All Our Worst Ideas

by Vicky Skinner

  “Isn’t it?” Jackson asks, coming closer to me.

  “That’s not all of it, but you’re right, I do love him,” I say, still not looking at Jackson. Because it’s so strange for him to be the first one to hear it. I couldn’t say it to Oliver, but I can say it to Jackson. I can admit it to him, and maybe that’s because it doesn’t matter if Jackson knows the truth or not. It doesn’t change anything.

  “Can I just ask you a question?”

  I finally look up at Jackson, and it stings, the hurt in his eyes. I guess I thought it would be easy for him to move on since he was the one who did the breaking up. But apparently I was wrong.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why is it easier for you to be with him than to be with me?” It takes me a second to understand what he means, but when I do, I almost feel sad. When I was with Jackson, Stanford was always my number one priority, but when I was with Oliver, he became as important to me as college and scholarships and class rank. Jackson was never quite enough to make me lose focus.

  “I guess because he doesn’t ask me to change.” I don’t want to start a fight, and I don’t know if my answer will hurt Jackson’s feelings, but it’s the truth.

  Jackson puts his hands in his pockets and nods down at the floor. “That’s a good reason.”

  It is. It’s a good reason. And being too busy is a terrible reason to break up with someone. Just like Jackson wasn’t right to dump me because I was too busy, I wasn’t right to dump Oliver for the same reason. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault that I slipped. It was my own. Oliver believed in me, always, and he liked me when nobody else did, and he made me feel like I could be myself, no matter what.

  I love Oliver, and I suddenly need him to know it. I need to tell him he’s all I think about, and he’s all I want.

  I push up on my toes and kiss Jackson on the cheek. “Thanks, Jackson,” I say, even though I’m not sure he knows why I’m thanking him. But it doesn’t matter. I rush off the dance floor and up to Petra, who, somehow, is still standing beside the refreshments table, watching me.

  “What the hell just happened?” she asks.

  “Do you think you could give me a ride to Independence?”

  AMY

  I ALMOST COULDN’T remember how to get to Oliver’s dad’s place, but I’m finally standing on his front porch. It feels like the whole world is made of water, and I can’t take in a full breath without the threat of suffocation, but I can do this. I know I can. I can do anything.

  I reach out and knock.

  For a lingering second, I think maybe nothing is going to happen. I don’t see Oliver’s truck in the driveway, but I know there’s a garage in the back, and I’m hoping it’s parked there.

  But it isn’t Oliver that opens the door. It’s his father, dressed for work in a pair of coveralls, with a bottle of Jack Daniels dangling from his first two fingers. I stare down at it because I can’t quite bring myself to look him in the eye. Other than the red hair, Oliver doesn’t look anything like his dad, who’s large-framed and beefy, a red beard covering most of his face. But the eyes. The eyes are the same.

  He unlatches the screen door and leans against the doorjamb. “It’s Amy, right?” he asks, and even though Oliver told me his dad is Scottish, I’m surprised to hear such a thick accent.

  “Yes, I’m Amy. Is Oliver home?”

  “Oh, girlie. You are barking up the wrong tree. Oli’s at work, and even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t let you into this house after what you done to him.”

  It’s such a shock to hear these words out of his mouth, that I look up at the house, at the black numbers nailed to the siding, as if I’ve somehow stepped up to the wrong house. This house must belong to a different Oliver.

  “I just—” I start, but Oliver’s father cuts me off.

  “You just what, honey? You came to tell him you messed up and you did wrong and that you love him?”

  I grip the fabric of my dress in my hands, refusing to be intimidated. “I do love him.”

  His father snorts. “Look, let me tell you something maybe no one else ever has.” He glances over my shoulder, his eyes going glassy. “True love doesn’t exist. But you know what does exist? Sadness. Heartbreak. Reality. Your bills and your taxes and your fucking dead-end job, and Oli’s in the midst of figuring that out. So why don’t you just go back on home, because I’m not letting you in this house, and I’m not telling him you were here, and I’m not telling you where he works.”

