by Jessi Kirby
Trevor turns to me. “You wanna talk about it?”
“About what?”
“About whatever’s bugging you. Kat, that journal, this trip . . .”
“No. Thank you.”
“All right,” he says. He sits back next to me like he’s ready to settle in and get comfortable, which strikes me as funny since this bench is about the furthest thing from comfortable I can imagine.
I set the journal down and tuck my legs up under me. “Thank you for sticking around. You didn’t have to. Kat’s probably more fun right now.”
“I’m good here,” he says, and he leans his head back on the bench.
We’re quiet, which I guess is my fault since I said I didn’t want to talk about anything, but now the silence feels too heavy, and actually, I do want to talk about it, because I have no idea what just happened with Kat.
“I don’t understand what her problem is, you know?” I say it more to the sky than to Trevor. “One second she wants me to ‘take chances,’ and ‘go on adventures,’ and ‘seize the day,’ ”—I notch angry air quotes around each of the phrases—“and when I finally decide to, she could care less. She’d rather go spend the day at the beach. What the hell?” I stand up and kick a rock without taking my eyes off the gallery, just in case. I shake my head and sit back down. “I can’t figure her out right now.”
“She’s scared,” Trevor says, matter-of-factly.
I scoff. “Kat’s never been afraid of anything in her life.”
“Yeah, I think that’s kind of a front.” He peels a curl of paint from the bench and flicks it.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “Back at the rest stop, when you guys were fighting. You sounded mad, but she sounded worried.”
“You heard that whole thing?” I reach back for what exactly we said, and hope at the same time, it wasn’t too much.
“Not the whole thing,” he says. “Just the tail end of it.” A little smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he looks away. We fall quiet again, and now I’m sure he heard the whole thing.
“I get it,” he says. “Why she’s worried. You guys are like a team. The only thing she ever talks to me about is you.”
A heavy dose of guilt hits me along with his words. I’m the one breaking up the team by leaving. “So what am I supposed to do? Not go? I can’t stay at home. I’m done there. And she won’t come with me, I’ve tried.”
Trevor thinks about it a moment, and though I’m determined not to take my eyes off the gallery, they drift back to his and watch as they run over the endless green hills in the distance. It startles me when they meet mine as he speaks.
“Maybe just . . . tell her that. Before it’s too late and you guys misunderstand each other and make all kinds of wrong assumptions like girls always do.” That right there catches me. And the way his eyes hold mine when he says it. I swear they flash with some sort of double meaning, like Kat’s not the only thing he’s talking about.
“I bet she’ll come around if you do,” he adds. “Just tell her, straight out . . . how you feel.” He doesn’t look away, and neither do I, and all of a sudden I’m positive we’re not talking about Kat anymore.
“Oh, yeah? You have a lot of experience with that? Being straightforward?”
He grins. “I haven’t been anything but with you for the last six years.”
I nearly choke on the laugh that rises, sudden and nervous, in my throat. We’ve always walked the line between being genuine and joking, and right now I can’t tell which side of it he’s on. I decide to bring us back to joking, where it’s safe. “Really? So had I ever taken you up on the art closet thing, it would’ve lasted less than four minutes?”
Now he laughs. “No. That was just an appeal to your practical, nonditching ways. I’d take my time with you. I have taken my time with you.”
I open my mouth but no words come out. No joke or sarcastic remark. He’s stunned me silent, and what makes it worse is that though I can feel how ridiculous I must look with my mouth hanging wide open like that, I can’t seem to close it. He’s taken his time? Flirting and joking around for six years could qualify, I guess. But still. He’s had plenty of girls to keep him busy in the meantime. He hasn’t exactly waited around for me.
I’m about to say so, but I think better of it. And then because I’m feeling brave, but not brave enough to make a real first move, I keep my eyes on his and say, “I wish everyone would say how they really feel. In plain words.”
