by Nan Lowe
The second is from our neighbor, Scott.
We’re good for tomorrow, man. See you then.
“What’s that about?” I ask.
Wade shifts in his seat and taps the steering wheel before he answers. “I promised to help him move some furniture for his brother after work tomorrow.”
He’s focused on the rearview mirror, the gas gauge, and the Bluetooth settings on the dash—anything but a glance in my direction. It might not be an outright lie, but it isn’t the truth.
“Where?” The word sounds heavy on my tongue.
“Not sure,” he says.
It takes a few deep breaths to calm myself enough to check the last text. It’s from Nick.
NYE in NOLA? Hell, yeah! Baker said no, by the way. His in-laws are in town, and he said Leanne would have his balls if he agreed to work CE.
“Damn it,” Wade says.
“It’s okay.”
We slip into the type of silence that normally feels comfortable with Wade. Tonight, it strangles as the mile markers slip by in the darkness. There are times I want to curse this intuition. I don’t know exactly what’s coming, but it isn’t good.
The lights of Atlanta loom in the distance when he speaks again.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not really,” I say.
“We’ll go home, then.”
Traffic’s surprisingly bad for a Sunday night, and by the time we park and make the trek to our apartment, we’re irritated and exhausted.
He falls asleep long before I do, so I stare at him in the pale light from the television. Dark curls cover the tips of his ears. It’s been a while since he’s had a haircut. My fingers settle at the base of his neck, and my thumb sweeps over the stubble on his chin that will be gone tomorrow morning. He sleeps through it, breathing steadily and completely oblivious.
The timer shuts off the TV, but my mind still whirls. Memories and worst-case scenarios flash and threaten in the darkness until exhaustion wins out.
Wade’s alarm stirs me long enough to feel his scruff on my neck and hear the words “I love you.” Hours later, I wake again to cold sheets and silence. It’s early enough to shower and down a large cup of black coffee before Wren picks me up. Sliding Wade’s ring off my finger makes my stomach twist. No matter how many times I tell myself it’ll be fine, I can’t leave it in the small wooden box on my dresser. It feels wrong. I find an old silver chain in the contents, add the ring, and wear it tucked under my sweater instead. On the way out, I grab Wren’s Christmas gift and take it down with me.
“We’re going to Little Five Points,” she says when I get in the car.
“Who are we shopping for?” I ask.
She checks her mirrors and pulls away from the curb. “Everyone. Well, everyone but you.”
Wren excels at procrastination. She always has. It’s a good thing she decided to burn vacation time with a three-day weekend.
“I know what I’m buying,” she says. “Kind of. I need food first, though. Burgers with fried eggs.”
My mouth waters. I prefer fried chicken topped with a fried egg and bacon that’s drowned in sausage gravy. “We’re going to have pacemakers by the time we’re forty.”
“You were the one who said all bets were off until January. Oh! We’re on for New Year’s. We won’t actually get there until New Year’s Eve, though. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” I say. “Whenever’s fine.”
The parking lot of our favorite brunch spot is packed. Everyone and their mother’s brother are here since school is out and it’s Christmas Week. We wait, though, because the food’s worth it.
The view isn’t bad, either. The server for one of the closest sections is hot and tatted, wearing an old-school bowling shirt, torn jeans, and black boots. Wren gives me a sour look when we’re finally led to our seats and they’re not in his section.
The girl who takes our order is cool, so the complaining doesn’t last long. Since we both know what we want, we don’t waste time looking at the menus. Our first drinks are on the table moments after we’ve ordered.
“Are you nervous about the reception?” Wren asks.
“Are you kidding?” I reach for the beef jerky garnish and use it to stir my Bloody Mary. “Every time I think about it, I want to throw up.”
“I’m guessing Troya will be there.”
“Troya, Penn, George, and all of his family…”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” she says.
“How can it not be a bad thing?” I ask.
“You should talk to her. You should’ve talked to her years ago.”
“I should’ve, but I didn’t.”
“Call her. Tell her you’re sorry. Don’t wait until the reception to see her. Y’all should talk and work this shit out once and for all.”
“You really think it’s that easy?” I ask.
“I do.” She downs the rest of her Bloody Mary and nods for another. “Please call her.”
“I don’t know. She’s married now, so her husband will be with her. I’ve never met him, but I can imagine what he’s heard about me from her family.” “Sorry” doesn’t undo the past or open a time portal. Troya was a much better friend to me than I ever was to her.
“I still think you should call her. You’re going to see her and her husband either way. It can’t hurt.”
“It can,” I say. “It can hurt a lot. She might tell me to fuck off.”
“And if she does, that’s okay. You earned it.” I lower my glass and my eyes to the table. “You’ll both get some shit off your chests, and you’ll feel better.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Ugh. You’re so damn stubborn.”
“I know,” I say. “It sucks.”
Our food’s delivered, which temporarily stops the conversation. Neither of us can finish the generous servings, but we leave the leftovers since we have a long day ahead of us. After settling our bills, we spend the afternoon walking off brunch and crossing items off Wren’s “Nice” list.
