Love and the Silver Lining

by Tammy L. Gray

  Bryson doesn’t flinch like I do but continues to instruct and encourage the little boy. By the time his dad returns with Joshua on leash duty, Jacob can sustain a shaky sound for almost five seconds.

  “Well, how did she do?” I ask the father-son duo, both of whom are smiling now.

  “We’re going to adopt her,” Joshua says firmly. “Dad said so.”

  I wait for the decision-maker to concur, and he nods. I can’t tell if he’s totally on board at this point, but I can see that Sam’s already charmed him a little.

  The next fifteen minutes are spent filling out paperwork and giving a list of suggestions on upkeep and food. I give Sam one more big hug. “I knew you’d find a great family,” I whisper in her ear. She nudges me with her head, and I have to blow out a shaky breath to avoid a barrage of tears.

  Slowly, I stand and hand over the leash, forcing myself to let go.

  “We’ll take good care of her,” their dad promises, and his compassionate words only make it that much harder to remain composed.

  “Bye, Darcy!” Joshua yells, waving as he skips beside his new best friend. Dad holds the leash in one hand and Jacob’s hand in the other, though I doubt the little boy has any intention of running off. He clutches the harmonica to his chest as if it’s his most prized possession.

  Bryson comes to stand next to me, and while he doesn’t make any attempt to touch me, I still feel as if his proximity is an intentional offer of support. It breaks the little bit of control I have left as tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

  “This is so stupid,” I say, angrily swiping at my lashes. “I’m happy for her. It’s what I wanted.”

  “I know.” He sighs as if he hurts for what I’m going through. “Doesn’t mean it’s not hard letting go, even when it’s the best thing.”

  I wipe the remaining moisture off my face. “You were really good with Jacob, by the way.”

  He shrugs. “I like kids.”

  “You do?” How is it that I learn something new about him every time we talk?

  “Yeah. It’s why I got my teaching certification.” His brow lifts when I stare at him like my head just exploded. I think maybe it did. “I substitute a lot at the elementary school by my house.”

  “Don’t you have to have a degree to do that?” Last I knew, Bryson made no attempt to go to college.

  “Yes,” he says in a tone that’s more amused than offended. “And as of four years ago, I fall into that category.”

  My mind reels from this newest revelation. Bryson . . . teaching little kids. “What grade?”

  “All of them. K through sixth. Wherever they need me.”

  “Wow. All this time I thought you were doing the band thing full-time.”

  Bryson snorts. “I’d be out on the streets if I relied on Black Carousel to pay my bills. Maybe one day we’ll get there, but certainly not by booking a gig every few weeks.”

  I think back to how effortlessly Bryson engaged with Jacob. “Is that how you knew he would take so quickly to the harmonica?”

  “Nah. That insight was unfortunately learned though the nuances of life.” He averts his eyes, looking out at the bustling scene of gleeful children. “Music is a voice for the voiceless. Jacob said his mom went away, and I figured if his brother was getting a dog, why not give him something, as well.”

  “Divorce sucks,” I say with a measure of heat.

  “Yes, it does.”

  We stand there quietly for a few minutes, me contemplating how that one word has affected my adult life. Bryson contemplating . . . well, I don’t know what. The two of us aren’t close enough to surmise each other’s thoughts. Although, for some reason, that fact bugs me today.

  “I guess I should pack up.” I look around the small area and realize there’s really very little left to bring home. I sent the cooler full of dog food, toys, and grooming supplies with Sam’s new family, so all that remains is my unopened folding chair.

  Bryson leans down and swipes the small bag from the ground. “I’ll walk you to your truck.”

  We move in tandem down the walking trail while I resist every urge to stop and cuddle with all the adorable animals.

  “When did you realize you wanted to be a dog trainer?” he asks when we get through the thick of the chaos.

  “College. Before that, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian.”

  “Yes. That’s right.” Bryson laughs. “Remember when we’d play Treasure Island on the playground? You were always on the ship pretending to operate on sick parrots.”

