I clear my throat and ball up the grocery bag in my fists. “Hey Red.” I stand in silence, the words too heavy, the hurt behind them just as fresh as the day we were hit.
“Fuck, I don’t know what to say to you right now. I guess I’ll start out by apologizing. Jesus knows I have more than enough to be sorry for. I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you, sorry for what your family’s been through, sorry you were the one driving that day, and I’m sorry I’ve been letting you down every day for the last two fucking years.”
It kills me to admit it, but I know it’s true. I press my lips together and close my eyes, drinking in the silence, wishing he’d answer me back. If Red could tell me anything right now, I know exactly what he’d say. “Wake the fuck up and start living. Stop wasting your second chance.”
I sit in the wet grass, draw up my knees, and wrap my arms around them. I’m not sure how long I stay there—remembering Red and paying my respect to the best man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing—but when I stand up, my knees are stiff and my jeans are soaked through. I lay my hand on top of the tombstone and bow my head.
“I’m gonna make you proud, brother. I miss the fuck outta you.”
And with those final words, I walk out of the cemetery, the gaping wound in my gut closer to being healed, but forever scarred.
“One Grain of Sand” by Ron Pope
“Skyscraper” by Demi Lovato
I TIP MY head to the sky, close my eyes, and breathe in, the smell of freshly cut grass invading my senses. I let the sun’s warmth wash over me as a gentle wind rolls through the courtyard. I hear the crack of a club colliding with a golf ball in the distance, and I smile at the familiar sound. Sometimes, the oddest things comfort me. My parents’ courtyard has always been the perfect place to linger over breakfast and coffee, and this morning is no different.
“There she is. The woman in hiding.”
I reluctantly open my eyes and turn in my chair, bursting into laughter at the sight of Tripp McNeal in a three-piece suit. His hair is perfectly coifed, and his shoes are polished to a mirrored shine.
“My goodness, Tripp McNeal. You are either the most distinguished man I’ve ever seen, or you’re here to sell me snake oil. Taking into account your past indiscretions, I’m leaning toward snake oil.” I stand and hug him tightly, straightening his suit as I release him.
“I guess I deserve that.” He chuckles. “But you know I’d never sell snake oil … at least not to you.”
I snicker as I sit back down and grab my mug of tea. “I appreciate that. How’s the firm? I’m sure you’re kicking ass and taking names. Am I right?”
“It’s good. Great, actually. I never thought I’d follow in the old man’s footsteps. I bucked him at every turn, but it feels right.” He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat at the table. “My dad mentioned you’ve been in town for a few weeks. I had a feeling you’d leave without a word.” He lays his hand over his heart, acting crushed.
“Well, I haven’t done much visiting this go ‘round. I’m mostly keeping to myself.”
“Hiding out?” he asks with an eyebrow lift.
“No, I’m not hiding out. I’m … repurposing. Recharging.”
Tripp stays quiet and watches me intently. When I don’t take the bait, he shakes his head and laughs. “I guess we’ll leave it alone, then. If that’s what you want…”
“That’s what I want.”
He looks out over the ninth hole, his expression growing serious and his jaw twitching nervously. “So she’s really gonna marry that douchebag, isn’t she?”
I let out a sigh. “Ryan’s not a douchebag.”
“I know. Fuck, I know.” Tripp puts his elbows on the table and rests his head on his fists. “I’ll always be the douchebag.”
“In Holly’s story, yeah, that’s true.” He gives me an incredulous look, and I raise my hands in apology. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. You’ve earned that distinction time and again.”
“I know you’re right. It sounds so fucking cliché, but I didn’t know what I had until she was gone. She’d always been there, in the wings, waiting for me. And then she wasn’t, and it fucking killed. I know I’m too late,” he confesses.
“That’s an understatement,” I mutter, jokingly kicking him under the table.
“What about you? Is your boy too late?” I tilt my head in question, and he rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out your ‘repurposing’ is probably due to a douchebag, too. So, is he too late?”
“I don’t know … I just don’t know. Probably?”
Tripp laughs at my indecisiveness and pats my knee. “Atta girl, tiger. Lay down the law.”
“Oh hush. It’s not that easy, but here’s what I know. I have to move on with my life, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” I give him a halfhearted smile and shrug my shoulders. “Is it too late? Probably. He’d have to move the sun and the stars to change my mind.”
“But?” Tripp asks, sensing I have more to say.
“But I believe in miracles,” I whisper. “If anyone can move the sun and the stars, it’s him. He just has to want to do it. I can’t wish it enough for the both of us.”
Tripp leans back in his chair and laughs humorlessly. “We are quite the pair, you know that?”
“Yes, we are.”
Tripp stands up and buttons his suit jacket. He leans down and gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“His loss, beautiful. He’s a fool if he can’t see what’s right in front of him.”
“Goodbye, Tripp. It was so good to see you.”
He saunters to the French doors and reaches for the handle before turning around.
“Just so you know, I’d never count you out, Alex.”
“I’m not the problem, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Love ya, girl.” He winks, then disappears inside.
