I had a feeling a bomb was about to go off.
“Dad went through my shit…read every letter you’d ever sent me and found my journal. I’d been fairly detailed about my teenage sexual fantasies, and they all had one girl. Can you guess who that person was, Rylie?”
Good.
God.
“It was my dad who came to me and said he knew you’d be there again. He also knew I’d made a plan that, if you’d let me, I wanted to be your first and wanted you to be mine.”
“Stop talking,” I whispered.
He moved closer and was right back where he started.
“Dad trusted me to do right by you. I was eighteen, a virgin, and had no interest in waiting.”
“So you slept with someone else?”
He looked off to the side.
“No, I didn’t. I asked her to prom. We were in a study group together. She was crying her eyes out one day, told me she was in love with some Marine. He was like, twenty-five. She had pressure from her parents, still seventeen, they wanted her to date someone her own age. So we exchanged secrets, I guess. She kept mine; I kept hers. Except, she lives in Florida with her Marine husband and three kids, and I’m perpetually single and live in a one bedroom apartment in Santa Rosa.”
“You never had a girlfriend.” I whispered.
“No, Rylie. I didn’t.”
I pushed away from him, my mouth coating itself in preparation for what was to come, and ran toward the field behind his parents’ house. I threw up everything in my stomach, but I kept heaving with wracking sobs, unable to keep my shit together. If I’d listened….if I’d answered his letters…if I hadn’t met Nick…
His hands were in my hair, pulling it back, but it was no use. I was a mess in every way possible.
“This isn’t…” I hiccupped, “how I imagined this going.”
“Yeah?” he said softly. “How’d you imagine it?”
“We would have it out, and then we’d have angry sex, and then we’d fall in love and have babies and live happily ever after.”
See? Honesty.
“Oh Rylie,” he said with humor in his voice, not at all bothered when he wiped the edges of my disgusting mouth with his hand. “I’ll be pissing you off again…probably on purpose just so we can have that angry sex you just mentioned.”
When I was as cleaned up as I could get without a shower, fresh clothes, mouthwash, and a frontal lobotomy, I remembered I had to ask him something important. “Do you know what happened? I mean, with my husband?”
Before he could reply, I was at it again, my body ridding itself of the demon liquor.
As he sat beside me, rubbing my back, he started to talk. “I’d like to take you on a date soon. But before we get started here, I need to take care of some things.”
“What kind of things?” I stupidly asked.
“Just trust me on this, yeah?” He stood up and offered his hand. “I’ll walk you home.”
“I’m at the cottages. I’m—”
“I know where you live, Rylie. Known for a few months now.”
I was feeling pretty wrecked, disheveled, not-so-fresh, and the emergence of tears and vomit had weakened my resolve, so I didn’t push to know why he hadn’t sought me out.
But he read my mind.
“I saw your brother when he brought you to town. He didn’t tell me what happened, but said you were single again. Said it was rough, not your choice, and not your fault. Said it wasn’t his story to tell. Asked about me, where I’d been, what kind of man I was now…like he was vetting me for you. I asked Lee one afternoon what happened; he gave me the same line. But it was Lee who asked me…no, told me, to go.”
We walked on the path that connected his parents’ property to my aunt and uncle’s. His parents’ meadow and the meadow where the buses stood were separated by a thick line of aspens. And there in the distance, the cottages grew closer as we moved in our comfortable silence. “Back there…when I yelled…you know, that wasn’t really about you.”
“I figured that. And I have to be honest here, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel, seeing you again.” He reached out for my hand and lifted it to his lips. “You’re gonna stay?”
I shrugged like it was no big deal. “Well, I just bought a house.”
He stopped and pulled me into him, slowly, moving us together like puzzle pieces.
A perfect fit.
“Welcome home, Rylie May.”
EIGHT
Three weeks had passed since Quentin watched me puke. That’s how I decided I would remember that night. Maybe years from now he’d say, “Hey, remember that one time when you puked and I held your hair back…”
So romantic.
But, in those three weeks, I hadn’t heard from him. At all. Luckily, I was distracted since my parents had not only decided to arrive early, they extended their stay…
Indefinitely.
I settled Mom and Dad into the first bus, The Redwood, and asked for their eventual feedback. That first week was spent catching it up. Mom joined me on shopping excursions, and Dad and Uncle Lee went over the plans for Aunt Ardie’s garden café. The second week, Aunt Ardie and Mom made it their sole mission to fill my house with crap. Macy’s was more than happy to accommodate their needs, forget what I wanted. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love every square inch of my new home. I did give them a little guidance here and there, and, lucky for me, they listened.
While I scoured local antique shops for the buses and cottages, I found a few pieces I wanted for myself. One find was a treasure trove of Bakelite vintage accessories—a hand sifter, a set of manual egg beaters—all in bright, cherry red. Those were the items my mom and aunt worked around, and the Vintage Americana theme continued throughout the house.
Our first day out to the mall, I wandered into Gaslight, my former employer. The city was different, but everything else was the same. That’s when I officially handed the baton to Mom and Aunt Ardie. I really didn’t know what my style was anymore, but it wasn’t Southern California Rylie. I was well and truly immersed in the second bus revamp, so I entrusted them with the task.
