What You Leave Behind
Page 17
“Austin and I are—we’re a thing, a real thing.”
“A thing? Well, ain’t that somethin’.” Hilary offers up a hand for high-fiving, and Harper leans forward, slapping their palms together obligingly as she takes a bite of the frittata. “How’d that come about?”
“That’s kind of the same long story.”
“Well, come on. We’ve got a good forty minutes until I have to get my ass off this stool. Catch me up.”
“Okay,” Harper relents after a moment of her mother’s pouting. “In short, though.” Hilary nods encouragingly as Harper stares blankly at the menu board above them, piecing together a condensed timeline while she does so. “Let’s, uh—let’s start with Clare, since you had a front row seat to the stuff before that.” Hilary nods again, her mouth too full to voice her agreement. “So, I befriended Clare, did girly things. And thank you for that, by the way.”
“You’re welcome, by the way,” she says around a fresh bite.
“Well, she encouraged me to call Austin out on his bullshit—lying to me. I fought with him and then forgave him. Then, Clare and I burned all of the Liam-y items in my life, because it felt like it was time. Clean start and all that. And then later that night, Austin and I almost made sweet, sweet lovin’—Josh Hartnett night, by the way.”
“He gets me in the mood, too,” Hilary laughs, knowingly nudging Harper’s leg with her shoulder as her eyebrows waggle up and down. “It’s the eyebrows. Or that mole. Probably the mole.”
“Moving on,” Harper says curtly, but Hilary knows from the way she rolls her eyes and slowly shakes her head that she’s laughing on the inside, almost on the outside. She clears her throat roughly in an effort to keep herself from laughing and when it works, she continues on. “Anyway, we didn’t. Because I’m crazy—that’s what it comes down to, I think. Thanks for that too, by the way.”
“You’re not welcome, by the way. Crazy is solely a Reed trait. Not my DNA.”
“Thought not.” Harper toes her mother’s elbow as she goes to take another bite, causing her to miss her mouth and the frittata to run aground somewhere along her cheekbone.
“Bitch,” Hilary laughs, wiping crumbs from her cheek.
“Also hereditary. On the Madsen side.” Harper waits for a retort or some form of retaliation, neither of which come quickly, if at all, and when enough time has passed, she starts again. “So, my epic amounts of maternally inherited crazy caused a fight. Not because I wouldn’t sleep with him. He would never. It was just the why of it, I think. Or what he thought was the why. Which is why, when the fight carried over to the next day, he ultimatum’d me—him or Liam, like there was actually a choice there. There wasn’t, by the way, and not because Liam left, but because Austin wouldn’t let me pick him. There was no winning. So, I fled his house in only a t-shirt and underthings, because what the fuck was that shit? That’s where the clothes thing comes into play, by the way, so remember that detail for later.”
Hilary nods attentively, paying rapt attention to the staccato tale her daughter tells. “From there, I went to Clare’s and borrowed clothes, because I didn’t want you to see me like that, and she helped me decide to talk to Liam, to see if that would give me the closure I needed. So, we went to talk to Sly. Then, you know the next few bits—road trip, yelling, road trip,” she rattles off, as if they’re completely inconsequential events, when they are, in fact, anything but. “When I got back, I went to Austin’s and told him I wanted him. He didn’t fight me on it that time, and then, well, I had him.” Harper blushes at this, but only slightly. She’s never had an issue with talking to Hilary about anything, including the intimate details of her sex life, so it isn’t embarrassment that turns her skin crimson. It’s the excitement that comes with something so new that pinks her cheeks. When she sees it, Hilary reaches up from where she’s seated and pokes a finger into one rosy cheek—amused by her fluster. “Stop that,” Harper commands, quickly batting her finger away. “So, then we officially became an us.”
“And the clothes?” Hilary asks after it becomes clear that Harper has forgotten to explain.
“Yes, the clothes. Well, I stayed at his place last night, and we woke up late this morning and then made ourselves later, and the only work-appropriate clothes I had were the ones I left there when I fled post-ultimatum. Thus, the outfit. And, ta-da, the story is complete.”
