by LP Tvorik
“Would it weird you out if…” she trailed off, gnawing on her lip.
I did cartwheels in my mind, bursting with anticipation. “If what?”
Alex huffed out a breath of frustration and rolled onto her side once more, burying her face in my chest. Her voice was muffled in my shirt, but her words still stopped my heart in its tracks. “Would it weird you out if I told you I think I might love you?”
The fireworks going off inside me put Independence Day to shame. I smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “That depends,” I said, and I know I’m an ass for the way I strung it out. “Would it weird you out if I told you I know I love you?”
On July 13th, Alex’s birthday and the anniversary of the best and worst day of my life, we finally admitted that we loved each other.
On July 26th, two weeks later, the moon was new and the plunging darkness was apropos, I suppose. That night, for the first time ever, without explanation or warning, Alex failed to show up at the spot.
Chapter eight
alex
July 26th started out like every other day. I guess that’s how a lot of great tragedies get started, isn’t it? With an otherwise ordinary day?
I woke with my alarm at 7 o’clock. As I had every morning for the last two weeks, I stretched and smiled at the sunlight slanting across the ceiling and clutched my hands over my heart like the lovestruck teenager that I was.
He loves me. And I loved him. So much it hurt. Being around him made my heart feel like it was going to beat right out of my chest and parting from him made my stomach turn over in my gut.
I carried his love with me like a pendant as I climbed out of bed and trudged to the bathroom I shared with Tommy. My brother was away for the whole month of July. Daddy sent him to some camp every summer, ostensibly to expand his horizons and make friends, but I knew the real reason. Parting with that money was easier for my parents than facing him every day. I think they hated what he was. They saw it as some kind of punishment, or maybe as a reflection of their own failure. I never understood it. All I ever saw when I looked at Tom was my brother.
After I showered I pulled on my work clothes— conservative khaki pants and a black polo shirt with the ice-cream shop’s logo on the breast pocket— I pulled my hair up into a bun and put my earrings in. I had a whole jewelry-box full of diamonds and pearls and studs, but those cheapo star earrings were the only thing I ever wore. The first time I wore them I was worried my parents would ask where I got them, but they didn’t notice.
Momma wasn’t up yet when I made my way into the kitchen, but Daddy was sitting at the table, sipping coffee and reading some book on theology that had little sticky notes and tabs hanging off the pages. He had a pencil behind his ear, and I thought for the thousandth time how crazy it was that his god had to make things so complicated for him. I wish I could go back and tell him the Truth is simple. Maybe it would have saved him some energy.
“Morning, Daddy!” I said brightly, kissing his cheek and helping myself to a cup of coffee.
“Morning, sugar,” he said absently, without looking up.
“Where’s Momma?”
“Still asleep, last I checked,” he said, taking a sip of coffee and peering at me over the rim. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
In truth, I was worried. I hadn’t seen much of my mother all summer. She seemed to sleep until after I left for work and go to bed just after dinner. When she was around she was listless and pale, thin and gaunt. She got up every day and did her hair and dressed in pearls and a crisp white shirt. Then she mopped spotless floors, dusted dust-less shelves, and sat in front of her TV. It sounds so ordinary when I say it, but in reality it struck me as sinister
“Hey, Daddy?”
My father sighed and set his book down, folding his hands in front of him and giving me his grudging attention. “What, Alexandra?”
I hesitated, grasping my coffee cup in my hands and staring at the oily surface of the liquid. “Is Momma okay?”
I looked up to see my father frown, grip tightening on the handle of his own mug.
“Of course she is. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “She just seems… do you think she’s depressed?”
My father shook his head. “Your mother’s just a quiet woman, Aly. She’s always been this way”
I didn’t remember it that way. Back before we moved, she had all kinds of life. She told us stories and chased us around the yard. She was still fastidious back then, but not obsessive. She didn’t turn pale at shoes inside or a glass without a coaster. And she smiled. I remembered her smiling where it actually reached her eyes.
“Can you talk to her?” I asked, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong and I wasn’t doing enough to fix it.
My father sighed again, picking up his book. “You ask me that as if I haven’t already. She’s my wife, sugar. I talk to her every day.”
“Can you ask her, though? Specifically, I mean? Can you ask her if she’s depressed?”
“I’ll talk to her this evening.”
It was grudging and he clearly just wanted to end the conversation, but I still felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. My father was an adult— trained in helping people through their troubles. I’d passed responsibility off to him and I was happy to see it go.
‥ ‥ ‥
“Dish, Aly,” Gemma said, bracing her hands on her hips and fixing me with a piercing stare.
“Dish what?” I asked innocently, plucking my bright-green work apron off its hook and slipping the loop over my head.
“You know what. You realize you haven’t stopped smiling for weeks, right? It’s starting to creep me out.”
Gemma was the one person on earth who knew about Nate. I didn’t want to tell anybody, but after that first kiss I’d gone home and stared at my bedroom ceiling and I had to tell someone before all the gooey happiness built up inside me and burst out my chest like the eponymous creature in the Alien franchise.
