by Leia Stone
One of my favorite things about Sedona is that the people who built the place didn't carve up nature to make room for themselves. The hills weren't blasted apart to make everything flat, and so the whole place is full of curves. Winding streets, gently sloping hills. The shops and buildings were built on top of the land, and look as if they were simply set into the existing structure.
What this means for me now is that I have to climb two flights of stairs to access the stores. Not that I mind. My fingers keep dipping into the white paper bag I'm holding. It reminds me of the bags of roasted nuts I'd buy from the street vendor near my apartment in New York City. I'd bundle up and go for a walk in Central Park, one gloveless hand reaching into the bag of sweet mixed nuts. It was one of my favorite things to do in the winter.
And it is over. I’ve leased my apartment and my stuff is sitting in POD storage waiting for me to figure out my next step.
But … maybe I was ready for that part of my life to be over. I did what my Mom wanted me to do. Got a degree from a good university, moved somewhere and got outside my comfort zone—became a strong, independent woman. It was all her idea, and even though we didn't agree on much, she was so insistent about this one piece of advice that it felt too important not to listen to her. Even as a selfish seventeen-year-old, I felt the gravity of her suggestion. She wanted me to get out and explore, because she never did. And her dream became my dream.
There were far worse things my mom could ask me to do, so I‘d applied to Santa Clara University in California. I was in advanced classes at school and my SAT score was high enough that I got in without too much trouble. Financial aid paid for a small amount of my tuition, and I took out loans to pay the remainder. After my first year in the dorm, I moved into an apartment with three other girls. A part-time job in the campus bookstore allowed me to pay my share of the rent without much left over.
New York City was my idea. My mom loved it at first. I think she thought I might just get some work experience and then settle somewhere closer to home like Phoenix or San Diego. It was crazy how fast the years ticked by. I'd only been there a few months when she called and told me about her first cancer diagnosis. The words Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia sounded foreign and terrifying. I followed my mom's instruction not to look it up on the internet. "Just hear what I'm telling you. We caught it early and I'm going to be fine." I was too scared to look it up, too scared of what I might find. I willingly took her words as gospel. She told me to stay where I was, that I would help her most by following my dream. Our dream, I thought. I didn't correct her.
Almost seven years later, she's battling the same cancer for the third time, and I've finally come home.
I don't know where that leaves me. I only know where I am right now, climbing steps with sticky sweet fingertips, the red rock canyon walls at my back.
Just as I reach the main level of shops, my phone buzzes with a text. Fear spikes through me as I wonder if it’s mom saying something has gone wrong.
When I look down, a frown pulls at my lips when I see who it’s from.
Matt.
New York friend-with-benefits Matt.
Stopping in the opening of a restaurant, I open the text.
I miss you.
I chuckle. I was pretty sure Matt didn’t even know my last name. He lived in my building in New York and we met at the gym. We were both dedicated to our jobs and weren’t looking for something serious, so fuck buddies seemed like a good idea at the time. Once a week for the past year Matt and I got together and released our tension. It was nothing more than that.
You don’t miss me, you miss our arrangement, I quickly type back and toss my phone in my bag.
Gym rat Matt misses me. Hah, Anna would get a kick out of that. I’d have to call my old roommate later and tell her.
I duck into the restaurant and find the bathroom with the sign on the door that says For Customers Only. Once my hands are clean, I buy an iced tea to validate my usage of their soap and water, and keep going down the row of stores. There is an apothecary with handmade soaps and other items, a coffee bar, a wine shop that specializes in local wine and olive oil.
After buying some peppermint and lavender soap, I duck into the wine shop and buy four bottles of wine. Technically, I only buy three. The fourth is free with my purchase of three. The shop owner, a balding man with a kind smile and a generous middle, also convinces me that I need the garlic infused olive oil that came in yesterday. He tells me it's his biggest seller and the shipment probably won't last the weekend. His appeal to scarcity works on me, mostly because I think garlic olive oil would be amazing with just about every meal I plan to make my mom this week, and last night I read about the potent benefits of garlic.
This shopping therapy is doing wonders for my mood, but I won’t be able to spend money with abandon much sooner … I need to find a job. Sedona isn’t exactly the best place for an advertising sales executive and marketing guru.
I walk along, my fudge bag joined by my new purchases, and spot a bookstore.
Oh great. Just take all my money.
A bookstore is the worst place for me to be when I'm engaging in retail therapy.
Funny how that doesn't stop me from walking right in.
The familiar scent is the first thing to greet me. Woody paper and rich ink, musty carpet and stale coffee from a carafe in the corner. There is another scent, one I know cannot be real but still I recognize it: possibility. I smelled it my first night in New York City. I smell it every time I'm in a bookstore. The possibility to learn and grow, all with the opening of a book. Perhaps it's not a quantifiable scent, but for me it is.
"Hello there," a low, throaty voice says. I follow the sound and watch a young woman come from an opening near the back of the store.
I blink, surprised for the shortest second, then gather myself. The gravelly voice had me expecting an older woman, but this woman is probably about my age, maybe thirty but not a day over.
