One More For The Road

by Delilah Blake

  “Don’t be silly. We simply had to get you something on your wedding day!”

  I was curious as to who she meant when she said “we”. No doubt my mother had nothing to do with any sort of gift buying, having conveniently “forgotten” my last two birthdays.

  “Something borrowed,” Darlene said, reaching around her chubby wrist, to unclasp a thin, silver chain decorated with tiny, pink jewels shaped into perfect replicas of rosebuds.

  She took my hand and re-hooked it around my own wrist. “This was Nana Hannah’s, you know. She gave it to me when I married Roy. And since I have no girls of my own, it only seems fitting I should give it to you. My new daughter.”

  The silver glimmered beneath the stream of morning sunlight, bouncing fragmented bursts of light around the walls. “It’s beautiful,” I told her in a quiet, appreciative voice.

  Her eyes flooded with happy tears.

  “Here’s mine.” My mother tossed me a package wrapped in paper obviously designed for a young boy’s birthday. Last I checked I wasn’t particularly fond of Tonka trucks.

  I tore at the paper until I was left holding a single pair of plain, navy blue bikini briefs.

  “Underwear?”

  She snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Yes. From Victoria’s Secret. God knows, living in that apartment of yours, anything could have crawled into your other pairs.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Nothing says, ‘Congratulations on your joyous union’ quite like a pair of blue spanky pants.”

  “Don’t be crass, Frances,” she said crossing her legs. “They’re new and blue. I was simply trying to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “How very sentimental of you, Mother.”

  “Okay. My turn,” Katie said, passing me a single, white envelope. “Something old.”

  I tore it open, pulling out a single sheet of wide-ruled notebook paper. There, written in childlike chicken scratch was something I hadn’t seen in over a decade.

  I turned to Katie, eyes wide. “My list?”

  She smiled, an odd look with the indoor sunglasses. “I found it when John and I were moving some of my old keepsakes from mom and dad’s attic, not long after you and Andrew got engaged. It must have gotten mixed in with my things by mistake.”

  I read hungrily.

  I, Frances Jane Renner, age 10, hereby and forthwith do solemnly swear to complete this list before I die:

  #1. See the Pacific Ocean

  #2. Tight rope walk

  #3. Run a marathon

  #4. Swim with sharks.

  #5. Kick Danny Jenkins in the shins.

  “What’s this?” Darlene interrupted, moving to stand over my shoulder. She poked at the sheet of paper as though she were a kindergartener who’d just discovered a bug on the playground.

  I tore my eyes from the words I had written so long ago. “It’s my list. It’s just stuff I’ve always wanted to do. Silly stuff, really. But I made a big deal of it then.”

  “She even made me sign it as a witness,” Katie added. “We all thought she was nuts. But looking back, I have to say, it wasn’t a terrible idea. And look at #25.” She stuck her finger to a spot toward the bottom of the page.

  “Marry the man of my dreams,” I read out loud.

  “How adorable!” Darlene squealed from behind me, gripping my shoulders in her, cushioned, oven-mitt hands. “Marry the man of my dreams. I guess little girl Frances could tell the future, couldn’t she?” she clucked happily.

  “Yeah.” I turned my gaze back to the paper. “I guess so.”

  #19. Roller-skate at the zoo.

  #11. Sleep in a department store

  #21. Go skydiving

  #7. Learn to play an instrument

  # 15. Ride an elephant

  #24. Get a tattoo

  I could feel the heat and sting of oncoming tears before they fell.

  As I studied the numbers — #16. Meet a celebrity, #9. Go skinny dipping — I realized something; something that broke my heart and threatened to suffocate me all at once.

  I hadn’t done one thing on my list.

  The list, that I had been so sure of, that I’d put so much faith and hope in as a girl, was nothing now.

  “Helloooo?” Andrew’s aunt Susan sang from the front door. “A little help here!” she called, struggling to carry our gowns, the four boxes of shoes, and a long, lace veil through the doorway.