  “And you were the pirate thief who was out to steal all the gold.”

  “Only because Cam would never let me play the hero,” he grumbles.

  “Gosh, that feels like forever ago.” Memories come flooding back. “How many times did you walk the plank that summer?”

  “At least a hundred.”

  Our laughter trails to silence as we reach the parking lot. My truck is two rows in and down to the very left.

  I stop when we reach my driver’s door. “Sometimes I wish I could wake up and do it all over again.”

  “Do what over again? Your childhood?” Bryson heaves the lawn chair over the side of the bed and lays it down.

  “Maybe. I guess part of me wishes I’d made different choices.”

  “Like what?” He crosses his arms and leans his hip against the truck, his full attention narrowed on me.

  I don’t know why, but his question makes me squirm a little. Bryson is an intense person by nature, but there’s something unnerving about his focusing on every word I say. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve never shared something so personal with him before. Well, with anyone really, except maybe Cameron.

  “I wish I hadn’t spent so much time following all the rules. I wish I’d lived freer, like you.”

  He rears back as if slightly horrified by my comment. “You wish you had my life?”

  “Not exactly your life. But in some ways, yes. I mean, when we were kids, you made being the thief look fun. And even now, you do what you want, when you want to. No apologies.” I fall back against the truck and play with a piece of my hair. “I spent so long doing the ‘right’ things, making all the ‘right’ choices, and yet here I am: my parents’ marriage imploded, my mission trip canceled, my apartment gone in a blink. I mean, what is the point of working and straining to hear God’s will when in the end I’m just as lost as if I’d never tried in the first place?” I stare down at my shoes and kick at the gravel. Two steps forward, one step back. “Wouldn’t it be easier if I just didn’t care at all?”

  “There’s a lot of subtext with that question. Are you asking me if being a rebel worked in my favor, or are you mad that you couldn’t bribe God with your good behavior?”

  “I don’t know what I’m asking or even what I’m saying.” I kick the gravel some more. Watch as the dust rises and disappears into the air. “I just feel like a fool for playing by the rules my entire life with nothing to show for it. Maybe it’s time to break out, do whatever I want to do, and stop waiting for some audible voice to make my decisions for me. Just look where I’ve ended up—confused and disappointed.”

  Bryson quietly digests my words, and the longer he doesn’t say anything, the antsier I become.

  “What are you thinking?” I finally demand.

  “Honestly?”

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want your opinion.”

  “Okay then. I think it’s a slippery slope that you’re on, and if you’re not careful, you may end up doing something you regret.” He walks over and opens my truck door for me. “You want to know what it’s like to be a rebel? Well, Darcy, I truly hope you never have to find out.”

  I stare into his eyes and see there is so much he’s not telling me. “That’s not really an answer to my question.”

  “It’s the best I’ve got.” He jerks his head toward the door, a nonverbal command to get in the truck.

  I comply even though I don’t want to, which
is my ongoing problem. Doing what I’m told, following orders. Well, maybe after this, I just won’t do that anymore.

  “I’ll tell Charlie what a great kid Joshua is. You should feel proud of what you did here today.”

  My annoyance with Bryson’s stubbornness fades slightly. “Thanks for coming. Sorry I unloaded on you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He smirks, and I’m thrown by how my stomach flips at the way it makes his eyes crinkle on the sides. “Next time we play Treasure Island, I’ll save the parrots and you can be the thief.”

  “Promise?”

  He doesn’t answer but instead shuts my door and backs away with a small wave. I guess some things about Bryson will never change. There will always be that impenetrable layer of self-preservation. To hope for otherwise would only make me a bigger fool than I already am.

  twelve

  The minute I walk in my apartment, I’m struck with another first for the century. Zoe is sitting on the couch, wearing a faded, oversized, wrinkled T-shirt and crying into a ball of tissues. And not only is her hair not styled to salon perfection, it doesn’t look as if she bothered to brush it at all.