  I’m surprised to feel anger rise in me, and I know that what I have to say is completely out of line, but I say it anyway. “What would he say if he saw you like this? What would he say if he knew you were drunk after all the work he’s put in—”

  “All the work he’s put in?” He takes a step toward me, and I scuttle back away from him, until I’ve taken one step off the porch, and now this man is towering over me, and I hear a car door open behind me, know that Petra is getting out and maybe coming toward us. “Oli’s been off wooing you, hasn’t he, while I dealt with this? You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  “And you don’t know the first thing about me,” I say, my chin coming up. I hope I look more confident than I feel. “Maybe I’ve let Oliver down, but you’re not exactly the poster child for being there for him.”

  He lets out a stuttering, wet laugh. “You’re right on that count. But he’s here with me, now, isn’t he? And you, you’re going to run on home, and you’re never going to see him again, because whatever pretty picture you have in your head about true love, it’s all bullshit.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand, and surprisingly, I step the rest of the way off the porch.

  I want to cry. I want to cry for myself, for letting Oli go, and for Oli, who’s hurt and will be so disappointed when he finds out his dad is drinking again. I want to tell him that I’m disappointed in him, too, even though I don’t know him, but I don’t have the words.

  It’s too late anyway. He speaks over me. “I’ve fucked up a lot by Oli. I’ve been an awful father. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that he doesn’t deserve to have his heart eaten by the likes of you.”

  As angry as I am, I know his father is right. At least in this one thing. Oliver deserves better than me. I just nod, taking another step back.

  “And don’t you come back looking for him,” he says. “He doesn’t love you.”

  I’m shaking as I turn back to the road, and even though I can still hear him yelling after me, I keep walking until I’m back in Petra’s car.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, getting back in, but I just shake my head, and before I know it, I’m crying, and Petra has her arms around me, rocking me back and forth in her prom dress.

  OLIVER

  WHEN I GET home from Charlie’s, Dad’s truck is gone. He’s probably already at work. I walk past the empty driveway and up the front steps, but I stop when I’m in front of the door, staring down at the welcome mat that I can see between the spaces between my keys.

  There’s glitter stomped into the brown fibers. I blink down at the shimmering doormat for a long time before unlocking the door and going inside.

  I drop down onto the couch and kick my shoes off before turning on the TV, but unlike Mom, Dad doesn’t pay for cable or streaming TV or anything like that, so there are exactly four channels, three of which are airing news programs, and the last that’s airing a documentary about pumas. I turn the TV back off and stare down at the carpet, aware, painfully so, that I’m right back where I was four months ago, before I met Amy, and I had something to be excited about.

  At least then I had Spirits.

  But I can’t walk in there now without thinking about her, so even though Brooke is a little pissed at me for leaving, it’s better that I quit.

  I tug my phone out of my pocket to order a pizza when I see that Brooke tagged me in some photo on Spirits’s Instagram account. I sigh. The only reason I got a stupid account is because Brooke made me. She said that as the assistant manager, I h
ad to do social media stuff, so I periodically took pictures of albums I thought were great and posted them, but that pretty much ended a few months ago.

  My stomach clenches when I see the picture Brooke posted.

  #tbt to when our very own ex-assistant manager sang the Cure for karaoke night.

  I don’t know why she’s doing this to me, but seeing that picture, me doing karaoke for Amy, is enough to make my insides feel like they’re on fire.

  OLIVER

  I START DRIVING to Hassey’s before I even really know what I’m doing. Honestly, if it weren’t for Dad, I wouldn’t even know where to look for a bar in Kansas City, but as it is, I know how to get to Hassey’s as easily as I know how to get to Spirits. The turns from Dad’s house to the bar are burned in my brain, but this is my first time driving them in this order.