  Darlene grabbed Katie by her elbow, pulling her toward the door. My mother got to her feet slowly, as though she simply couldn’t be bothered.

  I remained where I was, the levy finally having burst. Warm, angry ran down my cheeks in slow, meandering streams. How could I have done nothing with my list, with my life? How did ten years fly by without me noticing? How did I turn twenty-two without a single achievement, however small, however ridiculous to my name? How did this happen?

  I knew this was the reason Katie decided to give me this as a gift, and while I was touched by her thoughtful gesture, her present only succeeded in spurring something deeper in me, something that hurt, something that needed to be woken up. I’d wasted the last years of my life messing around, not trying to become the person I’d always wanted to be. Where was the wild Frances? The woman who was anything but predictable, the woman who wouldn’t lie down and comply because society expected her to? Where was she?

  Andrew wouldn’t understand the list, wouldn’t understand what it meant to me or how much I needed something off it to call mine. He would try, I knew he would, but saying you understand and actually understanding are two very different things. I had given up so much of myself for him, my name, my future, my life. Yes, I cared for him. Yes, I loved him. But was love enough? Was it enough when I wasn’t even sure I loved myself anymore?

  The tears came, falling like a warm rain, splattering against the page stretched out in my hands. It fell from my fingers and floated to the ground, the well-worn paper echoing like a thunder crash in my head. I covered my face with my hands.

  “Fuck.”

  17.

  I jolt awake, sitting straight up in bed. A headache immediately springs to life behind my eyes, a painful reminder of too many questions and too much drink, in that order.

  I glance around at my surroundings, a dark, unlit room with a single shaft of light breaking through the split in the cream-colored curtains. The light falls and spreads over a figure sleeping on the floor, curled up like a cat.

  Jesse.

  I need to get up, to move, to crawl out of my own skin. My lower back aches as I silently creep out of bed, hitting the floor on tiptoes. I manage to make it all the way around the immense mattress and to the bathroom door without making a sound when—

  “Where are you going?”

  I whip around through the dimness of the room to see Jesse sitting up, propped up on one elbow. He’s awake. I decide to be mature and answer him. “Bathroom.”

  “Why?”

  I sigh in exasperation. Even this makes my head hurt. “I thought I would write something really naughty on the walls. What’s your phone number? I want to make sure they know who to call for a good time.”

  My attempt at humor falls flat, and with a groan, Jesse falls back onto his makeshift bed, his lone pillow deflating beneath the sudden impact of his head.

  I push open the bathroom door, the sudden burst of light washing over me, stinging my eyes as I fumble to close the door behind me.

  I brace my arms on the cold porcelain sink before splashing handful after handful of cool water over my face, letting it drip off the ends of my hair and down the drain. I feel a little better, though still hungover, and ridiculous.

  When I finally come out, the main room lights are on and the curtains are pulled back to reveal a blindingly bright sun. Jesse sits on the floor, elbows resting on bent knees, his back against the foot of the bed.

  I cover my eyes with my hand, feeling my pulse hammering behind them. “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Almost two.”


  I guess I was more in need of sleep than I thought. I flop backwards on to the bed as he remains seated on the floor, staring down at his hands as if they hold the answers he’s after.

  Any second now it’ll begin. There’ll be no avoiding it this time, no alcohol to drown my problems in, no place I can run.

  I can’t bear this tension, this uncomfortable, ill-fitting silence I’ve cast us into. I want things to go back to the way they were. I want us to be Jesse and Frances again — Jesse and Frannie — travelers who became friends despite insurmountable odds. I wish we could laugh and joke like we used to before I chose to make yet another slew of bad decisions regarding honesty, men, and drink.

  “Are you going to say something?” he asks, finally growing as tired of the silence as I am. “Or should I?”

  Fuck.

