Sarah Dessen

by This Lullaby (v5)

  “Obviously,” I said. “How was Florida?”

  “Heavenly!” She walked over and hugged me, pulling me close against her. She had a nice tan and a new haircut, shorter and streaked with a bit of blond, as if in Florida you are required by law to go tropical. “Just wonderful. Invigorating. Rejuvenating!”

  “Wow,” I told her as she released me, stepping back. “All that in only three days?”

  “Oh,” she sighed, walking ahead of me into the kitchen, “it was just what I needed. Things have been so busy and stressful since the wedding, and then before the wedding with all the planning and organizing . . . it was just too much, you know?”

  I decided not to point out how little wedding planning she had actually done, figuring she was going somewhere with this. So instead I just leaned against the sink as she pulled an Ensure out of the fridge, popping the little tab top and taking a sip.

  “But once I was there,” she said, pressing a hand to her heart and closing her eyes, dramatically. “Sheer heaven. The surf. The sunsets. Oh, and my fans. I just felt like I was finally myself again. You know?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, although it had been a while since I’d felt anything like myself. All night I’d kept seeing Dexter in my mind, arms waving, calling after me.

  “So I came home on an earlier flight, hoping to share this new feeling of contentment with Don, but—he’s not here.” She took another sip of her Ensure, glancing out the kitchen window. “I guess I was just feeling hopeful.”

  “He hasn’t been around at all,” I told her. “I think he worked, like, all weekend.”

  She nodded gravely, putting the Ensure down on the counter. “It’s been such a problem for us. His work. My work. All the details of each. I feel like we haven’t even had a chance to really bond as husband and wife yet.”

  Uh-oh, I thought again, as a warning bell sounded softly in my head. “Well,” I began, “you’ve only been married a couple of months.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “And while I was gone, I realized that we really have to focus on this marriage. The work can wait. Everything can wait. I think I’ve been guilty too long of putting other things first, but not this time. I just know things are going to be better now.”

  Okay. So that sounded positive. “That’s great, Mom.”

  She smiled at me, pleased. “I really believe it, Remy. We may have had a bumpy adjustment, but this one’s for good. I’m finally realizing what it takes to really be a partner. And it just feels great.”

  She was smiling so happily, with this new conversion. As if somewhere high over the Southeast seaboard, she’d finally found the answer to the puzzle that had eluded her for so long. My mother always had ducked out of relationships when the going got tough, not wanting to dirty her hands with messy details. Maybe people could change.

  “Oh, goodness, I just can’t wait to see him,” she said to me now, walking to the table and picking up her purse. “I think I’ll just run down to the dealership and bring him lunch. He loves it when I do that. Honey, if he calls, don’t let on, okay? I want it to be a surprise.”

  “Okay,” I told her, and she blew me a kiss as she sailed out the door and across the lawn to her car. I had to admire it, that absolute kind of love that couldn’t even wait a couple of hours. I’d never felt that strongly about anyone. It was nice, this rushing need to say something to someone right this very second. Almost romantic, really. If you liked that sort of thing.

  The next morning I was in line at Jump Java, half asleep and waiting for Lola’s morning mocha, when I saw the white Truth Squad van pull up outside, rattling to a stop in the fire lane. Ted hopped out and came into the store, pulling some wrinkled bills out of his pocket.

  “Hey,” he said when he saw me.

  “Hey,” I replied, pretending to be engrossed in a story on redistricting on the front page of the local newspaper.

  The line for coffee was long, and full of cranky people who wanted their drinks made with such intricate specifics that it gave me a headache just listening to the orders. Scarlett was working the espresso machine, trying to keep up with a slew of nonfat, soy-milk double-tall requests with a sour look on her face.

  Ted was a bit behind me in line, but then the guy between us, disgusted by the wait, walked out. Which left us next to each other, so we had no choice but to talk to each other.

  “So Lucas told me you guys have a meeting with Rubber Records,” I said.

  “Yup. Tonight, in D.C. We’re leaving in an hour.”

  “Really,” I said as we slowly crept forward about an inch in the line.