I throw it out like a challenge. An invitation to cross the line, like Julianna had said, between something and nothing, or before and after. And then I panic inside, but I don’t look away, and neither does Trevor, and I know we’re right there. So close it would only take a second to close up the space between us and tell him how I really feel without needing any words at all. I want to lean in and just kiss him like I didn’t do that day in my car. Kiss him like I’ve been telling myself I didn’t want to for just as long as he’s maybe been waiting for me to do it. I swear he’s thinking the same thing, because the air between us is charged with more than just the hint of a storm.
A smile breaks over his lips, and he looks down at his lap, almost laughing to himself.
“What?” I snap out of it, feeling fluttery and defensive. He shakes his head, laughs some more. “Oh my God, what? What did I say that’s so funny?”
Trevor gets a hold of himself. “Nothing, just the straightforward thing.” He smiles. “You should try it some time—being honest about what you want.” His eyes run over me, searching for a reaction. “Or maybe you’re still not sure.”
Indignation drops my jaw this time. I want to come back with something—an argument, a joke, a pointed comment about how maybe he’s not sure either because he could’ve kissed me just as easily. What is it with him?
Trevor stands slowly, and in that motion, heads off any response from me. “Anyway . . . you wanna get some ice cream? I think it might be the only thing they sell to eat in this town.”
“No. Thanks.” I shake my head and focus all of my attention on the door of the gallery.
He glances over at it, then back to me. “Finding her means a lot to you, huh?”
I look at the journal in my lap, fight the urge to trace her name with my fingers. “Yeah. I don’t know why. It probably seems stupid to even hope.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Trevor says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’d be like a movie. Like one of those chick flicks. If you find her, it means all those things are out there to believe in—true love, and fate, and all that.”
I don’t know what to do with this, what he just said. I search his face for any trace of teasing, but there’s none. He just looks at me like it’s the simplest thing in the world to understand. He put into words something I didn’t even know I thought, but as soon as he said it, I knew it couldn’t be any more true. That’s exactly it. If I could actually find Julianna, and tell her about Orion and the café, and her painting, it would mean something. If I could get her to go back for him, to find him where he went back to find her, it would mean things like that really were possible. True love, meant to be, fate, destiny, serendipity, kismet. They’re all big, romantic words. Words saved for movies and books and fiction. Not for real life. In real life parents get divorced, and people live unfulfilled lives, and love goes unrequited, and there are no second chances, or do-overs, or perfect moments.
“Am I wrong?” Trevor asks me.
“No, no . . . I just . . . how did you know that? I don’t even think I knew that, but it’s true.”
He smiles. “I have three older sisters, Frost. I’ve seen a lot of chick flicks against my will. Everyone wants the people to end up together in the end. It’s human nature. The funny thing is, you always know they’re going to. You just never know how.”
I look down at the journal. “That’s the best part. The how.”
Again we’re quiet, but this time there’s no tension. It feels like we’v
e just agreed on something. Trevor looks from me to the gallery and back again. “So how ’bout this?” He reaches down, and I’m surprised when he takes my hand, but I let him pull me up from the bench so we stand facing each other.
“I’m willing to bet that we can walk around this entire town—and not lose sight of that gallery,” he says.
I glance over at it, then sweep my eyes up and down the empty street. He’s right. And we’re holding hands, and his grip is firm, and I don’t want to let go. “All right,” I say, trying to hide a smile. “Twist my arm.”
Instead, he squeezes my hand, and we walk, knowing where we’re going, just not sure about how we’ll get there.
26.
“So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.”
—“REVELATION”
In the space of an hour we’ve managed to tour the entire “town” of Harmony without ever taking our eyes off the gallery, and not one person has come in or out of it. After stopping by the old creamery for ice cream, we found a closed saloon, an open wine-tasting room that does, in fact, check IDs, a wedding chapel, and a glass blowing studio full of beautiful, swirled “tobacco” pipes hand blown by an aging hippie who didn’t bother to pull his wild gray hair back into a ponytail. Apparently this is one of those places that people only come to for art, drinking, smoking, and getting married.