"Hi," I say, smiling at her.
She walks behind a shabby desk that looks like it's used as a register. A can of pens topped with faux flowers sits beside an outdated cash register. She’s wearing a cute crop-top and high-waisted jeans, and I wonder if she’s from around here. She doesn’t have the hippie vibe most others do.
"Welcome to Books 'N' More." She gazes at me expectantly, her voice completely monotone, telling me she most definitely hates her job. “Let me know if you have any questions.” Her dark, curly hair just barely touches her shoulders and she wears large gold hoop earrings.
I look around the place, then back at her. "Hey," I greet her. "I do have a question."
She stays quiet but nods her head, giving me permission to ask.
"Why the word More in the name of the store? I only see books."
Yes, I’m having that kind of day—desperate to get my mind off of Owen and my mom so I’ll chat up some random chick about her store name. The woman grimaces as she steps around to the side of the desk and props a flattened palm on the worn surface. "That would be the work of my crazy grandma. Bless her heart." Her other palm, the one she's not using to balance on the desk, covers her heart. "She owned this place for years. Still does, technically. We didn't realize she was losing it a bit." The woman points to her head and makes a swirl with her fingers.
I wince, in part because I feel bad for the grandma and in part because I'm taken aback by the brutal honesty of this girl.
She notices. "Did I overshare? I'm a say-it-like-it-is person. Blame it on my New York upbringing.”
I smile and instantly like her. "No, you didn’t overshare. I've spent the last six years living in Manhattan. What part are you from?"
I see amusement trickle into her eyes and her lips curve into a slight smile. "A fellow New Yorker, don’t get many of us around here. I grew up in Queens. What's your name?"
"Autumn Cummings."
Not sure I would call myself a “New Yorker,” but I'll run with it.
She extends
a hand. "Well, Autumn Cummings who lived in Manhattan for the past six years, I'm Olivia Rhodes. But don't call me that, because only my mother does. I go by Livvie."
I like how fast she talks. I like her tough exterior. Taking her hand, I give it a good shake.
"What do you have in those bags?" She peers pointedly at my hands.
"Fudge, soap, wine, and olive oil."
She raises one eyebrow. "You sharing?"
"You want to eat soap and drink olive oil?"
She barks a laugh. "No but I’ll take some of that wine."
I look at the front door, certain she’s kidding. "Aren't you open for business right now?"
Livvie marches to the door and turns the lock. Then she flips over the Open sign and turns back to me. "Not anymore," she announces. "Pop a bottle. I need a drink."
"That's the saddest reason I've ever heard for coming home," Livvie says after I've told her part of my life story and why I’m back in Sedona. She takes a sip of her wine, shaking her head.
We're drinking from paper cups she grabbed from beside the coffee machine.
I take the tiniest sip. I'm supposed to pick up my mom when she's finished. The last thing I need is to tell Owen I can't make it because I've been day drinking.
"And somehow your reason for being here is not just as sad?" A senile grandmother who'd been running her business into the ground unbeknownst to her family makes for a depressing tale too. Livvie jumped in to try and save it, but she’s ready to sell it and be done with the whole business if she can’t turn it around and make a profit.
Livvie leans back against a row of books. We're sitting on the ground between two bookshelves, hidden away from anybody who might pass by and peer through the store window.
She sighs. "I guess my reason for coming is pretty sad too."
She stretches out her left hand, curling and uncurling her fingers, her eyes focused on the motion.
A huge diamond glints in the dull overhead light. I don't know much about diamonds or weight, but the center stone is the size of a plump blueberry and is surrounded by smaller, yellow diamonds.
"That's quite a ring on your finger," I comment.
Livvie makes a grunting sound in the back of her throat. "If only the man who put it there also cared enough to be around me."
I'm not sure how to respond, but after a beat, I ask, "He didn't come out here with you?"
She shakes her head. "Too busy working."
I hear the heartbreak in the smallness of her voice. Funny how someone can break your heart, even while you're married to them.
"I'm sorry, Livvie."
She looks up at me, pushing back the hair that had fallen into her face. When she does this, two more diamonds peek out from her earlobes.
"Don't be. Sometimes things just go to shit."
I laugh once, an empty, knowing sound.
She eyes me over the brim of her cup. "You know what I'm talking about? Did someone in New York break your heart?"
My head tips up, bumping against the bookshelf behind me. Instead of moving it, I let it rest there. "Someone here," I correct.
Livvie's eyes widen. "Have you seen him since you've been back?"
"He's my mom's oncologist."
"Nooo," she draws out the word in whispered disbelief. "The universe must hate you.”
I bust out laughing. Livvie isn’t one of those friends who will lie to make me feel better and I like that. Considering all of my high school friends have either left town or I haven’t seen them in a decade, I could use a new one.
"Right?" I ask, joining in her disbelief.
"When did you two end it?"
"A long time ago, so you'd think we'd be over it by now. But it wasn't a clean break … it got ugly.”
Livvie clutches her cup tightly. “Go on. I can keep a secret.”