“That wasn’t nearly as long of a story as you made it out to be—the clothes story, anyway.”
“I guess.”
Silence blankets them as they polish off their shared brunch, and when her hands are free, crumbs wiped on the bottom of her apron, Harper goes around the front of the counter to fetch them a pair of honey sodas from the beverage cooler. Through the frosted glass that makes up the façade of the shop, she can see the sun begin to peek out from beneath the cover of grey clouds—December’s standard—and the thought of warm sunlight on her skin reminds her of Austin. Drawn to the feeling, she leaves a bottle of soda next to the register within Hilary’s reach and takes hers out front into the cold midmorning air, where she stretches her limbs before texting Austin a simple, Told the mama and she’s happy, before folding herself into a chair at one of the two café tables. The metal of the chair is frigid, not having soaked up enough sun as of yet, and she can feel it biting right through her jeans, stinging the backs of her thighs. She doesn’t mind though, knowing the sun is there and waiting for her, and she scoots the chair into a slant of sunlight, enjoys the contrast of wintery warmth. When she’s settled, eyes closed and head tilted back, with the sun and the wind both hitting her cheeks, her phone rings from within her back pocket—Rodeo by Aaron Copland, better known as the Beef. It's What's For Dinner song.
Harper doesn’t move beyond what’s required to pull the phone from her pocket and place it to her ear, doesn’t even open her eyes to see who it is. She only asks, “Are you seriously calling me from ten feet away?”
“You see it as ten feet, I see it as having to stand up, walk around the counter, and out the door.” Harper laughs and uses her body weight to swivel the chair. She sees a sliver of Hilary’s bun peeking out over the counter and the telephone handset missing from the base, its cord curling down toward the floor and out of sight. “So, my story…”
“Ah, yes. Your story.”
“So, Liam—”
At his name, Harper’s eyes open and she squints against the sunshine as she says, “Wait, really? Are you kidding? You’re kidding.”
“It’s good, I promise.”
“Fine,” she relents, waving a hand in her mother’s direction, as if to indicate she has the floor.
“So, he came by the house last night—”
“What part of this is good?”
“The part where I stabbed him in the chest.”
“Jesus fucking—” The chair tips back just a bit too far as Harper reacts to Hilary’s words, and she grips the table just in time to stop herself from capsizing. Harper slaps a hand hard over her sternum once she’s steady and she chokes down a swallow of air as she heads for the door. It’s one quick step away, and as she throws open the door, she says half into the phone and half into the quiet of the shop, “You did what?”
“The boy was bent over in the drive, like he was praying to the vision of Allah in that oil stain of his, and I didn’t know if or when you would be back, so I had to get him gone. And, you know, since the knife trick worked so well with Austin, I figured I’d give it a shot with Liam.”
“You didn’t stab him then?”
“No, I did.”
“Jesus, Mother.”
“Jesus, Harper. I didn’t do any real damage.” Hilary shakes her head as she stands, hands on thighs to push her upright, pulls the carving knife from the holster at her side, and turns it over in her hands as she watches the overhead light glint on the blade. Demonstratively, she presses the tip of it into her apron with a slight flick of her wrist, creating a small slice just beneath the M in the embroidered Meat
and Eat. When she pulls her hand away, she points to the hole. “That was the extent of the damage. I put a nice little hole in his coat, and scared a little shit out of him, I’m sure.”
Harper leans back against the cold case, the curve of her spine fitting to the curve of the glass, and remains quiet, pensive. Something has changed within her and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the words coming from her mother’s joyous face. She thought going to California would give her closure and it did, but she never factored in what it would be like when Liam returned. She told him she hoped he would be civil, but never thought about how she would be, what it would be like to see him in the spaces they once filled together. Picturing him at the base of the driveway, bent on his hands and knees, with Hilary standing over him, knife exposed, sets loose a rattle somewhere deep within Harper’s chest, leaves her shaken.
She feels sorry for him.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“Of course not.”
