Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  He brandishes his tattoos at me. The mermaid stares me down; her eyes, filled with wonder, stun me with guilt. “I can never forget you now. Every day reminds me of the shite you made out of our relationship, out of me. I thought you were different. I thought because you had experienced so much pain, you’d know better than to do that to someone else. I wanted us to be forever. To be honest. To be true. Why, Pearl?” His face vanishes behind his hand. Then his fingers grip his hair, and he turns back away.

  I slump in my seat, crushed by the weight of his words. I want to disappear. I want to escape. I want his voice to stop ringing in my ears. The snapshot of his face, torn between anger and anguish, burns. Then Charmindy’s words flit through my mind, “The only way out is through.” I catch the strand of thought like a bird catches a worm with its beak and swallow hard.

  “I take responsibility for what I did. I chose a night of partying over you. I chose drugs and drinking over us. I’ll never do anything like that again to anyone. The path I started out on wasn’t an easy one. I’m not blaming that, but it was as if I was tuned to a certain frequency, and I had to get louder to change. I didn’t know until recently that love is showing up, love is honesty, it’s listening, and love is comfortable and safe. But I know now. I promise.” This is one promise I know, deep down, without a doubt, that I’ll keep.

  Grant sits like a statue as the train rumbles on. Nothing about his expression helps me discern what he’s thinking. But I feel good about finally singing the truth, even if it was only for me to hear. He turns to the window, leaving me to my thoughts.

  In the Jaeger family, promises proved dangerous. My mother made me promises that she repeatedly broke, and each one sent a deeper fissure through my heart. But the feelings of wanting to flee the situation with Grant have dissipated. I’m right where I am, in this seat next to him. I poured myself out. I have no craving for the oblivion I once sought in drugs or alcohol. I’m extremely conscious of what a slippery slope that is for someone like me, my mother, or Sorel even. I’ve decided that oblivion isn’t for me; I want to live guided by courage.

  Relief and hope wash over me. If I ever have another chance at love with Grant or anyone else in my life, I’ll handle it with utmost care, like a treasure, like a pearl.

  I realize in that moment I have, like the proverb from the AA meeting, let Grant go. I look at the swallows inked on his arm, the ones that match mine, and the lightness I now feel suggests they’re all flying home. The train rocks me to sleep like a lullaby.

  The four of us, Rory, Henry, Grant, and I, enter a Soto Cerro Barcelona dorm suite, with a kitchenette, a small communal area, a bathroom, and two bedrooms, presumably one for the girls and one for the guys. It’s basically the equivalent of Laurel Hill, but means Thicket Hill, and apparently, they’re more comfortable with coed living quarters compared to their sister school in New England. Go figure. We can’t hide our surprise at the arrangement, except for Grant, who immediately disappears with his luggage into one of the bedrooms.

  Dismissing Spanish and the strictly enforced rules of gender separation at Laurel Hill, Rory asks, “So, do the teachers, like, know?”

  Henry and I shrug.

  “Do they check on us?” she asks with disbelief.

  “They’ll be spending a couple of days in Barcelona; I think they said the second week? Just to make sure everything is OK. But, dude, I think we’re on our own,” Henry says, hooting and throwing himself over the back of the couch and then reclining, with his shoes still on. “My mom would freak.”

  Rory does a victory dance, then falls over the back of the couch and into Henry’s arms.

  Amused, I’m quite sure I’m witnessing the beginning of an experiment in freedom. Rory and Henry look like the train ride helped them discover their shared chemistry. I walk over to the window, a habit when I enter new places. I think of life back in the States. This is an experiment of another sort for me, with Grant in such close proximity.

  I go out the window onto the fire escape and whoop at the top of my lungs. As the wind blows through my hair, it carries away with it shreds of my past like autumn leaves on the breeze.

  The window rattles as Grant comes out. The hint of a smile crosses his face. He bites his lip and lights up a cigarette. We’re both quiet until the embers fade, along with the tension in his shoulders.

