by Jen DeLuca
“Good call.” I watched Emily run my card through. “So any more thoughts on the wedding dress?” I’d only seen Em a handful of hours ago, but who was I kidding? Of course she had more thoughts.
“Yes, but on my honor as a non-Bridezilla I will not subject you to them.” She grinned as she handed me back my card and receipt. “I’ll hold it to once a week.”
I snorted. “You will not.”
“Okay, maybe twice.”
“Mmmhmm.” I tucked the receipt between the pages of Depressing World War II Book. “How about you add me to your Pinterest board, and I’ll get a notification whenever you see something cool. Then we can discuss.”
“Deal. As long as you contribute to it too. Your eye is much better than mine.”
I ducked my head down to slip the book into my backpack, but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. As compliments went, it wasn’t exactly effusive, but it lifted my spirits to be appreciated. Noticed. “Of course. Send me your thoughts on bridesmaid dresses and I’ll get to work.”
On the way home I had to swing through the Starbucks drive-through. Pumpkin Spice Latte season started a little earlier every year, and I was a sucker for it. Once I got home I positioned the Starbucks cup on my coffee table, moved Benedick out of the way twice, and took a picture. The coffee was mostly gone, and what was left was cold and supersweet, but that didn’t matter for the photo. Then I cross-posted it to Instagram and Facebook because I was a multitasker when it came to my social media:
First #PSL of the season! Anyone care to guess how many I’ll consume this year? Last year was 15, which I believe was a new record. Let me know what you think! Winner gets absolutely nothing, but I get lots of pumpkin spice deliciousness. Happy Fall!
Happy fall, ha. It was barely September and still as hot as midsummer outside. But if it was PSL season, it was officially fall. I tossed my phone onto the couch and ran a load of laundry. The washer and dryer lived in the garage, so I shared the use of them with my folks. Mom usually did laundry during the week, and it was my turn on the weekends.
My PSL post had become a silly thing I did every year, and my friends liked to both guess how many times I’d manage to stop at a Starbucks in the next couple months and make fun of me for doing so. The ribbing didn’t bother me; it was part of the fun.
Once I got back upstairs, my phone was lit up like a Christmas tree. I made myself put my laundry away before I settled on the couch with my phone, scrolling through the notifications.
Thirteen!
Seriously, how can you drink those things? So gross.
Stacey (which apparently isn’t even your name wtf??), let’s take this private, okay? I’d rather . . .
Thirty-seven!
Twenty-five and diabetes.
Wait. I scrolled back up. That third one wasn’t a comment on my coffee post. I opened the notification, and my instant message app came up.
Stacey (which apparently isn’t even your name wtf??), let’s take this private, okay? I’d rather communicate with you off the public page. Either email or text, I don’t mind. But no matter what, please write me back ASAP and tell me what your real name is. You’ve been Stacey in my mind for quite a while now. I have some catching up to do. -D
Public page?
Oh, no.
For the first time I looked at the profile Dex was messaging me from. I hadn’t paid attention before, because Drunk Stacey had started all this. Drunk Stacey had clicked on the tagged picture and messaged Dex without a second thought. But that crucial second thought might have allowed me to notice that I hadn’t sent that message to a private profile. Nope. I’d messaged the Dueling Kilts’ fanpage.
Jesus. Anyone could have seen that message. His brothers could have seen it. Daniel could have seen it. That combined with that ice machine run at the hotel . . .
Man, I’d really dodged a bullet there. Relief made me a little giddy, and I clicked back to the message, where he’d left his email address and phone number. Well. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? I added both into my contacts before switching to my laptop. The explanation of my name was going to take a full-size keyboard. I decided to use email. It was early in the relationship, or whatever you wanted to call this, and texting felt far too intimate.
To: Dex MacLean
From: Stacey Lindholm
Date: September 3, 4:47 p.m.
Subject: My Real Name
So.
I’m what you might call a miracle baby. My parents wanted kids from the second they got married, but had trouble conceiving. They tried all the old wives’ tale ways of conception, but no luck, and medical intervention was way too expensive for them. They applied to be adoptive parents and were put on some kind of waiting list. While they were waiting, they got a letter from my grandmother. My mom’s great-aunt, someone Mom hardly even knew, had died and left my parents a pretty big sum of money, but she earmarked it for my parents to try IVF. So they did, and eventually I came along. My mother felt like she had to name me after their benefactor, even though she was a distant family member that she didn’t really know. A nice gesture, right?
Well, let me tell you, Anastasia isn’t the most fun name to go through the first grade with. I’ve been Stacey to everyone who knows me since I was six years old. So I can be Stacey to you too.
There. Now it’s your turn. Tell me something about you.
His answer came more quickly than I expected. I wasn’t used to refreshing my email as constantly as the notifications that came through on my phone, so it wasn’t until almost bedtime that I checked my email again and saw that he’d answered within a few hours. I curled up on my bed, with its fairy lights switched on, and read.
To: Stacey Lindholm
From: Dex MacLean
Date: September 3, 7:56 p.m.