  I can’t remember ever stopping to look around in Hassey’s, an Irish pub that only feels Irish because the owner, Carson, is from Kilkenny. Mostly, I was just pointed in the direction of my father, often slumped over the side of the bar, and then hauled him out to the truck without a second glance. But tonight, I take it in, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the neon lights behind the bar, the sound of cue sticks striking billiard balls.

  “Fergus ain’t here, man!” Carson calls from behind the bar.

  “I know,” I say, stepping up to the bar and having a seat. “I came to have a drink.” I don’t drink often, mostly at parties and other social engagements, should I find myself at one, but I’ve always been careful. Tonight, I can’t help but wonder, I can’t help but think that maybe my dad has had it right this whole time.

  I try to think about beers and cocktails, but honestly nothing comes to mind. And then Carson leans his elbows on the bar and looks at me.

  “You’re mad if you think I’m serving you anything.”

  I grind my teeth together. “I’m almost twenty.” A lie. I have eleven whole months before I turn twenty.

  Carson scoffs. “It’s not because you’re a teenager, Oli. It’s because you know better.”

  I spin the barstool I’m on away from him. “Fine. I’ll just get something at the liquor store.”

  “No, you won’t,” he says behind me.

  I stop, halfway off the stool, and look at him over my shoulder. “What makes you so sure?”

  Carson has a ghost of a smile on his lips when he says, “Because you’ve seen what happened to your dad. And I know for certain that you’re the reason I haven’t seen Fergus around here in a while.”

  I stare at him for a long moment, until he has to turn away to help someone else at the bar, and I slide slowly off my stool because I know he’s right.

  AMY

  “AMY?” MAMA SAYS, her mouth hanging open when I finally walk in the door that night. It’s sometime around midnight, and the bottom of my dress is brown from the grime of walking along the concrete, the hem dragging around me. “What happened?”

  She grabs my face, but I pull her hands away and drop my shoes by the front door. “I’m fine. Just a bad night.”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Baby, you just tell me what you need, okay?”

  I don’t know what I need. “I just want to be alone,” I tell her, even though it immediately makes her mouth turn down in a frown. I hike up my dress and shut myself inside my bedroom, immediately pulling the gown off and replacing it with my favorite sweatpants and an old t-shirt. I sit at my computer, my legs pulled up in the chair with me, and I think about everything Oliver’s dad said.

  Why couldn’t it have been Oli who opened that door? Why couldn’t he have been home? Why couldn’t he have been standing in front of me so that I could tell him everything, so I could beg his forgiveness?

  Someone knocks softly on my door, and Mama pushes it open and tiptoes in. “I know you said you want to be alone, and I respect that, but I thought maybe this would cheer you up.” She reaches out and hands me a small white envelope, and I recognize it immediately. My tickets to the Lumineers concert. I asked that they be mailed to me because I like having real tickets instead of just a barcode on my phone at the door. They must have come in the mail today.

  “Thanks.” I take them from her, and once I feel the weight of them in my hand, I have an idea. I can see the shape of the tickets inside. Our tickets.

  “Amy, are you okay?” Mama asks from behind me.

  I’m still staring down at the envelope in my hands, but then in a hurry, I reach out and rip a piece of paper from my printer.

  If Oliver’s father thinks I’m just going to give up, he’s seriously mistaken. I am not the kind of person who just gives up. I am the kind of person who fights for what she wants, and well, I want Oliver. More than anything.

  AMY

  ON SUNDAY, I go to Spirits.

  The shop isn’t open yet, but I bang on the door anyway because I know Brooke is inside. Brooke is always inside.

  “We’re closed!” I hear her call from the other side of the glass, but I bang on the door harder, until I see her head pop out of the office. I see the moment she realizes it’s me. Her eyes go blank, her expression unpleasant. I know Brooke is angry at me, but she’s my only hope.

  She walks to the front door and unlocks it, planting a hand on her hip and not letting me inside. “What do you want?”

