by Ginger Scott
I pop into the first jewelry store and circle the counter so fast I must look like I’m playing a game of hide-and-go-seek. It’s rare that I find something in a place like this that’s the right fit for my wife. Department stores are out, and I got her a bunch of new, clever T-shirts a month or two ago. I’m now twelve minutes late from the time I promised her I would be picking her up, so I stop in this weird rock store and pull out my phone to text her.
Got hung up. Almost there.
She answers back quick.
It’s fine.
That means it isn’t fine at all. Fine is a four-letter word that starts with an F. When Nolan says she’s fine, what she really means is something quite the opposite.
I glance around, feeling desperate and near giving up, when a small wooden box holding a cluster of crystal rocks on a shelf catches my eye and scratches at something deep in my memory. I don’t know how it’s the same box, but it is—it just is.
My hand collapses the lid carefully, and I start to shake with a dose of adrenaline when I see the pattern I was expecting come into view. The lid is curved, an intricate carving etched along the grain creating a swirl of flowers and vines. Deep turquoise blues stain the flowers and faint greens wisp for leaves. Before I even held it in my hand, I could have drawn this box from my memory.
I hold it in both hands and gaze around the store, looking for an employee. I finally find a woman with her hair twisted in dreadlocks, woven with pieces of fabric that hang down her back.
“Excuse me, but how much is this box?” She turns to me and pulls her small glasses down her nose, deciphering what I’m talking about.
“Oh, that’s just a display,” she says, going back to sorting a tangle of leather jewelry that some kids came through and messed up.
I swallow, knowing I have to have this box. I’m not leaving this store without it.
“Can I buy the display?”
She turns to me again, a confused wrinkle zigzagging along the bridge of her nose, and before she can say no, I sweeten the pot.
“A hundred bucks. I’ll give you a hundred bucks for this box.” My words shoot out of my mouth all nervous-like and urgent, and she smirks, letting out a short laugh.
Shrugging, she shakes her head a little.
“Just dump the rocks out and take it. If it’s that important, I can’t charge you for it.” Her natural lips pull into a sweet smile, and I nearly lunge forward and hug her. I think she thinks I’m going to, because she slides her feet around the jewelry display to put a barrier between us.
“That’s seriously the most awesome thing ever! Thank you…this…just thank you for this,” I ramble, still shaking my head, a little in disbelief.
“Just don’t forget the stones. Those are worth a lot,” she reminds me.
“Oh…right,” I say, tipping the box and palming the stones to hand to her. She cradles them and moves them over to the register area while I walk slowly back through the store, holding the box in my hands in front of my face. My thumb rolls over the aged hinges and I flip the lid open and closed a few times, smelling the sweet scent the store left a trace of on the wood.
I’ve done it again. This actually might be the very best gift I’ve ever found for Noles. And when I tell her its history, it’s going to make her forget all about the douchebag things I said earlier and remind her that she and I are in fact meant to fucking be…for always.
Reed, 23 Years Earlier
We’ve been in the mall longer than two straight dudes should be in a mall. My mom used to drag me around from department store to department store, picking up things she had on hold and changing her mind seeing them again two weeks later. I’d sit on bed displays while she ordered employees around to find her something different. Millie Johnson was the queen of changing her mind, and Christmas time kicked her high-maintenance spirit up a big notch.
I kinda feel like Sean, my best friend, is giving her a run for her money right now though. We’ve visited the same three stores six times. He’s picked up the same chain and locket in two of them, and then there’s a sweatshirt that “feels nice and soft, just like Nolan likes them.”
She does like soft clothing. She has this collection of T-shirts that are all worn and perfectly broken in. I asked her about them once, and she got embarrassed. I think she thought I was teasing her because, I’m guessing, they were probably from the thrift store. I wasn’t though. I actually really dig her style. Everything she wears looks like it belongs to her, says something about her—smart, funny, easy-going, sporty.
“You’re gonna kill me, but I think…I think I want to look at the sweatshirt and locket together, at that one store that had them both. That way I can, like…hold them up side by side or whatever.”
I just start walking the other direction, to the store my friend is talking about. Sean has been dating Nolan for seven or eight months. They’re really good together, and I like that he’s good to her, because she’s a really cool girl.
“What’d you get Tatum?” Sean asks, quickening his step to catch up to me. I’m walking a little faster than we have all day, because the store he needs is on the other end of the mall, which means one more pass through the food court, and I’m really getting hungry. If I have to smell tater tots one more time—without having time to actually stand in line and buy them—I’m going to throw my friend off the escalator.
“I just got her some earrings. They looked kinda seventies-ish to me, but I knew she wanted them, because she took me to the store to visit them twice.”
We both laugh. I’ve been with Tatum for more than a year now. There isn’t much we don’t know about each other, but there also doesn’t seem to be…well…much to know. The sex is great, and often. But it’s not really special anymore. Our first time…my first time…I guess that was special. I don’t remember much of it, though, other than the end because…I mean, come on.