She still didn’t know who he was, though. All she knew was that I had a secret boyfriend who I ran off with every night. She hassled me endlessly for his identity, but I think she enjoyed the game more than she’d enjoy actually knowing. Just like I enjoyed hanging onto new tidbits until both of us were half mad—me with the need to spill and her with the need to know.
“We said ‘I love you,’” I blurted, tying my apron behind my back and heading to the front door to unlock it, flipping on the neon OPEN sign in the window. When I turned around, Gemma was gaping at me from behind the register, frozen with one hand on the till and the other in the air as if to halt the conversation.
“You what?!” she exclaimed, eyes wide.
“It’s not a big deal,” I lied, slipping back behind the counter and taking up my place behind the second register.
“The hell it isn’t!” my friend yelled, reaching out and shoving me in the shoulder. “Aly that’s crazy. You’ve only known this guy like a month.”
“Well…” I trailed off, wondering how much information I should offer.
“Well what?”
“I’ve actually known him for a long time.”
“Like three months?”
“Like… five years.”
Gemma made a dramatic noise of frustration and grasped her register between her hands, gently thumping her forehead against it. “Aly you’re going to kill me. Who the hell is this guy? Do I know him?”
“You know I’m not gonna tell you,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Will you at least tell me what he looks like?”
“No!”
“You’re the worst! You gotta give me something. Is he hot at least?”
I was about to tell her to shut up when that stupid smile split my face again and my heart decided to talk instead of my brain. “Yeah,
he’s hot,” I mumbled, staring pointedly at the window-front of the store as heat crept up my neck.
“Good,” Gemma said. “Since you won’t tell me who he is I’ll just guess every time I see a guy and if I guess right you gotta tell me.”
“Fine,” I agreed.
“Scout’s honor,” Gemma said.
“We’re not scouts.”
“Pinky swear?”
I reached out with my pinky extended and Gemma linked her finger with mine. I wasn’t worried about the sanctity of the swear. Gemma wouldn’t guess Nate if he walked in right then and kissed me full on the lips. That’s how little sense he and I made.
Our conversation petered out as the morning turned to afternoon and the sun heated up the streets outside, driving more folks into the crisp air of the ice cream parlor. I spent the day filling cups and cones, my customer service smile wide and genuine.
All day, Gemma guessed, and she stayed true to her promise to guess every time she saw a guy. Every time.
She guessed if it was the frat bro with the salmon-colored shirt and the shades on the back of his head.
She guessed if it was the 90-year-old grandfather with the walker and the pants up around his armpits.
She guessed if it was the middle-aged balding guy with four rambunctious kids and a frazzled-looking wife.
She guessed if it was any of the four football players who went to our school and who were all, we both knew, dating cheerleaders.
Then, just at the end of the lunch rush, the bell above the door dinged and in walked Nate. My stomach plunged, my heart leapt, and my brain short-circuited.
He looked like he was coming straight from work. Although his hands were scrubbed clean, his arms and shirt were covered in smears of engine oil and his hair, peeking out from beneath a backwards baseball cap, was damp with sweat.
He wasn’t alone, either. To his right stood a kid who looked to be in his early teens, wearing a too-big basketball jersey, a cheap crew cut, and a scowl. His tough-guy demeanor was offset slightly by the smattering of freckles across his nose and the wary look in his eye as he glanced around the crowded ice cream shop.
Clinging to Nate’s left hand was a little girl who couldn’t have been older than ten. She was as cute as she was dirty, with brown ringlets pulled back in a disastrous ponytail, wide brown eyes, and smears of dirt and some sticky, blueish mystery substance on her face and hands.
The last kid looked like he was about five. Nate had him hoisted up on a hip and the little boy clung to his shirtsleeve as he looked around the shop with the same wariness as the other boy.
A restrained smile tugged at the corner of Nate’s mouth as he and his entourage made their way to my register.
“Good afternoon and welcome to Cream of the Crop!” I said brightly, clinging to the counter so my hands wouldn’t shake. “What can I get for you?”
“Just one flavor, guys,” Nate said, setting the little boy on the ground, and all three kids scrambled to the display case, faces and palms pressed to the glass as they stared with wide eyes at the array of flavors.
While they browsed, Nate and I just stood and stared at each other. We had so little experience interacting during the day. Even at school, we never had to speak. I was overwhelmed. How do you look at a guy who’s had his hands on every part of your body— who carries your heart with him everywhere he goes— and pretend you don’t know him?
“Anything for you?” I asked, trying to inject some customer-service cheer back into my voice.
“You have coffee, right?” he asked, and I nodded. “Just a small. And one-scoop cones for the kids.”
“I want chocolate,” the older boy said, sidling up next to Nate and glaring at me.
“Ronnie,” Nate growled. “C’mon, man. We talked about this”
Ronnie grimaced and clenched his fists. “I’d like chocolate, please,” he said snottily before slinking off and slouching into a booth.
“How ‘bout you, Paul?” Nate asked, glancing down at the youngest boy, who had returned and was clinging to his pant leg. When the boy spoke, it was so quiet I couldn’t make it out.