  I quietly shut the door behind me. “Zoe, are you okay?”

  She blows into her tissue and wipes at her fire-red nose. “Nate broke up with me.” And then she starts crying again. “I knew something was up when he didn’t come by last night, but I had no idea he wasn’t happy.” She drops her hands into her lap. “I did everything to make him happy. We went to the restaurants he preferred; I even watched his stupid sporting games.” She grabs a new set of tissues and presses them to her eyes. “What is wrong with me?”

  “Nothing,” I quickly say, moving toward her. “Nate’s an idiot.” I don’t exactly have a lot of experience in girl drama since our group was mostly guys, but I remember a very similar scene when Bryson broke up with Alison. And like then, my job as a friend is to list all the ways she is way better off without the scumbag, or whatever choice term she’s using. Of course, the Bryson who was Alison’s ex-boyfriend is nothing like the Bryson I saw today.

  “He’s not an idiot. He was perfect for me. Successful, funny, cool. I should have tried harder to be what he wanted. I shouldn’t have worked so much.”

  Zoe’s obvious rose-colored glasses shake me out of the confusion that’s haunted me since Bryson shut me away in my truck. Figuring out Bryson can come later. Right now, his poor sister needs a healthy dose of reality.

  “No, Zoe, the perfect guy won’t want you to be any different from who you are. The perfect guy will appreciate how generous and hardworking you are. And he won’t be threatened by all your success.”

  “What success? I’m just a stupid assistant.” She blows her nose. “Not even an assistant. An assistant to the assistant,” she wails. “Everything I told you was a lie. Or wishful thinking, I guess. I don’t get to make marketing decisions. I go for coffee runs and pick up ads from printers all over town. Nobody takes me seriously. Some even call me Workplace Barbie when they don’t think I can hear them.”

  I press my lips together to avoid laughing.

  “See, even you think that’s all I am.”

  And now the guilt slides in, because that was exactly how I’d stereotyped her in my head. “I admit I may have thought that when we first interacted, but I don’t anymore. And if they would take two seconds to talk to you and get past their own insecurities, they’d see how great you are, too.”

  Zoe shakes her head miserably. “It’s been a year. I’m never going to change their minds.”

  “Then stop trying to. You’re beautiful and blond. That doesn’t make you stupid or give them the right to make you feel less for it. We can’t spend our whole lives worrying about how some random person perceives us.”

  “I guess you’re right. I mean, being called Barbie isn’t the worst insult in the world. She is famous after all.” Zoe sniffles and then seems to notice what I’m wearing for the first time. “You look really cute, by the way.”

  I chuckle because that’s the first thing she’s said that actually sounds like Zoe. “See, someone did listen to you, and look what you accomplished. Sam got adopted by the very first family that walked by our section.”

  “Really? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

  “Nope. Your plan totally worked. Even Bryson said we looked like we could grace the cover of a canine magazine.”

  “Well, of course Bryson said that, he’s had—” She stops herself abruptly. “I need chocolate. Nate had a thing about me eating sweets. He was all stressed out that I’d get fat.”

  Wow. This guy was a real winner. “Zoe, from everything you’ve described, I’d say Nate is lucky you gave him the time of day to begin with.”

  “He is lucky, isn’t he?” She scoots her tissue into a big pile. “You should have seen his last girlfriend. Her teeth were like fangs, and she reeked of cheap perfume. I’m the hottest girl he’s ever going to get.”

  Not really what I meant, but . . . baby steps. “You’re far more than just a pretty face, Zoe. You cook, you’re excellent at makeovers, and you’ve managed to charm Piper, and she’s a very good judge of character.”

  At the mention of her name, Piper pokes her head up from underneath the mound of Kleenex. Zoe picks her up and nuzzles her with her nose. “Piper is pretty awesome.”

  Yes, and she unfortunately has way too much experience with tissues and tears.

  “What do you say we order a slew of junk food and watch hours of cheesy romantic comedies?” I offer.