  “About before . . . We’re OK,” he says. “We can do this. Friends?” he asks.

  “Friends,” I answer.

  That night, New Year’s Eve, the four of us go out for dinner, forgetting dinnertime is much later than in the United States. We end up getting grilled sandwiches to go from a little café. The counter person takes pity on us uninformed student travelers and slips us a few beers. He winks and wishes us “Un prospero año nuevo.” We take our food and beer toward the port and find a park festively illuminated. Strings of lights line the rigging and rails on the sailboats and yachts. I shiver against the wind coming off the water, but the weather is mild for January, at least compared to what we’re used to back in the States.

  After dinner, as fireworks boom over our heads, Grant slips next to me. Our arms brush, just as they did in the clearing in the woods, warming me with a blend of vibrancy and comfort. I look at the sky above, recalling the shooting star last summer. I turn my head toward him, his eyes reflecting the colors blinking in the sky. Then he tilts his gaze down to meet mine. All it takes is one breath. Our lips meet, and the explosions continue into the night.

  After settling in at our exchange school, our first weekend arrives, and Rory and Henry have become a goofy and giddy new couple. A twinge of jealousy shoots through me, just as it did when I saw the couple kissing back in Madrid. Grant and I wrap and stow away the kiss we shared on New Year’s Eve. We haven’t exchanged more than a smile since. I want that closeness, the affection, and romance. However, on the flip side, taking into consideration my situation with him only a couple of weeks prior, being friends, seeing his smile, and laughing together are vast improvements.

  “You guys want to go out later?” Rory asks from the table where she finishes her homework.

  “What did you have in mind?” Grant asks.

  “Diego and Martina, in our social studies class, said they and a bunch of other people are going to a club tonight.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he answers, glancing at me.

  I don’t disagree.

  I pick through my enormous backpack and find a pair of gray skinny jeans with sequins running like raindrops from the waist down to the bottom of the pockets. I pair them with a black fitted tank, a shrug, heels, and a swipe of my favorite red lipstick.

  “You look good,” Grant says when I come out of the room. I fight against the thought that he’s taking a long sip of me, all dressed up. The two little lines between my eyebrows move closer together in confusion. Then I remind myself Kiki would have said the same thing. We’re just friends.

  “You’re such a fashionista,” Rory chimes, tugging on her sweatshirt and stretch pants. “Please, help me get dressed. I’m so style challenged.”

  Rory looks far more cosmopolitan in a pair of jeans, black boots, a simple white shirt, and a Pashmina scarf from my bag than in anything from the limited selection from her luggage. Grant, Henry, and I follow her to the restaurant to meet Diego and Martina.

  My stomach drops as we enter a tapas bar. Thoughts of my summer escapades that started when I met Matteo in a similar establishment flood me with dread and regret. Then the events in the VIP room at the club coast into my mind as Martina tells us where she wants to take us later. As we settle around a cozy table, Grant gives me a wide smile, chasing my fears away.

  I try to enjoy the food and conversation, but each sip of my drink reminds me of that fateful night. I want to remain lucid and in control, but notice Grant works on his third beer by the time the bill comes.

  Once out on the street, we wal
k in pairs along the sidewalk to the club Martina raved about. Grant carelessly slings his arm over my shoulder. “That was good, huh? I’ll have to get ahold of some saffron while we’re here. I haven’t cooked in a while.” I detect the slightest slur in his voice.

  “Yeah,” I say, removing his arm. “Friends?”

  His steps slow. “What—” He starts. “Oh.” Maybe the beer made him forget the restrictions he set on our relationship. Perhaps he experiences the same inner conflict I do.

  As soon as we enter the club, Rory pumps herself up along with the music and dances with Henry and the others. To her, partying and freedom are new, but I’ve done this before, and it’s lost its luster. It feels punishingly like a repeat of the night I badly want to forget.