One week later, my house was done.
Those three weeks were jam-packed with work, shopping, and home refurbishment, during which I gave my kitchen a workout, found my way back to an entire, new season of Vikings, and enjoyed just being alone, which still shocked the shit out of me.
My eyes drifted to my river rock fireplace and all the various décor on the thick plank of wood above it. There was one item that hadn’t been acquired on a shopping trip. It was a family heirloom, something that belonged to my mother’s grandmother, inside which she kept special treasures. Almost like a changing of the guard, she’d presented the box to me and said, “These are for you.”
“What is it?” I asked, about to open it and expecting a broach or a string of pearls, but she stopped me.
She laid her hand over the top and said, “When you have a quiet moment, when it’s just you, open it then.”
And now, since I was definitely having a quiet moment, I looked at the stack of postcards and the tea cup where my wedding rings lived and decided that box would be their new place for safe-keeping. I’d just finished unpacking the remainder of my belongings from the cottage, avoiding the postcards and rings. I knew how I felt; I no longer needed to keep a diary or take my emotional pulse. But I still didn’t know what to do with those rings. The box my mom had brought would provide a perfect home for both, for now at least. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
I set down my glass of wine, walked over to the mantel, and opened that box. I assumed there was something inside. I just didn’t know what. So I lifted the contents into my hands, letters, addressed to me, and there had to be at least fifty in the tightly-bound stack.
After I settled back down on the couch, I filled up my wine glass, untied the stack, and started at the bottom. I laughed out loud at the poor penmanship both Quentin and I had at the time and smiled as my fingers dr
ifted across the words. As I went through each and every one, a few of them several times, I realized I hadn’t asked him about his mother. She’d been mentally ill most of his life. He’d always tell me if she was having a good week or not. But as he got older, he told me about incidents, not wanting to scare or worry me, but I could tell when he was holding back. We told each other everything, so why should the details about his mother be any different.
At such a young age, I didn’t understand what he’d been dealing with, but as I read each heart-wrenching description, I wept for that little boy I’d known all those years ago. So many of his letters mentioned her cutting her arms and legs, sometimes too deep. How those cuts would sometimes lead to a hospital stay. How she drank more and more to stop the voices. Random men would bring her home, and he was always surprised his dad didn’t share the same anger he did.
“She’s not well, Quentin.” That’s what he tells me. “She loves you kids. Never forget it’s the illness doing the talking.” Last week I couldn’t get her blood out from under my nails. I hate her, Rylie. I get so mad and so scared and I go to our field to escape and look up and see you. And that gets me through. For now.
She’d had lengthy stays at what their dad called “retreats” but he knew were institutions. Those were the happy times. When he, his big brother, and their dad would go fishing or camping. Any time spent without her was happy for Quentin.
And then one letter that still didn’t make any sense.
Some words can’t be unsaid, Rylie May. But this dirt is all I can share for now.
I’d been reading those letters for over an hour, longer. And when I reached the last three, my heart skipped. They’d been carefully taped back together. My mother, the romantic soul, had retrieved every old letter I’d thrown away in haste and the ones I’d all but destroyed in anger.
The first torn letter consisted of two words.
I’m sorry.
The second was a little more involved. He explained everything about the girl I’d seen him with. He told me all about her boyfriend then explained how his dad had found his letters from me and read them all, as well as the journal he’d kept.
And the third…
Well, the third made my heart stop altogether.
Dearest Rylie May,
I want you to know, you have always and will always be my first. My first love, the first girl I ever kissed, the first girl I ever touched. The mind is a powerful thing, and I know for a fact the fantasy of you will always be better than the reality of anyone else. You are my heart. You are my savior. You are my sky.
Quentin
He always did have a way with words. He was the guy who carried a paperback everywhere, pages dog-eared, spines broken. If it wasn’t a book, he had a notepad or a journal. I could see him in my mind’s eye as he leaned against a tree, legs crossed at the ankles, and, as soon as he saw me, he’d stop whatever he was doing, and it was me and him.
Always.
Back to the mantel, I returned the letters to the box, along with the postcards to Nick. Then I picked up my wedding rings from their cup and twisted them on the top of my pinky. That’s when I heard a gust of wind sweep across the back deck. My lone wind chime clanged gong-like tones into the night. And in the pitch darkness, I could just see the tree line, my very own backdrop of redwoods.
I took the phone from my jeans pocket and hoped I had a good signal. Rain was forecast, and the wind told me it was on its way, carrying the scent of distant, wet earth. Though I’d told myself I wouldn’t lean on my family, I needed to hear Billy’s voice.
“Are you sleeping?” I asked, looking at the sky out the kitchen window.
“Oddly enough, no. I was just getting ready to go out. What’s up?”
He sounded distracted, and I was tempted to let him go. But, as selfish as it might be, I didn’t. “I…” I began, but hesitated.
I heard him light up a cigarette. “You’ve got my full attention. I have a few minutes.”
“It’s going to rain. I can smell it.”
