “Never mind. Why don’t we start down? There’s usually a food truck or two at the bottom of the hill.”

  “Sounds good.” I let out a shaky, relieved breath.

  The trails are much more crowded now, and we’re passing people the entire way down.

  We’re almost to the bottom of the hill when my arm, which has been swinging by my side the entire walk, brushes against Paloma’s. And I feel it. Her fingers twitch like they’re reaching for mine.

  And I reach back.

  We lace our fingers together without a word.

  There’s no noise apart from the crunch of our shoes on the gravel at the end of the trail. But it’s not an awkward quiet anymore. It’s perfect. I feel like this is exactly what I—what we both want.

  Someone to be quiet with, to be real with. Someone to just be with—and have that be enough.

  “My favorite food truck is at the base of the hill,” Paloma says. I wonder if she feels as disappointed as I am that the hike is over.

  I clear my throat. “So, it looks like we’ve got all the food groups covered. We’ve got sandwiches, tacos—Churro ice-cream sundaes—is that really a thing?”

  “Hey, don’t knock ‘em ‘til you’ve tried them. They’re delicious.”

  “Really?” I turn to face her without letting go of her hand.

  “So what are you in the mood for?” she asks.

  More of this. Hand-holding. Quiet. You.

  “You choose.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be picky, but Leo’s is pretty much my favorite thing ever in life.”

  “Leo’s it is,” I say.

  Paloma orders for the both of us, and, after I insist on paying, we find a patch of grass in the park.

  “What should I start with?” I ask after we’ve got our spread all set up.

  “The al pastor tacos, for sure,” Paloma says. She points to the ones closest to me, and then hands me a plate of condiments and a couple cups of sauce. “You have to put the guacamole sauce on them, too.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’m not a savage.”

  I fix my tacos with intense focus while she sips her soda.

  “You’re watching me, aren’t you?” I ask around a massive bite.

  “Just waiting for you to finish and tell me how amazing this was.”

  I chew quickly, and then swallow, all the while making exaggerated wide eyes.

  “So delicious,” I say. “Seriously. That pineapple in with the meat? My God. My taste buds are eternally grateful to you for this lunch.”

  Paloma unwraps a carne asada burrito and declares with zero hesitation, “This day was pretty damn perfect.”

  Well, almost perfect. There were those few long seconds when I was nearly coming unhinged.

  “It was,” I say. I wipe my mouth with a thin napkin and give her a shy smile. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  Paloma stares down at her hands as she plucks blade after blade of grass.

  I take a few more bites, but I can tell she’s internally debating something.

  When she balls her hands into fists and takes a deep, shaky breath, I know it’s coming.

  “You know what would make it even more perfect?”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “If you were honest with me,” she finally says.

  My Adam’s apple bobs up and down as I swallow.

  “Honest about what?”

  Her words tumble out so fast, I only hear half of them I think.

  “I don’t even know what! I just know that something changed with you last month. I don’t even know how to explain it, but it was … literally, one day you walked me home and things were good, they were so good, Oliver. And the next day, you were just … different.”

  “I’m good,” I say, setting what’s left of my taco down onto the wrapper.

  It’s one-hundred-percent the least convincing two words I’ve ever said.

  “I don’t know, maybe I’m way off base,” Paloma says. “But one guy walked me home that night, and now that same—”

  “Maybe you just didn’t know me well enough then,” I interrupt. I push the food away and start tugging blades of grass and tossing them aside like a deranged human lawn mower.

  “I guess that could be it.” She doesn’t look convinced. “I just worry about you because that night you were with your friends and everything seemed cool, and you never mention them—”

  “Paloma.” My voice is tight and frantic. “Why are we rehashing that night?”

  “I just—”

  “Why does it feel like it always turns into this?” I can’t help but lash out. She crossed a line. A weird, invisible line she couldn’t have possibly known about.

  “Into what?”

  My eyes dart left and right, like I’m trying to plot my emergency escape route.

  “Into, I don’t know ... talking about what’s wrong with me. I just want to fucking forget it, can we ever just do that?” My voice is ragged around the edges.

  I expect her to give up. To back pedal. Maybe even to apologize.

  She doesn’t.

  “Like, when you left me that night, did you go straight home after that?”

  I jump up from the grass. I reach down to ball up the remainder of the food and stalk off toward the garbage can.

  Paloma follows.

  “What are you doing, Oliver? Where are you going?”