By the time we finish our lap, the clouds have multiplied and deepened to an ominous shade of gray. We sit back down on the bench, and the easy talking and laughing of our walk subsides into quiet. I check my phone for the millionth time. No missed calls. Not from my mom, which is a good thing, but not from Kat either, which worries me a little. It’s late afternoon now, and I would’ve thought that even if she were mad at me, she would’ve called or come back by now.
My hopes lift a bit at the sound of a car coming from the direction of the highway, but when it makes the turn onto the main street, I see it’s just a beat-up pickup truck. The truck slows and comes to a stop, and a man and a woman get out and begin unloading the back. They take out one of those fold-up tables and a few chairs, then begin to cover the table with cardboard cases full of oranges and avocados. In the next few minutes several other trucks and cars pull up, all of them setting up makeshift produce stands.
“Guess Harmony has a farmers’ market too,” I say to Trevor.
He’s eyeing a truck that arrived towing a large, half barrel that’s now sending wood smoke drifting in our direction. “More importantly, they have barbecue.”
We watch as the empty main street of the town becomes an outdoor country market filled with citrus and olive oil, avocados and honey-filled mason jars in flavors like lavender and orange blossom. Other cars begin to pull up, and families with strollers and people toting reusable shopping bags fill the street. A music trio sets up near our bench and a woman wearing a long skirt and Birkenstocks tests the microphone while the two guys who are with her tune their guitars. In no time the ghost town we’ve spent the afternoon walking around becomes a bustling outdoor market filled with live music, barbecue smoke, and kids running around with painted faces and cotton candy.
“Wow,” Trevor says. “Who knew?”
“Really.” I scan the crowd, being careful to keep the gallery in my sights. “Where did all these people just come from?”
Trevor shrugs. “There’re all kinds of little towns nearby. Maybe this is what they all do on Mondays. Wanna check it out?”
“Sure.” I stand, wanting to find a place closer to the gallery now that there are so many people milling around. As we walk, I scan for blond hair and come up with matches in every direction. It makes me nervous as I search each of their faces for some trace of the girl whose journal I’m still holding. I want to think that I would recognize her right away, but the truth is, ten years is a long time, and she could be any one of these people walking around me. She could have a child with her, or be strolling down the street holding hands with a new love. There’s nothing that says she’ll be alone. Or easy to recognize.
“You wanna stick close to the gallery?” Trevor asks. His eyes run over the people we pass too, and it makes me feel good that both of us are looking for her.
I nod and we duck between two booths selling the same assortment of oranges, lemons, and avocados. It’s getting harder to make out people’s faces in the dusky light, so camping out in front of the gallery seems the safest bet. We stand in front of the window, hands in our pockets, with nothing else that we can really do except wait.
Inside the gallery a few people mill about, and I see that Ashley has put out wine and a cheese platter. She’s standing in front of the ocean painting, having an animated, one-sided conversation with a woman who holds a glass of wine in one hand and a cracker in the other and doesn’t seem to be listening.
“Bet she’s not there for the art,” Trevor says.
I watch Ashley talk as the woman sips. “Bet you’re right.”
The only other people in the gallery are a middle-aged man—maybe the woman’s husband—who is posted up right next to the food, helping himself, and a petite, dark-haired woman in skinny jeans and a lacy tank top, who looks more like she belongs at a tattoo shop than an art gallery. A fat raindrop lands on the back of my hand, and then another hits my cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Trevor flinch, then wipe a drop from his forehead before we both turn back to the gallery window.