“You know I love having my girl home with me, but I’m starting to worry about that gallery of yours, Alex.”
My dad’s booming voice fills the kitchen just before I feel his large hands affectionately squeezing my shoulders. He brushes my hair off my shoulder and sweetly kisses my cheek. I always melt when my larger than life, business-minded father shows me affection. It’s not in his nature, so it makes it all the more special to me.
“Don’t you worry, Daddy. I have a few local artists keeping the gallery open for me. I’ve shown their work for years, only taking meager commissions, so they were more than happy to help out.”
“Meager commissions? Those words do not warm my heart, Alexandra,” my father says with a frown.
I giggle and pat his knee. “No worries, Daddy. I promise you, the gallery does very well. I know what I’m doing.”
He nods his head in reluctant acceptance. He looks out the bay windows for a time, then turns to me and clears his throat.
“I owe you an apology, Alex. You know I only want the best for my girl. I don’t want to see you hurting, so when I looked into West’s whereabouts and found out he was here and never contacted you,” he shakes his head and leans forward, “I made the decision to keep quiet. At the time, I thought it was best. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
I reach for his hand and squeeze to reassure him. “I understand. You were only looking out for me, and you don’t have to apologize for that. Anyway, look how it ended. You may have been right all along.”
“Oh, I don’t think we’ve seen the end yet, my girl.” He takes in my doubtful expression and shakes his head. “Whether it be money, distance, time, or any other variety of circumstances, so many things can stand in the way of love. It doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it just means the timing isn’t quite right. I know West. He was a good boy, and I have no doubt he’s become a good man. Give it time, Alexandra.”
I shake my head and close my eyes as he hugs me. “I wish I could believe you, Daddy, but I need to let this go. I can only take so much.” I squint my eyes and look up at him. “I have to s
ay, I’m a little surprised by this conversation. Momma’s always made it seem like West was an ‘unsuitable’ choice. I don’t believe that for one minute, but she’s said it more than once.”
My dad sighs heavily and chuckles as he pats my back. “You know I love your mother to the point of distraction, but she’s always been overly focused on society and what others think. It’s a minor flaw in an otherwise exquisite woman.” The love he feels for my mother is evident in his expression, and it’s comforting to see. “Even as teenagers, I saw the way you two looked at each other. I may be an old man, but I’m not blind. Try to keep an open heart, Alexandra. It’s the most beautiful part of you.”
He stands up and leaves the room without another word.
I think my dad’s right when he says money, distance, and time have a way of standing in the way of love. I think all three of those things ended my love story with West before it ever had a chance to begin. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any way to get back to the lovesick teenagers we once were.
And, as difficult as it may be to face the reality, it’s time to go home.
“Storm” by Lifehouse
I PLUNGE MY fingers into the cool soil, turning it over in my hands as I replant my amaryllis bulbs. I litter them throughout the flowerbed with no rhyme or reason, just the way I like it.
Chaos at its most exquisite.
I’ve been home for about a week, and I’ve settled in nicely. The gallery ran perfectly in my absence, and I’m behind on inventory as a result. Even the poppy piece is gone. I’ve been holed up in my workroom to replenish what’s been sold, but I’m not complaining. The extra work has been good for me.
“Beautiful as always, Alexandra. Those Garden Club biddies need to get some pointers from you,” Mr. Burt calls out from the sidewalk.
I stand up and walk to meet him at the fence as I dust off my hands. “Hey Mr. Burt. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Perfect day to be the mailman. I’ll just hand you the mail instead of putting it in your box, if you don’t mind. It’s a heavy stack. Let’s hope it isn’t bills.”
“It better not be. My pockets aren’t that deep,” I joke and grab the mail from his hands. “Have a wonderful stroll.”
“Always do.” He continues his route, whistling softly to himself.
I walk to my house and sit on my front steps. Junk mail, bank statement, clothes catalogs, nothing out of the ordinary. Then I reach the large envelope at the bottom of the stack and stop cold, my hands trembling as I read the return address.
West Adler
200 Marshall Blvd.
Providence, LA 70001
Freshly showered and towel drying my hair, I step into the kitchen and get the kettle warming on the stove.
Chamomile tea in my favorite mug with The Scream by Edvard Munch painted on the side. Fucking perfect.
The kettle whistle pierces through the silence, causing me to startle and knock over my canister of tea. I scoop up the stray leaves with shaky hands and set about preparing my drink with a bit more care.
My sunroom consists of three walls of paned windows, a small painting area, and a large bed wedged into the opposite corner. The pillows are vibrant and oversized, the quilts are handmade and eclectic, and the comfort it brings is second to none.
Except today. Not even chamomile tea and my sunroom can calm my frazzled nerves. I’m reeling, and it has everything to do with a certain envelope on the coffee table just screaming to be opened.
I relish in my imaginary calm, slowly sipping my tea and avoiding eye contact with the package. Yes, it has eyes.
Should I just rip off the Band-Aid?
I unfold from the bed and trudge over to the coffee table. “All right fine, let’s get this over with.” And now I talk to inanimate objects.