  “I’d say heck yeah!” She sits and lifts her chin like there might actually be hope for the evening. “You know, I wasn’t sure what to expect when Bryson asked me to let you move in, but I have to say, it’s nothing like I anticipated. I mean, look at us. We’re polar opposites.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Yet somehow, in just five minutes, you made me feel better than my mom has in twenty-three years.” She picks up a book from the end table and shows it to me. “This was her idea of a pep talk.”

  I study the cover. The title Take Control runs from corner to corner in bright red. “Is this for work?”

  “No. That might actually have been helpful. This gem is the fourth in a series of books she’s given me on self-assurance, which is totally hypocritical coming from her, since she cares so much about what others think that she waxes her legs, even in winter. And who is she kidding about taking control? My dad controls her like a puppeteer.” Zoe tosses the book onto the floor, a physical representation of her disgust for the subject. “I swore I’d never become her and that’s exactly what I let Nate do.”

  I don’t say a word. There’s no need to when Zoe’s seeing the truth likely for the very first time.

  She shakes her head. “This probably seems really immature to you.”

  “It doesn’t, actually. We all go through a time when we question who we are or where we’re going. You’re lucky you see it at twenty-three. If I had at your age, I wouldn’t be crashing in your second bedroom, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.”

  “Well then, it sounds like junk food is exactly what we both need tonight.” She stands, empowered. “You are going to rock your next dog-adoption fair, just like you did this one. And I’m going to rule my next relationship. Girl power.” She offers me a fist bump I have no ability to ignore and return the gesture. “Oh, and before I forget, I have something for you.” She eases around the coffee table and waves at me to follow her.

  Zoe’s bedroom wasn’t part of the original tour, nor has she invited me into the space before now. The room’s a mess, which is nice to see considering she keeps the rest of the apartment immaculate. Clothes hide half of the floor; her sheets and comforter are thrown to the side as if she intentionally left them disheveled. I take one step over the threshold, hoping this is what Zoe wanted. I hear her riffling through her walk-in closet but hesitate to enter her bathroom to get there.

  Instead, I take advan
tage of the invitation and fully examine the space. There’s a half-full water bottle on the nightstand next to the journal I found buried in the laundry room drawer. Any question as to whether or not those words I read were hers has been answered.

  “Zoe?” I call and step closer to her bathroom.

  “One sec. I’m almost done.” Her voice is muffled but clear enough to stop me from following it.

  I lean against the doorframe, noticing the artwork on her walls. They aren’t pictures but letters artistically painted in different sizes and directions. The word is hard to make out at first, but soon I follow the pattern: Forgive.

  Tears are drawn as droplets from the last e and fill the bottom of the frame with a pool of dark water. Five other art pieces cover her walls. I step closer to the next one, determined to find the hidden word in that one, as well.

  “Okay, this should be it.”

  I jump back as Zoe emerges from her bathroom with an armload of clothes.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Yours.” She continues through her room and back into the hallway. “I paid attention when we went shopping, and you and I are practically the same size.”

  I have no choice but to follow her again since her destination is becoming apparent: my bedroom. “Zoe, I have clothes. You don’t need to give me half your wardrobe.”

  She snorts. “Girl, this is not half. This is one tiny corner, and it’s all stuff I’ll never wear again.” When she finally makes it to my bedroom, the pile is transported from her arms to the center of my bed. “It’s mostly jeans, a few sundresses, and shirts that are casual without being dumpy. Basically, I stuck to your carefree style and simply elevated it a little.”

  “Zoe . . .”

  She spins around and crosses her arms. “Look, if you wanted the clothes in your storage unit, you would have gotten them by now. But you haven’t. And maybe you will, and maybe you won’t, but in the meantime, you can have options.”

  I massage my temples, my head suddenly throbbing. Zoe isn’t completely out of line. I haven’t wanted to go into that storage unit, though it has nothing to do with hating my wardrobe and everything to do with hating how it represents my failure.