  “Yeah. They want us to play for them, you know, in the office. And then maybe at this showcase on Thursday, if they can get us a spot. Then, if they like us, it might get us something permanent up there.”

  “That’s great.”

  He shrugged. “It is if they like our stuff. But they’re pushing for some stupid covers instead, which, you know, totally goes against our integrity as a band.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “I mean, the other guys, they’d do freaking anything for a contract, but, you know, to me it’s about more than that. It’s about music, man. Art. Personal expression. Not a bunch of corporate, upper-management bullshit.”

  A businessman holding the Wall Street Journal glanced back at us, but Ted just looked at him, indignant, until he faced forward again.

  “So you’re doing ‘The Potato Opus’?” I asked.

  “I think we should. That’s what I’ve been pushing all along. Like us for our original stuff, or not at all. But you know Lucas. He’s never been behind the potato stuff at all. He’s so freaking lowbrow, it’s ridiculous: I mean, he was in a hair-metal band. What the hell does he know about real music?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to this.

  “And then there’s John Miller, who’d play anything as long as he doesn’t have to go back to school and push paper in his daddy’s company some day. Which leaves us with Dexter, and you know how he is.”

  I was startled, slightly, at this. “How he is?” I repeated.

  Ted rolled his eyes. “Mr. Positive. Mr. Everything’s-Gonna-Be-All-Right-I-Swear. If we left it up to him, we’d just go up there with no game plan, no set of demands, and just see how it goes.” He flipped his hand in a loose, silly way, punctuating this. “God! No plan, no worries whatsoever. Ever! I hate people like that. You know what I’m talking about.”

  I took in a breath, wondering how to respond to this. It was the same thing I’d always been so annoyed with about Dexter, as well, but coming from Ted it sounded so small-minded, and negative. He was so opinionated, so sure he knew everything. God. I mean, sure, maybe Dexter didn’t think things through quite enough, but at least you could stand to—

  “Next!” Scarlett yelled. I was at the front of the line. I stepped up and told her I wanted Lola’s regular, then moved aside so Ted could get his extra-large, black coffee, no lid.

  “Well,” I said, as he paid, “good luck this week.”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Thanks.”

  We walked out together, him to the van, me starting down to Joie, where I was ticking down my last days as receptionist ex traordinaire. It was August 20, and I was leaving for school in three weeks. If we’d stayed together, I’d always assumed it would be me leaving Dexter behind. But now, I saw, it might have been me staying here, watching him go. Funny all the ways things could work out. But this was better, totally. Of course it was.

  With Dexter gone for a full week, I didn’t have to worry about chance encounters or awkward moments. It made life so much easier, and inspired me to really get things done, as if him being in my same area code was enough to affect my sense of equilibrium.

  First, I cleaned. Everything. I detailed my car, Armor All-ing every inch of it, and had my oil changed. I shampooed the interior, realphabetized my CDs, and, yes, cleaned the windows and windshield from the inside. This inspired me so much I tackled my room, stuffing four garbage bags with
my closet discards for the thrift shop before hitting the clearance rack at the Gap, to stock up on new, college-me clothes. I was so industrious I shocked myself.

  How had I gotten so disorganized? Once, keeping the vacuum cleaner lines even on my bedroom carpet was second nature. Now, struck with this sudden fervor, I found mud tracks in my closet, spilled mascara in my cosmetic drawer, one mismatched shoe—one!—stuffed far underneath my bed. It made me wonder if I’d been in some sort of fugue state. Restoring order to my personal universe suddenly seemed imperative, as I refolded my T-shirts, stuffed the toes of my shoes with tissue paper, and arranged all the bills in my secret stash box facing the same way, instead of tossed in sloppy and wild, as if by my evil twin.

  All week, I kept making lists and crossing things off them, ending each day with a sense of great accomplishment eclipsed only by complete and total exhaustion. This, I told myself, was exactly what I’d wanted: a clean exit, smooth and effortless, every t crossed and i dotted. There were only a few more loose ends, a couple of items to deal with. But I already had a game plan set, the steps numbered and outlined clearly, and there was still plenty of time.