  I’ve already been shown down by one person, and there’s no way I’m going to let Brooke take me out, too, so I shove past her, and once I’m inside the shop and Brooke has closed the door with a huff, I say, “I need a favor from you.”

  Just like I expect it to, Brooke’s expression dissolves into disbelief. “What in the world makes you think I would do any favors for you?”

  I knew she would say that, too.

  “Brooke, I know you hate me. And I don’t blame you. And I know you don’t owe me anything. But”—I stop, emotion that I’m not expecting rising in my throat—“But I need your help.”

  Brooke’s mouth twists. “You think I’m going to help you get Oli back?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  Her expression is one of disgust now. “What the hell makes you think that?”

  I reach out and slap the envelope in my hand down on the counter beside me. “Because you believe in true love.”

  I see her anger slip, just for a second. Because I see right through her. I’ve seen her and Lauren together. I’ve seen the way they look at each other. I know she believes in love.

  “You don’t have to do much,” I say when she’s silent. “All you have to do is give him this letter.” I pick up the envelope and hold it out to her. When I sat down and thought about it last night, this was the only way I knew I was going to be able to say what I needed to say without anyone interfering. I know that Oliver will read it, even if he wouldn’t listen to me if I was standing right in front of him. I know he’ll read it. Because it’s me. And it’s Oliver. And he has to.

  Brooke stares down at the envelope, and I can see her jaw working as she contemplates. Her fingers twitch, and then she sighs huge and rips the letter off the counter. “Fine,” she says. “But only because I know better than anyone that Oli was head over fucking heels in love with you, and if nothing else, he deserves closure.”

  I feel light explode in my chest at her words, even though I think she has it all wrong. I’m not looking for closure. I’m looking for forgiveness.

  “Thank you,” I whisper because all the emotion in my chest is too much.

  “But I swear to fucking God, Amy, if you hurt him again, I will rip your heart out with my bare hands.”

  I smile because I won’t. I know I won’t.

  OLIVER

  I’M NOT SURE what I’m doing here, sitting in the back row of the sanctuary, watching the back of Mom’s head as she nods along with the sermon in the third row. I’ve been orbiting the church every Sunday since I moved out. It’s impossible not to. I’ve been going to this church every Sunday since I was four, and old habits die hard.

  But I’m not j
ust here for the sermon, I know that much. Because when the service ends and everyone rises from their seats to leave, I stay where I am. I stand at the end of the pew, right against the aisle, and wait for Mom to come.

  And she does. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress, and for just a second, I’m afraid she’s not going to see me because she’s looking down at her feet as she walks, speaking to no one. But at the last minute, just as she’s about to pass, her head comes up and she sees me, and for a second, it’s almost as if she doesn’t recognize me. And then she rushes toward me, her arms outstretched.

  I let her hug me, but I already know this isn’t going to go the way she thinks it is. She takes my hand, and I follow her out into the parking lot, where the sun is warm and spring is in full bloom.

  “Mom,” I start, but she speaks over me.

  “Oh God, Oli. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was so wrong. I know that. I was just so angry at you. But it’s time for you to come home. We can figure all this out. Just please, come home.”

  I’m already shaking my head before she’s done speaking, and I can see the horror growing on her face before I’ve even spoken. “Mom, I’m not moving back in. That’s not why I’m here.”

  My mother’s mouth is still hanging open. “Why not? You can’t live with your father forever.”

  “I won’t,” I say. “But you were right. I’m not the person you wanted me to be, and that’s fine, but that means that I can’t live with you anymore, not when that comes with so many stipulations.”

  Her mouth finally closes, and I can see the resignation on her features when she realizes she’s lost. “Oh, Oli. I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t the person I wanted you to be. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the person you are. I love who you are.”

  I smile at her. “And I appreciate that. But it doesn’t change anything. I’m not going to college, and I’m not moving back in. I just missed you.”