  Grant emerges from a crowd by the bar and hands me a shot. “To us,” he says. His behavior baffles me, but I wordlessly tap my glass against his and swallow. Adequately buzzed, I let Rory pull me onto the dance floor. When the song changes, Grant twirls me around a few times. I let myself fall into rhythm with him. I’m buoyant in his arms. He pulls me in, and our bodies are closer together than they are apart. I completely forget myself. Grant and I move and sway, and it doesn’t feel like things have ever been different.

  Chapter 48

  The four of us stumble back to the dorm, the streets quiet except for Rory and Henry laughing and tripping lightly in front of us. They disappear into our room, and Rory closes the door. With one glance, I follow Grant to the fire escape.

  We share a bottle of water. Sobriety slowly returns as the sky lightens. He leans on the rail and studies me. I don’t look away.

  “Let’s not be friends.” He pauses. “I want to be your boyfriend. I want to hold your hand and listen to you talk. I want to explore this city and remind each other of the Spanish words we forget. I want to share a cup of coffee, a bed, a dream. I want to be yours—”

  “Yes.” I don’t let him finish because in that moment our worlds collide. Instead of exploding, splintering into fragments, there’s a stillness, a cohesion like when raindrops join together on glass. Yet this feels like sunshine and maybe somewhere there’s a rainbow. With my trembling hand, I take his and lead him to the bedroom.

  He slips my top over my head and rubs his hands over my shoulders and down my sides. “Tell me when you want me to stop.”

  “I can’t. That would be a lie,” I say. “And I promised I will always be honest with you.”

  I lean toward him, feeling the electricity of my bare skin against his. I can’t hold back the tears that spill from my heart; they’re quiet, settled, the happy kind.

  Grant wipes my eyes.

  Our chests press together as we fall onto the bed, kissing each other madly, wildly. My skin holds the memory of his touch, my mouth his tongue. It’s exhilarating and relaxing at the same time. I feel awake and asleep. I feel the sun and the moon. Afterward, he wraps his arms around me like a promise never to let go.

  We wake to the sound of breakfast out in the kitchenette. Grant stretches beside me. I roll over, and that familiar, sad smile appears.

  “Why do you still look sad and happy at the same time?” I ask, brushing my index finger from his top lip to his bottom. He closes his eyes. Then, when he blinks them open, he searches mine.

  “Ever since our conversation on the train, I’ve been thinking about us. I almost feel like I’m giving you a loaded weapon when I say this, but I’m crazy about you. I say crazy because I tried not to forgive you for what you did. Part of me thinks it’s crazy to want to be with someone who hurt me. I tried to hold on to my anger. I tried to hang around with Suzy.” He looks perplexed when he says her name. “But it’s always you. I think about you when I wake up in the morning and when I go to sleep and every second in between.” Tears dance at the corners of his eyes and mine.

  “So maybe I look happy and sad because I’m happy to be with you, but so afraid you might disappear or get so caught up in drugs, another guy, or some nonsense that you won’t be you anymore.”

  I smile through my tears, letting them run freely. No one has ever wanted me for me before. For this gift, I am willing to love myself and, in turn, be able to love him fully. I’m willing to be my best for us, just for the honor of having an us to love.

  “I never want to let you go. I never want to see you fade. I just want to watch you glow,” he says.

  We kiss and kiss and kiss.

  Grant and I let the minutes drift by as the Sunday morning unfolds on the other side of the door. Everything that I need exists right where I lie. We snuggle, face-to-face, just a light sheet draping us, and talk about Barcelona while Grant absently twists a piece of my hair. We discuss going to a fútbol match as I trace the inky lines on his arm.

  “I love you,” he says sweetly.

  This time his smile emanates pure happiness.

  “I love you too,” I answer.

  For the remainder of our stay at the school, Grant and I are two student tourists exploring the city and love. During our downtime, we traipse around the ancient streets, cheer and boo at a few soccer games, visit the museums, and admire the parks and architecture. We stumble upon a tattoo studio, and Grant flashes a smile.