  “Uh-oh,” Jess said darkly as we sat at Bendo. “I know that look.”

  Chloe looked at her watch. “Well,” she said, “it is about that time. You leave in three weeks.”

  “Oh no!” Lissa cried, finally catching on. “Not Paul. Not yet.”

  I shrugged, sliding my beer in a circle on the table. “It makes sense,” I said. “The time I have left, I want to concentrate on being with my family. And you guys. There’s no point in dragging it out so there has to be some big airport scene with him.”

  “Good point,” Chloe agreed. “He definitely hasn’t been of airport status.”

  “But I like Paul,” Lissa said to me. “He’s so sweet.”

  “He is,” I said. “But he’s also temporary. As I am for him.”

  “And so, he joins the club,” Chloe said, holding up her beer. “To Paul.”

  We drank, but even as I did so I flashed back to what Dexter had said to me in the parking lot of the Quik Zip, about how he’d end up no different from the guy before, or the guy after. And he wasn’t, really. Just a blip between Jerk Jonathan and Perfect Paul, one more summer boyfriend who was already fading from memory.

  Or was he? Dexter had been on my mind. I knew it was because things had, in fact, ended badly, regardless of our efforts. He was one thing that didn’t get done as planned, and I couldn’t check him off the way I wanted to.

  Paul, on the other hand, had been inching that way for the last few days. But honestly, I hadn’t really been in it from the get-go. It wasn’t his fault. Maybe I was just tapped out and needed a break instead of starting something new. But so often I’d felt like I was going through the motions, moving mechanically as we talked, or went to dinner, or hung out with his friends, or even made out in the darkness of his room or mine. Sometimes, when we weren’t together, I had trouble even picturing him clearly. It seemed, in light of this, the right time to end things neatly and totally.

  “The boyfriend club,” Jess said now, leaning back in the booth. “God. How many guys has Remy dated?”

  “A hundred,” Lissa said instantly, then shrank back when I looked at her. “I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Fifty,” Chloe decided. “Not less than.”

  They all looked at me. “I have no idea,” I said. “Why are we talking about this?”

  “Because it’s topical. And now, as you are about to leave to spread your dating experience across not only this town but also the country—”

  Jess laughed out loud.

  “—it’s only fair that we run through a greatest hits, if you will, of your past just as you embark on your present.”

  “Are you drunk?” I asked her.

  “First!” she said, ignoring me. “Randall Baucom.”

  “Oh, Randall,” Lissa sighed. “I loved him too.”

  “That was sixth grade,” I pointed out. “God, how far back are we going?”

  “Next,” Jess said, “seventh grade. Mitchell Loehmann, Thomas Gibbs, Elijah what’s-his-bucket . . .”

  “The one with the jug head,” Lissa added. “What was his last name?”

  “I never dated anybody with a jug head,” I said indignantly.

  “Then we had the six months of Roger,” Chloe said, shaking her head. “Not a good time.”

  “He was an asshole,” I agreed.

  “Remember when he cheated on you with Jennifer Task and the whole school knew but you?” Lissa asked me.

  “No,” I said darkly.

  “Moving on,” Chloe sang out, “we get to ninth grade, and the triple whammy of Kel, Daniel, and Evan, as Remy methodically works her way through the offensive line of the soccer team.”

  “Now, wait just a second,” I said, knowing I was getting defensive, but God, I had to stick up for myself sometime. “You’re making me sound like a total slut.”

  Silence. Then they all burst out laughing.

  “Not funny,” I grumbled. “I’ve changed.”

  “We know you have,” Lissa said earnestly, patting my hand in her sweet way. “We’re just talking about the old days here.”

  “Why don’t we talk about you guys, then?” I said. “How about Chloe and the fifty-odd people she’s dated?”

  “I cheerfully claim every one of them,” she said, smiling at me. “God, Remy. What’s up with you? Lost your touch? Not proud of your conquests anymore?”

  I just looked at her. “I’m fine,” I said.