Harper sighs wearily and rakes a hand through her hair while the other goes to rest over her heart. She feels the rhythm of it against her palm, steady and true, and every beat holds both their names—they pulse through her, one and then the other and back again. Austin, Liam, Austin, Liam, Austin, Liam. That fainter sound, the one that echoes behind the louder of the two, that’s Liam, and Harper knows that he’ll always be there, tucked away somewhere deep within her soul.
“Then why do you look so sad?”
“I just thought it was all over.”
“What?”
“The pain.”
“Honey, you can’t keep letting him make you feel—”
“Not me.” Harper doesn’t expect her mother to understand—she barely understands it herself—but when she says, “Liam,” Hilary’s face softens, as if she does. “I just don’t want any of us to hurt anymore.”
“There’s two sides to love, Harp, and the other side isn’t nearly as pretty. But you can’t really have one without the other. How would you know pleasure, if it weren’t for the pain?”
As the lunch crowd storms in and forces them back to work, the question echoes in Harper’s head, and the only answer she can give it is a steady beat of, Austin, Liam, Austin, Liam, Austin, Liam.
Austin loses himself in the mindless repetition of the lumberyard. Cut, count, stack, repeat, and he smokes too many cigarettes out behind the warehouse and checks his phone to see if she’s called. She hasn’t, but she has texted him, and he smiles and pinches his cigarette between his lips as his thumbs reply, eager for noon and the sound of her voice. Then, it’s back to cutting, counting, and stacking.
Noontime arrives and leaves, and Austin sits in his truck with a half-eaten sandwich, a cold beer, and the classic rock station on low. He stares at his phone, at the blank screen, and wills it to ring, but it doesn’t. When the half hour is done, he sends her a message to tell her he misses her and that he’ll call her after work. She calls two minutes after he clocks back in and he feels the vibration in his pocket, but there’s nothing he can do—he’s taken his allotment of breaks for the day, and he has a lot of work to catch up on from his “sick” day.
Cut, count, stack, repeat, and all the while, he thinks of her. He thinks of her skin, how it feels against his palms, under his tongue, wrapped around him, and he nearly loses a hand to the circular saw. After that, he pays closer attention to his work and less attention to missing her, and by the time he clocks out, he needs a beer because he knows he won’t be able to see her. And he needs a beer for needing a beer for that. He can’t help but frown at the thought.
“You feeling better?” he hears from behind where he stands at the time clock. Gemma sounds like she’s smiling and he isn’t in the mood, but he doesn’t want to be rude. After all, she did facilitate his time off, and he is thankful for that. He turns on his heel and gives her a half-smile, a little shrug, and says, “Guess so. Thanks for letting me take the day off.”
“Of course. You’re one of the hardest workers we have, Hayward,” she says, toeing her way over to him on the linoleum. She’s so bright, and he knows how easy it is to get sucked into her trap of infectious optimism. He smiles and ducks his head as she nudges his shoulder pointedly. “And, you know I’m a little biased.”
“Really?” he says with faux surprise. He’s warming up and his smile is growing into one that seems natural. Gemma’s feigned swooning, her hand clasped over her heart and lashes batting rapidly, pull him out of his somber mood. “Still?”
“What can I say, mister. You left a hole in my heart.” They walk out of the office together, comfort surrounding them in the sound of their tapering laughter, and Austin hangs back as they near their vehicles, and Gemma turns to face him. She pulls her coat tightly around her small frame, and smiles at him. “I’m glad I can still make you laugh, Hayward.”
“I’m glad you still try.”
He looks her over then—her chin-length black hair pulled into the shortest ponytail known to man, her gleaming grey eyes and golden skin, her beaming, genuine smile—and he wishes that she could’ve been something more for him, more than just a good co-worker and a memory of childhood affection. But they were so young, and then Harper arrived, and he locked himself up emotionally. Gemma never stood a chance. He wonders if it’s weird for her, like it isn’t for him, if she’s as okay with what they’ve become.
“I haven’t been a boyfriend since you, you know,” he says absently, no longer looking at her. He lights a cigarette and leans against the side of the building, his gaze distantly locked on the dimming sky. “I don’t even know if I know how.”