“Cookie dough for this one,” Nate said to me. “Trish?”
“I want strawberry, please!” the little girl said brightly, clinging to the edge of the counter and pulling herself up onto her tiptoes. She grinned at me, displaying a gap in her teeth. “We’re celebrating!”
God, she was cute.
“Oh yeah?” I asked, bending closer. “Is it your birthday?”
“No,” the girl said, frowning and shaking her head like I was an idiot for suggesting it. “That’s silly, my birthday’s in December. My mommy said it’s like Jesus.”
“Oh, then what are you celebrating?” I asked, pulling away to scoop their ice cream but watching the girl so she’d know I was still listening.
“I dunno!” she said cheerily, following me and pressing her face to the glass, watching me serve up the largest one-scoop cones I could manage. “Nate makes the rules and he says we’re celebrating, so we’re celebrating.”
“That makes sense,” I said, trying not to smile too wide as I handed the cones over. I had a feeling I knew exactly what they were celebrating. Last night had been particularly… engaging. I tugged the collar of my shirt to make sure it covered the bruised red mark on my collarbone.
Nate crouched and placed the ice cream in the younger kids’ hands, nodding his head toward the table where the other boy already sat. “How much?” he asked, digging his wallet out as he rose to his feet.
I tallied it up on the register. “$6.15,” I said, trying not to grimace in sympathy as his jaw clenched and he pulled the bills out, handing them over.
I counted out his change and poured a small coffee from the carafe behind the counter, handing it over. Every time our fingers brushed I felt like I’d been electrocuted.
I was worried my reaction had been apparent, but Gemma didn’t even look at me as Nate walked away. She did stare at his table, though, with a mournful look in her eye.
“It’s so sad, isn’t it?” she asked as soon as Nate had slid into the booth, safely out of earshot.
“What’s sad?” I asked, trying not to fidget with my apron or show any sign of investment in the conversation.
“Those kids,” Gemma said, turning and leaning her hip against the counter. “You know they’re in the system.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. Nate never talked about home, but it wasn’t a secret he was in foster care. Our school’s gossip machine wasn’t that inefficient. “They seem okay, though. They look like they’re being taken care of, at least.”
Gemma made a noise in her throat, and when she spoke again it was in a conspiratorial whisper. “My mom says the foster parents are hardcore druggies,” she whispered.
Her words hit me like cold water. “What?” I asked, unable to keep the horror from my voice.
Gemma nodded, raising her eyebrows. “Apparently they’ve got the same dealer. My mom just uses him for pot and shrooms, obviously, but her guy deals harder stuff, too. Apparently they’re into heroin and crack and stuff, too. That’s why they foster kids. For the money.”
I just stared at the table. I have to admit it didn’t feel good having to learn my soulmate’s tragic backstory through the grapevine. I was so sick of him blowing me off every time I asked him questions. That night I’d press him until he told me the truth.
“Still,” Gemma said, popping off the counter and raising her voice back to a normal level. “You’re right, they do look like they’re okay. Especially Nate. Mean streak aside, that boy turned out just fine. I don’t suppose he’s your secret lover, is he?”
She laughed as she said it and I forced a laugh of my own. Unfortunately, my friend wasn’t that easy to fool. She immediately clapped her mouth shut, staring at me with wide eyes.
“Aly,” she gasped, before slapping her hand over her mouth to hide an incredulous smile.
“What?” I asked, feigning confusion. I’m a terrible liar, though. I blush bright red, my hands shake, and I can’t for the life of me make eye contact with the person I’m lying to.
“Aly, look at me,” Gemma demanded. I glanced over at her before turning back to my till. My friend barked out a shocked laugh. “Aly Winger, are you fucking kidding me?” she hissed, but was interrupted when a fresh crop of customers flooded through the door.
I suppose it was naive to hope she’d forget. As soon as the customers cleared away, cones in hand, Gemma took my shoulders in her hands, grinning into my face.
“Aly, tell me the truth,” she whispered, eyes locked on mine. “Is Nathan Reynolds your secret lover?”
“Stop calling it that,” I said, wrinkling my nose in disgust.
“Answer the question!” Gemma demanded, even though we both knew there was no point in denying it.
I pinched my lips shut and glared at her in answer.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, letting me go and turning so that we stood shoulder to shoulder. She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head, studying Nate’s table. “He told you he loves you?” she asked quizzically.
“He does love me,” I snapped, offended by her tone.
“Sure, sure,” she flapped a hand. “Who wouldn’t? I’m just saying, I’ve seen him around school. He doesn’t seem like a lovey-dovey type to me.”
“Do I seem like a secret tryst type to you?” I asked.
“That’s fair.” For a second she was silent, head cocked as she observed the guy I loved and his dirt-smeared charges. Then she jerked around, eyes wide, a wide grin on her face. “You have to tell me everything!”
‥ ‥ ‥
Despite Gemma’s revelation, the day continued to proceed as normal. After work we walked to the coffee shop down the street. We sat on the patio like we always did, sipping iced lattes and talking. I dominated the conversation that day, catching Gemma up on the sprawling saga that constituted my relationship with Nate.