After retrieving the package, I curl up on the bed and run my finger under the package lip, breaking the seal. Slowly, hesitantly, I grab the pile of papers inside and pull them onto my lap. The pages are in different stages of aging, most wrinkled or folded, then flattened back out. Some are stained, others are torn, and every single one of them is dated. As I thumb through them, realization dawns on me.
Letters?
The first one is dated for the morning West got on that bus so many years ago. The one thing I’ve always wanted from West is laying in my lap, begging to be read.
So I do.
Dear Poppy,
I can still smell you on my skin. I still feel your hands on me, running ever so delicately across the small of my back. However faint, it means everything to me as I sit on this bus and wish things could be different. Last night was the best night of my life, but I want more. More lazy Sundays under our tree. More drawings. More confessions. More kisses. More you.
I don’t think it will ever be enough, but it has to be, at least for now. It pains me to tell you this—God, you have no idea how much it fucking hurts—but I don’t know when or if I will ever mail this letter. My words would give you hope for a future, one that I can’t promise. I won’t do that to you. My wish is that one day you’ll read this letter and forgive me for my silence. But, for now, there are things I need to say to you, even if they die here on this page.
I love you, Alexandra Fontaine. I hope to make you mine one day, but no matter what happens, I’ll always be yours. From the moment I laid eyes on those polka dot panties, you owned my heart and soul. Every single day, until I see you again, I’ll be fighting my way back to you.
I hope you can feel me with you always, despite my absence. Even when we’re apart, I feel your presence calming me. You will get me through this, even if you don’t know it. You’re in my blood, coursing through my veins, nourishing every part of me. I’d never survive without you, and even though miles separate us, I carry you with me always.
So in this letter I refuse to send, I’ll beg you for what I need.
Please, wait for me, Alex.
I’ll love you always,
West
My hands tremble as I grip the letter and close my eyes. I feel as if I’ve traveled back in time, and I’m that girl who waited day after day for the mailman, just hoping to hear something from him. Anything at all.
How can it hurt this much?
Unable to stop myself, I continue reading. I devour letter after letter as he goes through training, receives news of his deployment, gets word of his mother’s marriage. He’s chronicled his life in painful detail, and a great deal of it is just that—painful. He does write about some positive things—the brotherhood with his fellow soldiers, the pride he feels training to be a medic and learning how to help people, the heroism he encounters every day from soldiers and civilians alike, his love of country. Reading of his time in Iraq is particularly difficult.
Dear Alex,
I’m not sure how much longer I can take this fucking place, a lawless land where faces are hidden, intentions are muddled, and pain is the driving force. I care for my fellow soldiers, bandage their wounds, and wait for my turn. The anticipation is so great, it drowns me, steals my breath. The need to know just how and when they will come for me is overwhelming. That knowledge may be the only thing to bring me comfort at this juncture. That knowledge and the faint glimpses of you I see in my dreams when I straddle the line between sleep and lucidity. The sweet sound of your laughter before I’m ripped back into reality—every soldier’s hell.
When I can no longer stand the sight of this place, the stinging sand and searing sun, I close my eyes and daydream of you. I see you strolling the sidewalks of New York, a flower in your hair, paint under your fingernails, and your face turned up to the sun. You smile softly, open those piercing blue eyes, and speak to me in the faintest whisper.
“Tell me something, West. Tell me something I don’t know.”
So here it is, Alex. Here’s what you don’t know. Every day, I’m clawing my way back home, back to you, but I feel this fucking place stealing parts of me as I go. I don’t know what will be left in the end.
I can only hope that I bare the faintest resemblance to the boy you remember.
I can only pray that it’s enough.
I love you,
West
So many emotions swirl inside me. His words are profound, systematically tearing my heart into pieces at the injustice of it all. I wish I could transport back through time and be what he needs. I’ve always wanted that more than anything. I sent him email after email begging him to respond to me, but received nothing in return. Years later, after I had given up all hope of him answering me, I still write to him in my journal. Can’t he see how his actions have crippled me? His silence left me powerless. I’m so fucking angry with him, but I can’t ignore the undercurrent of forgiveness I feel as I read his words.
I see the sun setting through the window, alerting me how much time has passed. Hours have flown by, and I’m more than halfway through reading his letters. As I flip through the pages, I realize there are a couple of months missing between the next two letters. Prior to this letter, he wrote twice a week, if not more, since the day he left me. Why the sudden change? That’s when it comes to me. He didn’t write to me because he couldn’t. I clutch my chest at the thought of what he didn’t write for those months. Tears seep from my eyes at the horror he must have endured.
My West.
The letters start back up once West gets to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, where he recovered from his injury. It pains me to know he was one state away, and still I heard nothing from him. I had already graduated from NYU and moved home by that time. I could have driven to see him. I could have cheered him on through his recovery. I could have…
But he didn’t allow it.
There’s only one letter left in my hand, and it’s dated three days ago. The words blur before my eyes. I’m too afraid to know how this ends. What if he’s decided for me, yet again?
Wings Over Poppies (Over #2) Page 17