“I heard about that—you and Harper,” Gemma says after a beat, and she reaches over to steal a cigarette from his pack. He lights it for her and his eyes beg the obvious question beneath his quirked brow. “Yeah, Dylan has a big ol’ mouth.” Austin nods and rolls his eyes, and Gemma laughs, but it doesn’t sound quite right. It doesn’t sound like bitterness or jealousy—it sounds like worry.
She looks down at the ground, then meekly says, “You may want to mind where you step for a little while—and who you’re stepping with. Liam’s back, you know. He told me that, too.” Austin tries to seem unaffected by the words, but Gemma knows him, has for years, and she catches the small downward tug at the corners of his mouth. “Hey, hey now—”
“No, I’m fine. I just—do you want to grab a beer or something and keep me out of my own head? I’ll buy.”
“Should you really be out and about?” Gemma asks warily, her eyes narrowing until they’re hardly visible behind the thatch of her thick lashes.
“Why not? Harper knows there’s nothing going on with you and me. She wouldn’t—”
“I meant because of Liam.” The lot’s overhead lights flicker on, as if to illuminate Gemma’s point. “What if he heard what I heard? What if he knows? What if he sees you out and just… snaps?”
“He already knows.”
“And you’re still breathing?” Gemma’s eyes widen comically and smoke drifts slowly from her O-shaped mouth. “Jesus, he’s a bigger pussy than I thought.”
“Are you, like, hoping he kicks my ass or something?” Gemma says nothing, only bats her lashes, and Austin takes a final drag of his cigarette and flicks it pointedly at Gemma’s feet. It hits the toe of her boot and bounces off, no damage done, but she continues her dramatics and gapes at him in mock horror, motioning from boot to boy with both hands over and over. “Stop it. Put that face away. It seems like you want me to get my ass kicked.”
“Rumor has it he’s a little unhinged, that’s all,” she tells him gravely, all traces of humor gone.
“No shit, he’s unhinged. He walked out on the best thing he’ll ever have.”
“Which is why you should watch your back.”
“He left. Not me. He made that choice,” Austin palms his keys and presses the unlock button on the fob, ready to drive far away from this conversation. “I shouldn’t have to watch what I do.”
With the radio turned up loud and his fingers gripping the wheel until his knuckles go white, Austin points his truck in the direction of the pub. It’s close enough to walk and he arrives in less than no time, but he likes the safety of having a quick escape—Gemma’s words have gotten to him. He looks for Liam’s car in the lot, and as much as he hates to admit it, his stomach churns with relief when he doesn’t see it there. He pulls his truck into a parking space with a sigh and hurries inside.
It’s early still and the bar has yet to fill up, so Austin takes a seat in a booth made for four and kicks his boots up on the seat across from him, dropping errant sawdust all over the vinyl. He thinks about calling Harper, but he doesn’t want to be that guy—the clingy boyfriend who can’t go a few hours without hearing her voice—but, he is that guy and he knows it. He just misses her, and that’s the simplest way he can put it. He rakes his hands down his face, through his unfamiliarly short hair, and tries to keep himself in check, to keep himself from messing things up with the only woman he’s ever wanted and is now lucky enough to have. But he misses her skin, and he doesn’t know what to do, so he drinks.
He orders a beer, drinks it down, and sends her a text message—What’s a guy got to do to get his girl in his arms? Dylan doesn’t snuggle quite as well as you do. Over the span of three beers, an hour, he waits and plays darts by himself in the back corner, and checks his phone far too often, feeling ghosts of vibrations in his pocket every few minutes. She replies after his fourth beer with, I’ll be there in a few. Tell that Dilly guy to make me funnel fries and get your arms ready, and he can’t stop the warmth that washes over him. Smiling, with the slosh of beer in his unfed gut, he gives Dylan her order, then ambles out the front door to smoke a cigarette and wait for her, sitting in the same spot where she officially became his. He smokes one cigarette and then another, and all the while, the smile remains.