  “Time to start on the other arm?” I ask.

  He considers getting the emblem of his favorite soccer team, but instead the artist adds a pearl to the mermaid’s hand, and beneath her, he works an oyster into the design.

  Too soon we say good-bye to Diego and Martina and our other new friends, leaving the student exchange behind us. We ride the train to Bilbao to meet up with the rest of our group.

  As the scenery passes by, I fall into rhythm with the train, yet my thoughts, for once, don’t chase me down the track. Instead there’s landscape. Still life. Maybe someday a portrait.

  “So, back to life in a horde,” Grant says, referencing our group parading around the cities, led by Senora Azuelos and Senor Robbins.

  I chuckle. “It seems like it might be different, though.” I try to put words to how I feel as I imagine transitioning from life with just Grant and me in Barcelona, and our newly anointed relationship, to what it will be like back in our group, but can’t quite define it.

  “Things are different,” he says.

  “They are,” I agree.

  “But that doesn’t mean the fun has to end,” he adds, winking.

  While we wait for the rest of the students to arrive inside the café where we’re supposed to meet, Suzy elbows by me. Planting herself in front of Grant, she angles toward me and says, “I think he’s had just about enough of you.”

  Her comment scratches. I can never be anyone except who I am, and I really like the person I’m becoming. Nonetheless, I vacillate between taking the high road and flipping out, screaming some choice words I picked up at the soccer games in Spain; after all, I’m still a work in progress.

  “I doubt that,” I say with dregs of irritation.

  She huffs and places her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrow, glaring at Grant, urging him to come to her defense. “Grant, what is she talking about? I thought there was something going on between us?”

  Grant runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea, Suzy. Pearl and I were on a break.”

  “But you said—”

  He cuts across her. “I never said anything about Pearl to you. You created this”—he gestures with his hands in frustration—“this thing in your head. I’m sorry, Suzy, but—”

  She interrupts him this time. “Now she’s Pearl? I thought she was PJ. PJ as in pointless jerk. Grant, when we kissed—” She looks steadily at me, and I can’t help but notice that everyone else in the room watches the three of us intently, a real-life soap opera unfolding in the restaurant. “I felt something between us. I thought you felt the same way.”

  I expect her to be close to tears or have hurt written across he
r face. She just looks infuriated, as if she’s losing a competition or prize. I want to say something, but continue to hold my tongue.

  “That’s the thing, you thought. I never said . . . Suzy, listen, I’m sorry you’re upset, but—”

  “You led me on. You’re the pointless jerk. You—”

  “Stop with the name-calling.” I interrupt this time. “Enough, both of you,” I say. “The truth is I made a mistake, but Grant forgave me.”

  He takes my face in both of his hands and gives me the juiciest kiss ever. Whooping comes from somewhere in the room.

  The next day, our first stop is the Guggenheim Museum. We take a group tour, and all the while, the exhibit room where Frida Kahlo’s work hangs on the wall tugs at me to the point of distraction. After a long morning of gallery talks and tours, it’s lunchtime. Instead of sitting with the group and tucking into our sandwiches, Grant pulls me down a corridor, with a mischievous grin. I wonder if he wants to make out in the museum, already regretting being back in the supervised group.

  “We missed a room,” he says, and I know exactly where we’re going.

  I stand in the entryway, the decades-old oil paint bold and beautiful against the white walls. Frida surrounds me, pulls me into her passionate world. I feel her pulse in the flowers twined in her hair, her steady gaze matching the poster on my wall back at Viv Brooks. The misfortune and victory of her life endure in her lifted chin and the representations of the pain that ran through her chest and along her back to her legs, along with the ache of regret and a troubled heart. I see the skill, the pride, the joy in the detail of her brushstrokes. I recall a quote, her saying how she often painted herself because she was the subject she knew best.