Subject: Re: My Real Name
Something about me. I’m really not used to talking about myself all that much. People don’t usually ask. I mean, the most interesting thing about me is what you already know: what I do for a living. I love it. The travel. Meeting new people, and basically living out of a couple duffel bags and a backpack. But it’s sort of one of those blessing-and-a-curse situations. Sometimes I miss home. And what’s weird is that I’m not sure that I know where home IS. I mean, there’s our family home, where I crash in the basement for the couple months a year that we’re back up there. But that’s not MY home. That was childhood-me’s home. Teenage-me, even. But adult me? I feel like a guest in the place where I grew up, and that’s a strange feeling. I’m starting to suspect that I don’t really have a home, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Sometimes I wonder how much longer I can do this. This life on the road. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. There’s something compelling about not having a fixed address, and not being tied down to things like mortgages and car payments. But sometimes meeting new people sucks. I’m a friendly guy, that’s not the issue. But I miss familiarity. I miss people who know me for more than a couple weeks at a stretch.
Then again, I get a little twitchy during those couple months every year that I’m home in Michigan. Restless. Then I’m packing and unpacking my shit, wondering if I can travel leaner, lighter, during the next round of faires. So maybe I don’t want that down-home kind of life as much as I think.
Am I wrong, Anastasia? There must be a reason that you stayed in a small town like Willow Creek. Tell me what I’m missing about small-town life. Besides you. Which, let’s face it, might be reason enough to convince me.
Well.
My heart pounded at those last couple sentences. I couldn’t believe this. Dex MacLean, who had a new wench at every faire, missed me. He thought I would be a reason to settle in one town. I flipped back to the tagged picture of him from our Faire, which I had downloaded to my laptop. I took my time savoring him. His smile, free and open and just a little naughty. The strong column of his thr
oat and hint of chest disappearing into the loose linen shirt. Strong corded forearms; long, nimble fingers coaxing music from his guitar.
I studied his face with the new knowledge of this email I’d received, and I felt a twinge of guilt. I’d severely misjudged him, thinking he was just a fun piece of man candy for a couple weeks. No, Dex was the complete package: gorgeous as hell, but smart and sensitive at the same time. Why hadn’t he shown me this side of him when we were together?
Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I hadn’t let him in until I’d sent that first message. But he’d certainly let me know that it wasn’t too late.
Good job, Drunk Stacey. Maybe you didn’t screw up so badly after all.
Five
To: Dex MacLean
From: Stacey Lindholm
Date: September 4, 7:37 p.m.
Subject: Re: Re: My Real Name
I didn’t exactly stay in Willow Creek by choice. Some of us choose to settle in small towns; some of us have settling in small towns thrust upon us.
Let me back up.
When I graduated from college with a degree in fashion merchandising, I was so excited. I had a future. A job: my advisor had, by way of a well-worded recommendation letter, paved the way to an entry-level job in New York with one of the bigger department stores. A place to live: okay, it was with three roommates, and I was relatively sure that my future bedroom had originally been a closet, but it was in New York. I was on my way to everything I’d ever wanted. Independence. Excitement. My life was about to begin.
I only had one more carload of stuff to move to New York when Mom had her first heart attack.
I didn’t even get to start the job. I put them off, and for a few weeks they were even nice about it. But when Mom ended up needing surgery—the scary kind, with words like “bypass” and “quadruple”—those weeks stretched into months. I couldn’t imagine trying to start a new life and a new job away from home while worrying about Mom and her recovery. The job offer disintegrated. My New York roommates found someone else to sleep in their closet. I got the message: you’re not going anywhere.
It’s not all bad, but I think one reason it seems so compelling to you is because it’s a novelty. Something you don’t experience. Because if you lived it, if you were born and raised in a nowhere place like Willow Creek, you would think very, very differently.
I’ll admit that it’s kind of nice to be where everyone knows you. But at the same time, everyone knows you. Did you go through that rebellious teenage phase? I’m sure you did, you have that look. Not me. Imagine trying to pull some shenanigans when not only are you risking arrest, you’re risking your mother knowing what’s going on before the cops do. Believe me, overprotective moms are scarier than the prospect of getting arrested.
Also, I’m not sure how I feel about you calling me Anastasia. Literally no one calls me that. Except for teachers on the first day of school, which was a while back.
“What are you working on, honey?”
“Nothing,” I said automatically, and closed my laptop before she could see the screen. I looked up as Mom came into the kitchen and immediately snapped into diagnosis mode. I’d become very observant these last few years when it came to my mother and her health. She’d looked fine earlier when I’d come down to the house to have dinner with my parents—her meatloaf was not to be missed. But now her eyes looked fatigued, and her complexion had a dull cast to it that I didn’t like at all. “You okay? You look tired.”
“Thanks.” Her eyebrows went up. “Just what every woman wants to hear.”
I tsked at her. “You know what I mean, Mom. Did you overdo it today?”
“I’ve had a couple rough nights.” She ducked into the pantry and came out with a bag of microwave popcorn. “Nothing worth worrying about.”