  The count continued, while I tried not to squirm. There were guys I didn’t remember—Anton, who’d worked selling vitamins at the mall—and guys I wished I didn’t, like Peter Scranton, who’d turned out to be not only a total jerk but also involved with a girl from a school in Fayetteville who’d made the two-hour trip to town specifically to kick my ass. That had been a fun weekend. And still the names kept coming.

  “Brian Tisch,” Lissa said, folding down a finger. “He drove that blue Porsche.”

  “Edward from Atlantic Beach,” Jess added. “The two-week required summer fling.”

  Chloe took a deep breath, then said dramatically, one hand fluttering over her chest, “Dante.”

  “Oh, man!” Jess said, snapping her fingers. “The exchange student. Remy goes international!”

  “Which leads us,” Chloe said finally, “to Jonathan. And then Dexter. And now . . .”

  “Paul,” Lissa said sadly, into her beer. “Perfect Paul.”

  Who was now, as I watched, walking in the door of Bendo, pausing to get his ID checked. Then he saw me. And smiled. He started across the room, the same way Jonathan had, unaware of what was about to happen. I took a deep breath, telling myself that by now this should be second nature, like falling into the water and instantly knowing to swim. But instead I just sat there as he approached.

  “Hey,” he said, sliding in beside me.

  “Hey.”

  He took my hand, wrapping his fingers around mine, and suddenly I felt so tired. Another breakup. Another end. I hadn’t even taken the time to figure out how, exactly, he’d react, the kind of prep work that had always come naturally before.

  “You need a beer?” he asked me. “Remy?”

  “Look,” I said, and the words came on their own, no thought required. It was just process, cold and indifferent, like plugging numbers into an equation, and I could have been someone else, listening and watching this, for all I felt. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “And for when she told that awful Mrs. Tucker to sit down and wait her turn . . .” Talinga said, her glass wobbling.

  “And for the time she untangled the judge’s wife from the overhead dryer . . .” Amanda chimed in.

  “And,” Lola said, louder than either of them, “for all the days she just wouldn’t put up with our mess. . . .”

  A pause. Talinga sniffled, then wiped her eye with one very long,
bright red, perfectly shaped nail.

  “. . . To Remy,” Lola finished, and we let our glasses knock together, champagne sloshing onto the floor. “Girl, we’re gonna miss you.”

  We drank. It was all we’d been doing, toasting and drinking, since Lola had officially closed down the salon for appointments at four o’clock, two hours early, so we could celebrate my leaving in high style. It had hardly been a workday up until then, anyway. Talinga brought me a corsage, which she insisted I wear, so I’d spent the day answering the phone and looking as if I was waiting for my prom date to pull up in his father’s car. But it was a sweet gesture, as was the cake, the champagne, and the envelope that they’d given me, which held five hundred bucks, all mine.

  “For incidentals,” Lola had said as she pressed it into my hand. “Important stuff.”

  “Like manicures,” Amanda added. “And eyebrow waxing.”

  It was almost enough to choke me up, but I knew that would only set them all off. Joie girls loved a good cry. But even more so, it reminded me that this was all really happening. Stanford. The end of the summer. The beginning of my real life. It was no longer just creeping up, peeking over the horizon, but instead lingering in plain sight.

  The signs were everywhere. I was getting tons of stuff in the mail from school, forms and last-minute To Do lists, and my room was now lined with boxes, clearly labeled for what was going and what would stay behind. I did not entertain any notions about my mother keeping my room as some sort of a shrine to The Remy That Had Been. The minute my plane took off she’d be in there poking around, trying to figure out if the new bookshelves she’d been wanting to build a proper library around would fit within my walls. When I came home everything would be different. Especially me.

  Everyone was getting ready to go. Lissa was the weepiest, even though her trip was only one across town, with the steeple of the church on her block visible from her dorm room window. Jess had a job lined up at the hospital, doing administrative stuff in the kids’ ward, and started night classes right after Labor Day. And Chloe was busy with her own boxes, buying new stuff to take on her trip to a school just far enough away to provide new boys who didn’t already know about her reputation as a pure-T heartbreaker. Our in-between time, which had once seemed to stretch into forever, was ending.