We find a cute dress for her sister, bike equipment and accessories for Nick, and a stack of records from the seventies for her parents. I score at the record store, too, and find several Black Sabbath albums. Dad’s the hardest person on my list to shop for, but I know he likes the band. My nerdy father likes to pretend to be a rocker in his spare time. He’s not bad on air guitar. He’ll love these, and I love the obnoxious sense of accomplishment that accompanies knowing he will.
When we’re finished in Little Five Points, we make a trip to the apartment Wren and I used to share to drop off her purchases and take her dog for a walk. We spend the rest of the afternoon wrapping presents and sipping wine on the floor of her living room.
Wade sends a text when he’s leaving work to meet Scott.
This shouldn’t take long. Want to meet for dinner? Bring Wren. Nick’s working swing.
“Do you want to have dinner with me and Wade?” I ask her.
She looks up. “Where?”
“Not sure. Let me check.”
While we wait for his answer, we exchange gifts. The small wrapped package she gives me has a gorgeous planner with a black raven on the cover. She’s thrilled with the Rudolph gift bag filled with an assortment of character-themed knee socks I picked out for her upcoming season of kickball.
Wade answers, suggesting the Thai restaurant on Piedmont, and Wren agrees. Since she’s had more wine than me, definitely more than the legal limit, we decide to take the MARTA. On our way to the station, we stop at the post office long enough for me to pack up the wrapped LPs and ship them off to Dufossat Street in a flat-rate shipping box. I don’t want to risk damaging them in my checked luggage.
“You didn’t buy much,” she says.
“I’m giving my nephews and niece money.” I shrug and grin. “I’ll be able to find stuff for Miss Verity at the apothecary back home. Mom will be easier to buy for in New Orleans, too. I don’t want to check five bags and get stuck hauling stuff through two airpo
rts.”
“Good idea. What about the sibs?”
“Ronnie wants a Sephora gift card, her husband likes Home Depot, and Van and Corey asked for Lowe’s cards for some remodeling they’re doing.”
“That’s easy enough,” she says. “What are they getting you?”
“Ronnie will give me a Barnes & Noble gift card. I’m not sure about Van. He didn’t ask what I wanted this year, but he did say it was something for me and Wade.”
She laughs as the train slows at our stop. “Y’all are like an old married couple.”
I’m glad I’m walking behind her. My hand touches the outline of the ring resting beneath my shirt, and the urge to blurt out the news is even stronger this time. I almost wish I hadn’t asked Wade to wait.
He’s waiting for us in front of the restaurant, relaxed and leaning against the wall, with one hand in his pocket while the other grips his phone. The dim light from the streetlamp accents the curve of his jaw, which is now shaved. He also cut his hair, trimmed above his ears and shorter on top, so the curls are gone.
“Hey,” he says, pushing away from his spot to greet me with a hug and a kiss on my neck.
My fingernails scratch the back of his head lightly. “Your hair…”
“I went to Tasha on my lunchbreak. I need to look serious tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say.
“Hey, Wren,” he says, leaving one arm at my waist while opening the door to the restaurant for us.
“Hey,” she says. “Ignore her. The hair looks great. Very professional.”
“I like it.” I glance over my shoulder at her. “I was surprised. That’s all.”
She grins. “A warning text would’ve been nice, right? When they get a haircut, they look totally different, but when we get one, they don’t even notice. It’s funny how that works.”
Wade shakes his head but doesn’t argue. He orders a beer, but Wren and I are done drinking, so we ask for water. “How’s work?” he asks her after our orders are in and he’s taken a relaxing pull from the amber bottle in front of him.
“Shitty,” she says. “There’s a wicked strain of rotavirus in a couple of the daycares near the station. Wash your hands when you get to work every day, especially before you eat.”
He gives her a disgusted look. “Great.”
“You asked,” I say. Going to school with Wren was bad enough. She used to scare the daylights out of me with infectious disease statistics and information. I learned a long time ago to never ask. Wade’s still fascinated that she works for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Most of her job is boring paperwork and research, but Wade always asks on the off chance that something dramatic might’ve happened.
He never learns.
We get a lecture about the flu over seafood noodles, and during the meal, Wren takes Germ-X from her purse three times to clean her hands. I miss our late-night girl talks and ice-cream-and-movie marathons, not the sanitizer.
“Did y’all get a lot done today?” Wade asks.
“I’m done with my shopping now,” Wren says.
“She killed it this year. Look at this,” I tell him, pulling the planner from my bag.
He takes the black faux leather between his fingers and opens the book. “Nice.” He inspects a few of the pages, nodding his approval.
When he’s done, I tuck it away safely between my wallet and makeup bag.
“Sorry we’re crashing your New Orleans visit,” Wren says to Wade.
“Maybe you’ll remember some of this trip.” He reaches for the ticket when the server brings it to the table. “It’s on me,” he says.
Wren leaves the tip, and we walk out into the cool night air together. “What now?” she asks.
“We could catch a movie,” Wade says. “Unless you need to go home and pack?” He looks at me.
“It won’t take long, but your interview’s tomorrow. You sure you want to stay out?”
“I’m going to be up and freaking out, anyway. I’d rather do something fun with you.”