  As much as I struggled coming up this trail, I’m moving so fast now that Paloma can barely keep up with me.

  I slow my steps and turn around, my eyes on the ground, my mouth in a tight line.

  “I have to get to work soon,” I say.

  “You didn’t tell me you had to work today.”

  “Well, I do.�
� My shoulders are shaking.

  I toss the food into the garbage and keep moving toward the residential streets where we’d parked the car.

  We’re silent until we’re in the confines of my tiny hybrid. I want to be holding her hand again like I was earlier, but instead, my hands are balled in fists at my sides.

  “Something happened that night,” she says.

  “Can we please not talk about it?”

  I start the car and put one hand on the steering wheel, trying to signal that this conversation is over. “Can we just keep it—”

  “Short and simple? Without room for anything meaningful?” she offers, her voice a snap.

  Something meaningful.

  I’m back in the gift shop that night, before everything went to hell.

  She touches my hand with her fingertip, but I flinch away like she’s opened something too raw, and my only defense is to recoil. Away from her touch.

  Away from Paloma.

  “This isn’t about you, Paloma,” I say.

  “Okay. I don’t see anyone else you’re so desperate to claw away from,” she says, lighter than a whisper.

  “It’s nothing,” I say for what feels like the one-millionth time.

  “It is if you can’t tell me if there’s something going on. I mean, how can we start something if you’ve already got secrets?”

  I jerk my face toward hers, my posture rigid.

  “Unless you don’t want to start something,” she says.

  She lowers her head, shrinking into the passenger seat. Her eyes drop to her hands that are folded in her lap, and I fucking hate that I made her feel embarrassed or confused or whatever is going through her head right now.

  I led her on back there on the trail, holding her hand like that. Of course she was going to assume there was more. I wish there could be. But if telling the truth about what happened that night—how it happened … and why—to Paloma is a prerequisite for being with her, then I can’t. Even when I’m ready to be with someone again, I can’t tell her that.

  She can’t know that the bottle of water had been meant for her.

  I grind my teeth, thinking about what could have happened to her that night.

  “The timing is just … it’s all weird. I wish this—whatever we are—I wish it would’ve happened before—”

  “Before what?”

  “Just sooner.”

  I turn my head and stare out my own window as soon as I say it.

  “No one is ever in the exact same place at the same time, I guess.”

  We had been in the exact same place at the same time for a little while that night.

  And then I’d stepped into the place meant for her.

  I’m grateful it hadn’t been her that night. God dammit, I’m so thankful.

  But I have to live with the fact that, instead, it’d happened to me.

  “Maybe.” It’s a nothing word, not a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’ That’s the best I can do right now.

  She waits for me to say more. When she realizes that’s not going to happen, she shakes her head slowly and sighs. “We should go. If you have to get to work later.”

  “Right,” I say. I don’t have to work, but I plan on going in anyway. It beats arguing with Paloma, or sitting at home.

  I pull away from the curb and start the drive home.

  I want to go back to the drive here, when we were sharing our favorite music and laughing. When we were almost in the exact same place at the same time— almost perfect.

  (Written on the drive home.) (Undelivered)

  (left in Paloma’s cooler)

  (Written as soon as Martin left) (Undelivered)

  31.

  It’s been three days since I’ve seen Paloma. It was just too awkward after … everything. I picked up shifts at the museum that I didn’t have to, I wrote a couple more drafts of my essay, anything I could do to avoid her.

  Because I’m a coward.

  But when she’d texted me tonight asking to come over after work, I knew it was time.

  “How was work?” Paloma asks as she settles in on her sofa next to me.

  It’s quiet in her house, and I like how she sits closer to me than I’m comfortable with. That’s a good thing. I think I need to get punted out of my comfort zone every now and then.

  “Was fine.”

  I’m not all that excited to talk about my work day. Colm had reamed me a new one for coming in on my day off again, then had decided that, since I was there anyway, he’d make me polish the wood hangers with orange oil just because he could. I didn’t tell him about what’s going on with Paloma, but maybe I should have. Maybe talking about something, anything, with someone would help.

  Or maybe it would just detonate what’s left of my normal.

  “Are we okay? Still friends?” Paloma asks. She eyes the door like she’s expecting me to bolt.

  “We’re good,” I say, and I mean it.

  “Sorry you’re the one who always has to come over. I promise, next time, I’ll come to you.”

  “I can drive, though,” I point out. “It’s easier this way. Safer for you.”