“I wish Nolan was like that,” Sean says, and I perk a brow. “You know, like Tatum? Tell me what to do. I have no idea what she wants.”
I fall in behind him as we step onto the escalator and think about what he just said. Nolan loves her family, and she loves simple things. She’s willing to try new things, like art or seeing some new band coming to the Valley. She loves to bake. Her mom is an amazing cook, and she’s always trying to learn how to make things just like her. She also has to carry her phone and wallet everywhere she goes, and I bet if she had one of those small purse things that she could wear over her body, she’d love it.
I shake from my trance as we step from the escalator, and I follow Sean into the store as I try to dust away the rush of ideas I just had for a girl who is my friend—who is not my girlfriend. Who is dating my best friend.
Tagging along behind Sean as he circles back to the jewelry counter with the big sweatshirt in his hands, I can’t help but notice the dozens of things that leap out at me that would be perfect for her. I hardly hear Sean talking anymore, the noise in my head so loud. I’ve started to fantasize that I’m the one shopping for Nolan—that I’m buying her a special gift for our first Christmas together, and it has to be perfect. My eyes are staring at the heart-shaped locket and the sweatshirt that Sean has rested side by side on the glass countertop. I’m hit with a sudden realization that neither of these things are good enough for Nolan Lennox. While she’d like them and would be happy, they wouldn’t be special.
Nolan deserves something special.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a small wooden box engraved with swirls and flowers, small cuts stained a turquoise blue, others green or yellow. It’s the kind of a place a girl would hide her favorite things. It’s something Nolan would love. I don’t know how I know it, but I just do.
My lips part and I start to point it out to my friend, but something chokes me, and I don’t speak. I wait, and when my friend settles on the locket, I smile and nod, happy that he’s done.
She’ll like the locket just fine. But she won’t love it. She’ll show her frien
ds…maybe. Probably wear it for a week or two then keep it on her dresser.
The wooden box, though—that she would keep private.
And that’s the difference.
I know Nolan.
And just like that locket, I know that I am not good enough.
Nolan, Present Day
My stomach is so loud that I’m fairly certain the couple waiting for their Uber next to me can hear my growls. Add this to the fact that the doormen and their friends—who I am sure they told—all believe I’m a high-dollar hooker or the football-floozie-hookup sleeping with Reed Johnson, and I’m literally a walking sitcom.
I can actually pick the Jeep’s motor from of a lineup. I hear it approaching the light out of my sight first. I don’t even have to guess which direction it’s pulling into the hotel drop-off. My doormen pals watch me step from the curb and reach my hand forward to climb in as Reed slows. I play up my charade a little longer, glance over my shoulder, hiding my face with my palm—as if that’s really how I would disguise myself—before getting in, slamming the door and ducking down low in the seat.
“Did you see someone from high school or something? Cuz you only do this stuff when you see someone you didn’t like from high school,” Reed says.
“I do not,” I argue, stopping short and dropping my brow low as I sit up normal and straighten the seatbelt across my chest. “Actually, yeah…you’re right. I guess that is what I do. But no…that’s not what this is.”
I wonder if showing up in tabloid gossip with your wife is bad for a contract extension. I decide not to tell Reed about my little game, but he never asks, so I get away with one more, little hoax. I notice a bag rustling in the back of the Jeep; I reach to grab it, curious. Reed stops my hand short, though.
“That’s for later,” he says.
I pull my lips in tight, suspicious.
“Okay…” I draw the word out. Reed holds this secret close, though. It’s a surprise he’s picked up, something to smooth over our rough spots—our most recent rough spot. It’s probably really thoughtful, which kinda makes me even more irritated, because it won’t be the point. The point is the stuff he said and the mess I made by cancelling his flight.
“You good with steak? I’m starving,” Reed says.
“My God, yes,” I say, flattening my palms on my stomach.
He glances at me and smiles, pulling us ahead quickly to make the light of an intersection.
I’ve always been a good eater. Reed has always found it sexy, or at least he says he finds it sexy. I don’t care if he does or not; when I want meat and potatoes, I’m gonna clean my plate. There is nothing delicate about me taking a fork and knife to a fillet.
We pull into a small parking lot about two blocks away from our hotel and Reed rushes around to get my door before I have a chance to completely get out. He grabs the bag from the back, but winds the bag tight around his thumb and holds it slightly behind his back while we walk toward the restaurant together.
The place is crowded, but Reed manages to finagle us a spot with some privacy, out on the back-patio area, tucked behind a tree wrapped in white lights. Fall in California is so different from the rest of the world. It’s chilly in the evening, but a light jacket makes it damn near perfect. We can’t have a dinner like this outside in a lot of other places come late September.