What I witness next happens in quick succession and in slow motion at the same time. I see Ashley say something to the one in the tank top, who then walks over and shakes the hand of the woman holding the wine glass. Ashley talks between them, gesturing at the ocean painting, and the wine woman brings her free hand to her chest in an emphatic gesture. The brunette nods graciously and tries to inch away, but then Ashley stops her and ushers her over to the glass counter. She looks confused at first, but Ashley picks up a slip of paper and hands it to her. As soon as she reads what it says, the confusion on her face tumbles into something else. Something like fear and recognition, and at that instant, that is exactly what I feel.
She’s visibly shaken. The paper slips from her fingers and flutters to the floor. I suck in a deep breath. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Trevor looks from me to the girl falling apart in the gallery. A raindrop lands in my eye, blurring my vision momentarily. I’m suspended in the moment, paralyzed.
Trevor’s voice cuts through it and his hand grabs the phone from mine. “It’s Kat. I’ll talk to her. You go. Now. That has to be her.”
I look from him back to the gallery, and Ashley and the couple are still there, and Ashley looks like she’s apologizing or something, and the girl—Julianna—is gone. I burst through the door, a rush of wind and rain and desperation and hope.
Ashley looks at me, startled. “Oh—um, she just left. I’m so sorry, I—”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know, I—”
I don’t wait for her to finish. I push past the three of them and duck through the doorway I saw Ashley come out of earlier. It’s a small hallway with a door on each side and one in front of me that didn’t close all the way. Rain and mist sneak through the crack, and I know she went out that door.
Raindrops prick my face with cold when I step outside again. I look around, desperate. She can’t have disappeared into thin air. To the left there’s nothing but emptiness. The dark backs of buildings, and a few trash cans next to their back doors. I look to the right, and just in time, I see her small figure, which looks fragile in the rain, about to turn the corner at the end of the street.
“JULIANNA!”
She freezes, and in the light from the corner building I see her turn, just slightly. Then she grabs the door handle in front of her, yanks it open, and disappears behind it.
I run. Through the rain, past one, two, three buildings and their doors, until I get to the one she went in, and when I burst through that one, it’s with little hope that she’ll actually be in
side. Cigarette smoke and the smell of alcohol rush at me on warm air, and I realize I’m in the saloon that was closed earlier. It’s packed now, with every table taken and barely any standing room at the bar. My heart beats a desperate rhythm in my chest. Be here, be here, be here. I repeat it like a prayer as I take my first tentative steps through the crowd of people. And then it’s answered.
She’s there. Sitting at the far end of the bar, forehead resting in one hand so that I can’t see her face, but I know it’s her. My feet step beneath me, my hand reaches under my shirt for the journal, and I forget to breathe. I forget everything else except for Julianna Farnetti, who lifts her head just as I get to her and looks at me with complete and utter anguish in her green eyes.
I don’t have the right words for this moment. But then I do. I have hers. Without saying anything, I walk over to where she’s sitting, set her journal on the bar, and slide it over to her.
27.
“So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”
—1923
I sit on the small couch in a tiny studio apartment directly above the gallery with the rain pouring down in what seems like a roar compared to the heavy, silent stillness between us inside. I feel like a trespasser, like being here in the tiny space that is obviously hers is an invasion. I try to make myself small, unintimidating, nonthreatening. I don’t want her to think I’m here to out her secret or reveal her if she doesn’t want to be. The quiet between us feels tenuous, and despite the harshness of her dyed dark hair and the heavy eyeliner that’s smudged from the rain, she looks fragile. Like this—me being here—could be enough to break her.
I’m careful with this moment because I want to be careful with her. She moves very deliberately in the small kitchen area—filling a teakettle, setting it on the burner. Avoiding my gaze. I try to reassure her by avoiding hers, too. My eyes trail over the details of her life here—not as Julianna Farnetti, but as Hope, artist who would prefer to remain anonymous. There are canvases in various stages of completion leaned in stacks against the wall facing the couch. An easel. A table near the window, and on it, a single white flower in a cobalt glass vase. On the nightstand next to the bed is a white candle burned down low, and a sketchbook. All objects that add up to a simple life.