“Aaaaand I’m out,” Wren says. “Y’all go be cute alone somewhere. Leave me out of that nonsense. I have to work tomorrow, and I need my bed.” She steps up to hug me. “Thank you for the socks. I love them.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for the planner.”
“Have a safe flight. Text me when you get to New Orleans, okay?”
“Okay.”
Wade flags a cab for her and opens the door. She pauses right before she gets in, turns, and holds my stare. “Call her.”
I wave. “See you next week.”
She rolls her eyes and disappears inside the cab. Wade closes the door after her and then turns to face me when she’s gone.
“Call who?”
“She thinks I should talk to Troya before the reception.”
“Do you think she’ll cause trouble or something?” he asks with a frown.
“No. She wouldn’t do that. She loves Van. She’d never do anything to hurt him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Oliver and Troya were friends and cousins, but they had little in common. Don’t let your opinion of him cloud your judgment of her.”
I made that mistake, and it cost me dearly.
“Did she take his side when you were arrested?”
“No.” I laugh and feel light for a moment. “She gave him a black eye. Don’t look so surprised,” I say when he raises his brows. “I think she punched him to keep Van from doing it. He was angrier than Dad.”
“Did Miss Verity know you were going to get in trouble that night?”
“Think of a gut feeling you’ve had in the past.” I pause to give him time to consider what I’ve said. “Now amplify it times a hundred.”
He stares at me as he picks apart something in his head. “Is that how it feels for you?”
“Sometimes.”
Chapter Eighteen
Then
Van snuck into my room as soon as he heard Dad close the door of my parents’ bedroom.
“What the hell happened?” he asked. “Dad was shouting. Mom was crying. Miss Verity made coffee after midnight…”
I didn’t want to tell him, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. He sat next to me on my bed and put his arm around me when I started sobbing quietly. Exhaustion, shame, anger, and hurt swirled in my thoughts and gut. With my face and my fist buried in my little brother’s t-shirt, I cried until there weren’t any tears left and sleep took over.
The next morning, Van was still in my bed when I opened my eyes. If I thought I’d felt bad the night before, it was nothing compared to how small I felt under my brother’s stare.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know what kills me?” he asked. “You’ll break up with a guy for treating me like shit, but you’ll stay with someone who does it to you.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.” I made it to the bathroom in time to dry-heave in front of the toilet, a false alarm. My hands shook, and the tell-tale taste of salt and snot coated the back of my throat. “I need a shower!” I called over my shoulder.
Instead of waiting for an answer, I slammed the door, turned the faucet to scalding hot, and stripped down. I spent at least ten minutes brushing my teeth and disinfecting my mouth with stout mouthwash. My hair was knotted and dirty from the tryst in the cemetery, and after cleaning it, I scrubbed every inch of my body under the water, trying to wash away the guilt, disappointment, and traces of Oliver.
My brother was right. Miss Verity was right. Hell, Penn was right. Oliver was sucking me dry. Letting my father end it seemed like the easiest way out. Not seeing him would be a good thing.
My mother was waiting on my bed when I got back to my room. I walked past her to the closet and stepped inside to dress in privacy.
“I’m taking your laptop,” she said. “If you need the internet for schoolwork, you can use the computer in our office under our supervision.” I walked
out into the room, and she stood and held out a large envelope. “Here. This came a few minutes ago.”
It was from Auburn, and it was fat.
I got in.
I took it from her and hugged it against my chest. As promised, she went to my desk, unhooked my laptop from the charger, and tucked it under her arm.
“Your father and I would like to speak to you.”
They were waiting in their office, and I took the seat between their desks. My wet hair and bare feet seemed inadequate with my mother’s pearls on one side of me and my father’s Polo sweater vest on the other. I’d accused him of selling out the night before. That’s what they wanted from me, and I knew it.
“Your phone and laptop are off limits until we decide otherwise,” my father started. “If we catch you using Van’s, he’ll lose his, too.”
“Okay.”
“If you try to see Oliver against our wishes, we’ll file a restraining order against him,” my mother said. “I don’t care what you told your father. I know the marijuana was his.” I stayed quiet, which was a mistake because it ignited her temper. “You’re still going to take up for him?” She stood and walked around her desk to stand directly in front of me. “He let you go to jail for him, Violet!”
I shook my head and chewed the inside of my cheek to keep from talking.
“Miss Verity will take you to school and pick you up every day,” Dad said. “I’ll have to talk to Doctor Winston on Monday morning to explain what happened. Hopefully, this won’t be a repeat of last year.”
“Yes,” I said. “How embarrassing.”
“You’re not even sorry,” Mom said. “What’s it going to take?”
“Sorry doesn’t mean anything.”
“Then neither do those papers upstairs from Auburn!” my father yelled. “You want to go? You want to be a grownup? Start acting like one!”
“Oh, now you want me to go?!” I yelled back.
“Yeah.” He nodded and rested his hands on his hips. “I do.”
Words failed me. I should’ve been careful about what I’d wished for. I’d wanted them to let me go because they believed in me. Instead, they were sending me away because they didn’t. One thing was clear: they didn’t want me around.