  I clear my throat, stalling for time. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Anything,” he answers quickly with a slight edge to his voice. “Anything, so I don’t feel like a complete idiot anymore.”

  “You feel like an idiot?” I ask in disbelief, sitting up way too fast. Blood rushes to my head as my stomach churns in disapproval. “You? Let’s not forget which one of us got completely trashed last night simply to avoid an uncomfortable conversation. Because I do believe that was me.”

  He laughs softly, a sound that instantly sets me more at ease.

  “To be fair,” he says, “I did kind of push you to it.”

  “I think we both know I would have acted like a drunken fool at some point or another.”

  The mood between us light, gentle even, and I wonder how much time I have left before one of us draws a line in the sane. There’s another drawn-out silence, our silent, purposeful breaths punctuating the time like a ticking clock.

  I take a deep breath. It’s now or never, I suppose.

  “How did you know, Jesse?”

  He pushes his hair back, tearing his gaze from the floor to finally look up at me.

  “I kept hoping you would remember me,” he answers finally. “That at some point my face would click, and you would remember, and we wouldn’t have to keep going through this stupid dance of you hiding stuff and me pretending I didn’t know.”

  I’m more than a little confused. “Remember you? We’ve never met before.”

  “Yes, we have,” he says, narrowing his eyes, as though he might will his memories into mine. “I recognized you the moment I saw you in Kansas City. I rushed over, to say hi, but it was clear you didn’t remember me. I was shocked you were alone. I kept expecting your fiancé, or husband or whatever, to show up any second. But he never did. That’s when I noticed you weren’t wearing a ring.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask again, quickly growing frustrated.

  He turns away, his dark eyes drifting to a large painting of a Nevada sunset hanging over the bed.

  “I’ll never forget the first time I saw you,” he says, barely more than a forlorn whisper. “I noticed you from all the way across the room. You were so beautiful. Your hair was loose, falling just below your shoulders. And you were wearing this remarkable red dress.”

  Red dress?

  The fact he seems to know something I don’t, something I probably don’t want to remember.

  “And then you talked to me. Only for a minute.” He keeps going, not hearing a word I’ve said. “But that one minute made my genuinely awful day of spilling drinks and getting yelled at by my boss so much better. It was strange, like the rest of the room was covered in this darkness they couldn’t even see. And then there was you. You were sunlight, you were dawn to their night. You were everything I wanted, and you belonged to someone else.”

  He bites his bottom lip and laces his fingers behind his neck. I’m fighting back tears yet again because I know what he’s talking about now.

  “I tried to make you laugh. I gave you your drink and told you it was on the house. And you said—”

  I remember.

  “They’re all on the house, cutie. It’s an open bar,” I finish for him, my words come out flat and empty, stunned by the realization of missing what’s been in front of me this whole time.

  He nods without saying a word.

  “You were the bartender,” I whisper. It’s too much to ask to try for any volume. “At my engagement party. That was you?”

  Again, he nods his answer.

  “I—” I begin.

  How could I have known?

  How could I not?

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask, lungs heaving as though made of dry, crumpled paper.

  He furrows his brow. “Why didn’t you say anything? You had just as many chances to tell me you have a fiancé.”

  Had a fiancé, though I don’t correct him. He’s right of course. I’d had so many opportunities to tell him, to share my story. Yet, coward that I am, I’d kept my mouth shut, refusing to concede even the smallest of truths.

  I shrug as if that qualifies as an answer. “I don’t know.”

  He pins me in place with his gaze, shattering my heart with the exhaustion and resignation I see there. “Neither do I,” he says. “I remember seeing you later that day, at your engagement party. I’d spent the rest of my shift trying not to stare at you, but it was impossible. You were standing over in the corner near an ice sculpture arguing with some yuppie looking blonde guy. That was your fiancé, right?”

  I nod. “Andrew.”