“Rough nights?” My voice was sharper than I’d intended, but she couldn’t just wave off something like that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve had a little insomnia, that’s all. Cut it out. I’m fine. You’re as bad as your father.” After starting the popcorn, she came over and kissed the top of my head as if I were seven—in her eyes I probably still was. She nodded at the still-closed laptop. “So what are you working on?”
“Nothing. Just . . . just an email.” I felt my cheeks heat with guilt, as though she somehow knew I’d been writing about her. I tried to come up with something, anything, to change the subject. “I’m going to the grocery store tomorrow after work if you need anything.”
“Some more milk would be great, if you’re going to be there anyway.”
“Sure.” Behind me, little pops started coming from the microwave, quickly followed by the smell of hot salt and fake butter. I traced the edge of my laptop with my index finger, itching to open it and finish my email, but I couldn’t do it while Mom was in the room. When I looked up again, she was digging through her purse on the kitchen counter and extended a twenty-dollar bill in my direction.
“Here you go,” she said. “For the milk.”
“Are you kidding?” I shook my head. “Okay, first of all, milk does not cost twenty dollars. Second, I just mooched dinner off you. I think we can call it even.”
“Just take it, will you? I know you’re trying to save your money, Stacey. You’re still paying student loans, not to mention rent and your car . . .”
“My car is paid off, and you hardly charge any rent at all.” And I’d insisted on paying rent in the first place, back when I’d made the decision to stay. Back when Mom’s mobility had been limited and Dad had looked lost: Mom was his compass, and he didn’t know how he’d get by without her. The rent was a pittance, but it made me feel a little less like I still lived with my parents.
The microwave beeped, and Mom popped open the door. “Grab the bowl for me, will you?”
I didn’t have to ask which one; the popcorn bowl lived on top of the fridge. I stretched onto my toes and fished it down, handing it to her. Mom smiled at me, and I had to admit that she really did look okay. I was worrying too much. But every time I looked at her, I couldn’t help but remember how she’d looked in the hospital: small and pale, hooked up to machines that beeped and kept her alive. Every time I wondered what I’d been thinking, sticking around for so long, I’d think of her so tiny in that hospital bed, and no, I didn’t regret staying home. Even if it really did mean I’d blown my chance to get out of this town and start a life of my own.
“I meant to ask,” Mom said. “Did you give your friend those lists?”
“I did, and she said thanks. She’s already getting a big head start on this wedding.” That was an understatement, and I rolled my eyes, my patented grin back on my face.
Mom clucked her tongue at me. “It’s a lot to plan, Stacey. You’ll see someday.”
Yeah, maybe if marrying my cat became legal one of these days. But out loud I said, “I’m sure you’re right. No pressure, though, right, Mom?”
“No, honey. No pressure. You’ll find the right guy when it’s the right time.” A slightly awkward silence followed, because honestly, when would the right time be? Ever since I’d made the decision to stay home, my parents had lived by the mantra of “take your time.” It was nice that they liked me being around and were in no hurry for me to strike out on my own. But every once in a while, I wondered if taking my time should be taking this long.
Finally, Mom cleared her throat and held up the bowl of popcorn. “Want to watch a movie before bed?”
I did. I really did, but I shook my head. “I joined this book club, and I need to read this before next Thursday.” I pulled the Depressing World War II Book out of my bag and waved it at her.
She took it from my hand and frowned at the cover. “Hmm.” She flipped it over and read the back before handing it back to me. “You need to be in a better book club. That looks depressing.”
“You’re not wrong.” I sighe
d. “Emily said she’s picking out more fun books for the store’s book club. Maybe I should just join that one instead.”
Mom shrugged. “You could do both, you know. But let me know if you do the fun one. I’d be up for that.”
“You got it.” I looked at the book once more, then at the bowl of popcorn Mom still held. I tossed the book to the table. “Screw it. Let’s watch a movie.” Who needed a life, when you could spend your evenings watching rom-coms with your mother?
Oh, God, I needed a life.
After the movie I left through the kitchen on my way to the garage and the stairs to my apartment, stopping to grab my laptop and my backpack from where I’d left them on the table. Upstairs and in bed, I opened my laptop and Mom’s twenty-dollar bill fluttered out from inside it.
“Dammit, Mom.” I sighed. But I folded the bill and stuck it under my phone. I started to reread the email I’d composed at my parents’ kitchen table, but it made my skin prickle. Should I be telling him all this? In my experience, people didn’t want to hear this kind of stuff. They wanted Fun Stacey. The cheerleader, the one who commented with heart-eyes emojis on the pics of your children, the one who was eager to help pick out bridesmaid dresses. These days I was more comfortable sharing a duet on karaoke night at Jackson’s than sharing my innermost thoughts. And I was really bad at karaoke.
But he’d asked, hadn’t he? I hit Send before I could change my mind. Maybe I was sharing too much information and he wouldn’t like this Stacey. But there was only one way to find out.
* * *
• • •
Turned out Dex was a TMI kind of guy.