Fear and panic rush through me. I don’t tell my story about Owen to many people. Any people, actually. It’s my deep dark secret that festers inside of me and I don’t let it see the light of day. The only people I’ve told are my college therapist and my old roommate Anna.
Two people. And Owen. And Ace. Four people on Earth know our story. Sometimes keeping it inside of me feels like I’m drowning, like it sits heavy in my throat, begging to be let free, to escape so I can breathe.
I don’t know Livvie, so maybe that’s why I decide to tell her.
“When I was eighteen … three weeks before I was about to leave for college, I got pregnant.” The tightness in my throat eases a bit as Livvie nods in complete understanding. She doesn’t say anything, so I go on. “I … chose not to keep it.”
The word “abortion” just adds to the shame that I feel, so I try not to use it. Some women don’t regret their decision and casually talk about their choice, and I respect that. I envy that.
I’m not that person.
I deeply regret the choice I made, forever altering my path with Owen and destroying our future.
Livvie reaches across and squeezes my hand, her eyes growing misty. Am I going insane? Sharing my story with a complete stranger in a dusty bookshop over wine? Maybe I am. Maybe my mom’s return illness and coming home has finally pushed me over the edge.
“After the … choice I made … Owen and I made a pact to return home, here, after college, and get married.”
Livvie’s eyes are wide and she chugs her wine like it’s the only thing that will get her through this story. “What happened?”
So much happened. So much I don’t want to relive and won’t share. “He got drunk one night and drove up to my college dorm and said things I can never forgive. So, I never came home.”
“Ohmygod.” Livvie rushes the words together and grabs the bottle of wine, refilling her cup.
I suddenly feel exposed, all the memories flooding into me one by one.
“We were young. So…” I've been telling myself that for years. We were young. As if age should provide some kind of salve for the wound.
Livvie nods. "Young love is the worst of them all." She wrinkles her nose as she reconsiders. "Well, maybe not the worst. But it's wrapped up in a time period when you were extremely selfish and you didn't know any better. And you look back on it with some kind of weird reverence. You love the time when you were allowed to be naive, but you're also annoyed by your naïveté and all the mistakes you made during it."
My lips peel apart in amazement. I've never attempted to define how I feel, but that is exactly it. I've always looked back on me and Owen with fondness, but there's been so much anger attached to the fondness, like a nice memory outlined in angry, violent red. Anger and fondness—I’ve not been able to tease the two apart.
"How did you just put everything I've been feeling into words I haven't been able to voice?" It’s like a weight has been lifted off of me. Telling a complete stranger our story has freed me in some weird way.
"Because I'm married to my high school sweetheart, and our life is nothing like I thought it would be." Livvie tips up her cup and drains what's left again.
Shit, I think I just found my new best friend.
She picks up the bottle that sits between us and refills. When she offers more to me, I shake my head.
I wait for her to say more about her marriage, but she doesn't. And as much as I'd like to stay and keep talking, there's another stop I'd like to make before my mom's treatment is finished.
"I should get going. I need to pick up groceries before I go get my mom." If I do it now, I won't have to worry about dragging her out with me after picking her up. What if she doesn't feel good or she's too tired? Everything about taking care of my mom during this cancer battle has me on edge.
Livvie stands, grabbing the wine bottle by the neck on her way up, and I stand too. She offers the bottle to me, but I shake my head.
"Keep it," I tell her. "I have three more."
"Wino," she says with a small smile.
"Damn straight," I agree.
"Hah," she barks, smiling so wide I can see almo
st all of her teeth.
We exchange numbers and a hug, and she walks me to the front of the store before unlocking it. I push it open and give her a long look. I feel like we’ve shared something special and I only just met this chick.
"Thanks for today." I pause with my palm on the door handle. "I needed to talk to someone who isn't my mom or Owen."
"Owen the oncologist?"
"Owen the oncologist," I confirm with a grin.
"I'm going to use your number," Livvie warns. "But fair warning, I write inappropriate text messages and my meatballs are better than any you had in Manhattan."
"Prove it," I say.
She smiles and I step out the door as it swings shut behind me.
My mood is brighter and I know I didn’t have enough wine for it to be that. Livvie was a nice surprise and I hope we can be friends.
My phone rings on the way to the car but it's a number I don't know. The area code is local, so I answer.
"Hello?"
"Autumn, hey." Owen's deep voice trickles through the receiver. "It's Owen."
"I know," I say without thinking.
"You remember my voice?" His tone is light and teasing. And I also hear how pleased it makes him that I haven't forgotten what he sounds like on the phone. For some reason I’m not panicked that he’s calling to tell me bad news, but I still want to make sure my mom is okay.
"How's my mom?"
"She's fine. I was calling to tell you my shift will be over about the same time your mom's treatment is finished, so I can bring her home. If you'd like, I mean. I don't want to step on your toes."
My mind flashes back to me telling him I can handle all this, but it would be nice to take my time at the grocery store. And we're supposed to be acting like the adults our age indicates we are, so maybe this is acceptable. Maybe I can let him help.