  “Andrew,” he repeats, swallowing as though the name pinches inside his mouth. “Right. Well you argued for a while and then I guess you two made up. But the thing I really remember is when he, Andrew, left you standing by yourself at the table. I remember seeing your face and thinking… I remember thinking I’ve never seen someone look so completely, and utterly alone.”

  That word brings me back to life.

  “Alone?” I ask, surprised. It’s not what I thought he would say. Uncomfortable, yes. Overwhelmed, of course. But alone? I’d been surrounded by people, by Andrew, by his family and mine. How could he possibly think I’d been alone?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying my best to sound more confident than I am. “It was a party! There were people everywhere. How could I have been alone?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. You were getting married. You had all these people there to congratulate you, and still, your face in that moment was the most telling thing I’d ever seen. It hit me, right here.” He slams his palm over his heart. “Like I could understand every bit of fear and anxiety and loneliness you were feeling.”

  His words cut deep, as if creating an actual wound. Jesse may be a lot of things, but cruel he most certainly is not. And yet his accusations are like physical blows.

  “Don’t make assumptions about things you know nothing about!” I yell at him. “You don’t know what I felt that day, what I’d felt every day since the moment I left!”

  “Then tell me!” he shouts, climbing to his feet, towering over me until my vision is filled with nothing but him. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No!”

  “Cheat on you?”

  “No.”

  “What did he do to make you run. Frances?” The strong line of his jaw tenses around his seemingly unending questions. “Fucking trust me enough to let me in on your dirty little secret!”

  “I can’t!” I scream up at him, fisting his shirt in my hands.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he didn’t do anything!” Every muscle in my body aches. My head is pounding so hard I think it might explode any second. “Andrew was the perfect guy, okay? He was handsome and kind and smart and too good for me! Is that what you want to hear? You want me to tell you all about how I took the coward’s way out, how I ran without saying goodbye? You think I can just tell you why I left? You think it’s that simple? You think it was easy?” I grip his shirt tighter, feeling as though I could tear it clean in half with bare hands. “Because you’re wrong! It wasn’t easy! It was the har
dest fucking thing I’ve ever had to do!”

  He neither answers nor moves as the truth comes pouring out of me. His face is an expressionless mask, fixed and blank as though carved of clean marble. There’s no stopping the river of tears running freewill down my face. I don’t even attempt to brush them away.

  “But I had to go. I had to, Jesse! I’m not supposed to be with Andrew. I don’t love him the way I should. And I know I didn’t handle any of this the right way. I know I should have talked to him. I should have tried to explain. But he wouldn’t have understood. So, if you think running out of that church was easy, then you’re—”

  “Wait,” he interrupts, taking a wary step back. “You… left him at the altar?”

  Even through my tears I can see what he’s thinking. The cogs and wheels turning in his head almost make an audible clicking as the final pieces snap into place.

  “Don’t you dare fucking judge me,” I growl through clenched teeth. “Don’t. You don’t know. You weren’t there. You weren’t the one wearing the white dress, the one trapped, the one about to make the biggest mistake of her life!”

  He takes a step closer. His tone is deadly quiet, dangerous. “I’m also not the one determined to live my fucking life based on some list a ten-year-old thought up.”

  Neither of us is winning. He’s hitting below the belt and I’m determined to keep throwing punches even though I’ve already hit the mat.

  “And who are you, Jesse?” I snarl. “Huh? You think you’re so goddamn perfect, then tell me why you’re here! Because I think you’re just some guy who hated his job and hated his family and hated his life so much that he gave up and ran away.”

  His lips clamp shut over whatever it is he would like to fire back at me. But I can’t seem to stop, like pouring salt into an open wound. “You’re nothing but a hypocrite who turned and ran when he couldn’t take it anymore.”

  I watch as my shot hit its mark, his chocolate eyes darkening with quiet anger, the smooth planes of his face tensing at my words. I’ve never been afraid of Jesse before. I know he would never hurt me, but something about the look on his face tells me I should stop.