  “What is with everyone worrying about poor, fragile Paloma tonight?” she asks, flopping hard on the cushions with a shake of her head.

  “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s everyone?” I ask, knowing full well exactly who came to see her. A sudden wave of rage wells up in me.

  It feels good to be pissed. I’ve gone so many weeks feeling lost, and this surge of anger feels like something I want to grab onto.

  She tips her head back on the pillow and laughs. It’s then that I catch the minty smell that’s been so familiar to me.

  She waves me off like she regrets saying it. “Just you. And Martin,” she adds quietly.

  “Martin?” I ask, not at all shocked my suspicions have been confirmed.

  “Yeah, he came by an hour or so ago.” She sits up and grabs a couch cushion, pulling it to her chest and hugging it tight.

  “So Martin was here. With you?” I clarify, and the hot rush of hate that pumps through me makes me feel focused for the first time in weeks.

  Paloma sits up a little straighter and pulls her smile in. It’s then that I see the bottle of brown liquor behind her and the small, empty glass.

  “Yeah. He came by, we talked a little, and then he left.”

  I can’t take my eyes off the liquor bottle. Of all the times I’ve smelled alcohol on her, I’ve never actually seen Paloma drink.

  “Why was he here, though?” Panic courses through me. Panic and rage and fuck, why is she drinking? Did something happen? Was I polishing coat hangers while Paloma was being hurt?

  “Oliver,” Paloma says, her expression pinched. “Don’t get jealous on me now. You’re the one who just said earlier that the timing for us was all wr—”

  “Wait.” I push myself off the couch and stare down at her. “Are you seeing him?”

  “No,” she says with a glare. “Don’t be stupid. He was being super shady; I don’t know what the hell was up with him.”

  “Shady like how?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “Shady like you’re being right now,” she says with a wink that feels more desperate than conspiratorial.

  “Paloma—I just—he didn’t hurt you, did he?” The words stick in my throat.

  She laughs me off, but the sound isn’t reassuring. “Martin? God, no. He mostly talked about his baby sister, Bridget, who is nine, and I’ll be honest, is the absolute best part of Martin’s family package. You know, it took me a while to break things off with Martin for several reasons, but one of the biggest was that I’d have no reason to go over and have Bridget give me French braiding tutorials or tell me all about the next video she was planning to put on her YouTube channel. Anyway, he seemed like he was fishing for something. And so do you.”

  I feel like the world starts spinning again.

  “I’m not fishing. I just worry about you.” I glance around
the dark house. “Your parents gone again?”

  Paloma reaches over the back of the couch and pulls a small blanket down onto her lap.

  “I don’t know where my mom is. My dad is at work. He’s doing inventory tonight after close, though, so I probably won’t see him until lunchtime tomorrow.”

  “So you’re just going to stay here alone?” I ask, realizing how big and empty her townhouse is.

  “Well, yeah, Oliver, I do that a lot.”

  I shake my head, like my neck knows what I decided before my brain processes it. “No way. Not tonight.”

  “Because of Martin?” Paloma laughs, but it’s an unsteady sound. “That’s nothing to worry about.”

  “It’d just make me feel better,” I tell her.

  I stretch my legs out onto the matching ottoman to prove my point—that I’m not going anywhere—and Paloma reaches back for her glass. She takes a few sips. For a split second, I pretend not to notice. I wonder if it’s some kind of payback for our fight in the park, or if this is really just Paloma and how she works through shit.

  I guess I already know the answer to that.

  “What’s the deal with your parents, Paloma?” I ask instead. I can tell I’ve hit a nerve when she pinches her lips and narrows her eyes.

  “What do you mean?” she asks as she refills her glass.

  “Like why are they never around?”

  Paloma chugs the contents of her glass before acknowledging me, and I regret asking the question.

  “So, I don’t know if you remember, but we used to go to school together,” she says. She holds up her index finger and leans forward like she’s telling me something I don’t know. Like I don’t vividly remember her every single day of middle school. Like we haven’t already talked about this.

  Then I make the connection. This is the liquor talking. I’ve never been around someone who’s drunk before. That sounds stupid, but it’s the truth.

  “Of course I remember that. We’ve talked about it.”

  “Right, then you also remember that after eighth grade graduation, I transferred schools?” I nod along, even though I don’t see what this has to do with her parents. “Well, after that, your guess is as good as mine, Oliver.”