“You know,” he said as he took a drag, “I used to love the rain. Before I moved to the land of grey and gloomy. Depressing as fuck. I even bought this lamp that gives off special light so you don’t get depressed,” he explained on the exhale.
“I don’t miss him anymore.” This was the purpose of my call.
“That’s okay, Ry.”
“I’m…I’m not looking for validation. I think I just needed to say the words out loud to someone.”
“Okay.”
“I saw Quentin. He said you told him to wait.”
“You weren’t ready,” he countered defensively, as if I was pissed off or something. “And I don’t think he was ready either.”
“No…I’m not mad. You were right to let me get settled. When are you gonna come and see my new place? Mom and Aunt Ardie single-handedly decorated the entire thing. And honest to God, I think they did it with you in mind.”
I heard him shift again. “I’m not sure.”
“Are you okay?” I probably should’ve eased into the question, but it was too late. I always blurted what came to mind when it came to Billy. When he didn’t answer, I went on. “Hey, do you remember a girl named Lucy?”
“Yeah,” he said with a reminiscent smile in his voice. “I remember Lucy.”
“She remembers you, too.” I grinned.
“Oh yeah?” He sounded amused, which I took as a good thing.
“I might have inferred you were coming down for a visit.” I waited again and only heard movement on his end, car keys jangling. “Like I said, my place is awesome, and I have a guest room and Wi-Fi.”
“Cool. Listen, I gotta go.”
“Billy—”
“You okay?” he asked pointedly. “I mean, let’s say you and Quentin hit it off, or you and some other guy hit it off and things go bad, are you gonna be okay?”
I nodded before I answered, twirling the rings around and around. “I’m gonna be okay. My life is mine to live. I mean, that’s what it’s all about, right? You find the people you enjoy being around and be around them as long as you have. Whether those people come in and out of your life by choice or tragedy…I can’t just give up.”
He took a breath and said, “Good, Ry. That’s good. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And he hung up. Strange there was no goodbye or formal sign-off, which made me think he really had been in a hurry and now I’d made him late. But I was glad he took the time to talk to me.
I had to say the words to someone, for my own self-validation more than anything else. Just because I didn’t miss Nick anymore didn’t mean the pain had left me. My grief was my phantom limb, giving me stinging reminders now and again to remind me I’d suffered. So, after reading Quentin’s letters, I left the rings on so I could decide what to do with them once and for all. I grabbed my wine glass and went to the deck off the kitchen, where I could clear my head and breathe in the coming late-Spring storm…
“Rylie.”
His voice come to me through the trees that just hung over my deck. And I hadn’t realized I’d been crying until I lifted my hand to my face. I wiped below each eye and felt a drop come from the heavens. And then another. As Quentin’s footsteps moved to the side of the house, where a path and gate led right to me, that’s when I knew exactly what to do.
I whispered to those gold bands, “Remember when we stood outside the door to our baby girl’s room?” I slipped the rings off my finger and held them in my palm. “Enough.”
And then it began to pour, right at that very moment. Huge drops pelted my face and soaked my hair in a flash flood, punctuated by lightning and a clap of thunder. I wanted to believe this was a sign, but then remembered I didn’t believe in them. In fact, I’d stopped believing in much of anything. Just as Quentin picked up the pace to get to me and get us inside from the storm, a branch moved with a gust and knocked my hand, sending the rings through the slats of the deck to the emban
kment below.
“Oh God!” I panicked and barreled right past him, down the steps, and into a puddle. Wet earth splattered up onto my jeans while I began a frantic search on my hands and knees.
“Rylie…” Quentin called behind me.
“I lost him!” I cried out as I crawled and clawed at the dirt and rocks, Quentin crawling in right behind me. “God, God, please!” I sobbed. “Please, I have to find him…”
The fight went right out of me when I realized what I’d said.
Quentin pulled me into his arms, both of us soaked and filthy, when I looked up and noticed for the first time, there was pain there. So much pain. I knew because it was just like looking in a mirror.
“I’m…” There was no point in trying to explain the tumult of emotions. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
His lapis eyes were empathy, his handsome face hope, and his words a salve when he reached up and cradled my face in his hands. And finally, his voice trembled with pain when he answered.
“I’m watching the sky cry.” He moved the matted strands of hair from my face until he could see my eyes. “What happened to you?”
I shook my head, gulping in breath, trying to get the words out. “I lost him.”
But it was then, when he kept staring at me, I wondered if it mattered I didn’t really know him anymore. My gut told me the details of twenty years weren’t necessary, that in our story, you could skip those chapters we were apart and it wouldn’t matter.
“I know you’re hurting…and I hate you’re still feeling it…but I’d being lying if I wasn’t grateful as fuck it led you back to me.”
“It wasn’t what you think, with my husband. It wasn’t… I need to—”
“Rylie,” he said, pulling me close while we were pelted by rain. “We have time, right? You bought a house. That tells me you’re not going anywhere…”
He stopped talking when my focus went to his mouth. He needed to kiss me. Right in that moment, I silently begged him to. But there I stood, waiting, looking into pensive eyes.
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