Reed waits until we’ve placed our order and gotten our drinks delivered before he brings the bag up to the table between his palms. Wrapped in some gem store plastic bag, he sets it between his napkin, silverware, and the Jack and Coke he had them bring from the bar.
“Before anything else, let me just say this to you,” he begins.
I fold my hands on the table and tuck my feet under my chair, leaning in close.
“I’m sorry,” he says, not even blinking as we stare into each other’s eyes. He’s sincere. I don’t have to dig in for more, ask him what he’s sorry for. I know…he knows. He wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t think he should.
“Me, too,” I add. I wouldn’t say it either unless I meant it. I shouldn’t have cancelled his flight. I should have found another way.
He takes a deep but quick breath through his nose, his lips forming a tight smile that dents his cheeks. This next part is going to be hard. The truth is that way.
“I don’t want this to be it for me, Noles. If I can really do this—play at this level, the level I expect for myself—I don’t want to stop.” He waits for me to react. I’m not sure what expression to give. I can show him the Nolan who always knew this and understands, or I could give him the crazy woman who is secretly praying none of it works out. I’m praying against his wishes. I’m a horrible, terrible person.
“I just don’t understand why.” He’s heard me say that before, but not directly. We need to be direct about all of this.
“I know,” he says.
A waiter swoops in and leaves two salads in front of us, food I suddenly don’t want. I pick at a few of the croutons while Reed takes large shovels of greens onto his fork and stuffs his mouth.
“You have so much else in your life. I know you could be happy, that you’d find a purpose and a place. Is this about Trig? About you being afraid? You aren’t Trig, Reed. His depression—it could have come from a lot of different places.” I can see the flashes of pain reflect in his eyes when I bring up Trig so bluntly. I have to, though. Trig’s funeral brought so much of Reed’s fears to the surface.
“You’re right. I can’t help but think about Trig. He was really unhappy after he quit, and he didn’t know how to live without the game in his life. I’m just not ready yet, Noles. I feel like there are things I have to do in this sport, goals I have to reach for while I still can.” He lowers his fork and runs his napkin along his lips before leaning back in his chair to look at me.
I have so many things to say that they all compete for what comes out, leaving me stymied, I say nothing, and instead simply blink a few times and look down and to the side. Reed shifts and brings the bag he’s been hiding from me up on the table. When I glance his direction, he slides it across to me. He nods slightly, urging me to open the bag. My fingers tingle with nerves because I’m still upset, but I know he’s just being honest, and he’s trying to be kind with this gift.
I take the bag in my hands and hold it open at the end, reaching in and feeling a smooth surface, maybe some sort of wooden carving. I pull out a bohemian-style jewelry box that smells of maple and is adorned with splashes of color, shapes cut like vines and flowers. I smile genuinely. I would have bought this for myself.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, meeting his waiting eyes. He looks so young and innocent, like he’s my high-school Reed holding his breath hoping I like something. It somehow makes this sweeter.
“When we were fifteen…maybe sixteen, I found this box at the mall when I was helping Sean pick out something to get you for Christmas. I knew this box was the perfect gift,” he says.
My lip rises on the right and I look down from Reed to the box, lifting the latch on the lid.
“So, you decided not to give Sean a good tip and tell him to buy it for me?” I chuckle at the thought. Years of marriage later and I still get butterflies in my stomach at the thought of Reed Johnson having a crush on me.
“Hell no,” he busts out in a laugh. “I kept it to myself, and I think he got you a locket. I wanted to be the one to get this for you. I was just too chicken to do it then. But I found this box tonight. And I knew it was a sign.”
He pulls the box into his palms and flips the lid open completely to look inside and twist the box around in a circle to view it from every angle. His lips are parted, waiting for the right words to come.
“I knew I had to be completely honest with you…about what I really want. Why this second shot…hell, third shot…is so important to me.”
I swallow so hard that I cough from the dryness. I reach for my water glass and down nearly half of the liquid while he chews at his lip.
“A
nd I know that you are not in favor of this choice I’m making, or rather this goal that I have. But I can’t give up because I don’t want to hurt you, and I think you know that.” His eyes meet mine, and as if I knew we would have to have this silent conversation, I meet his waiting stare and break a little in front of his honest eyes. His head falls to the side a little and he reaches across the table to me, turning his palm over for my hand. I give it to him, shifting my focus to the soft strokes of his thumb along my knuckles.
“I would resent it. You would resent me. You still might because of this…”
“I would never,” I break through, a hiccup of a cry.
“Shhhh,” he soothes, reaching for my other hand now. I hate how worried I am, and how defeated I feel. I hate how selfish I feel for still not wanting any of this. I love this man so much, but he’s being so stupid.
“You’re right about everything,” he says. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a wave of vindication wrap my insides in warmth that chills again quickly because me being right isn’t enough. It doesn’t matter. “But I have to try, Noles. And I want you to be able to do something when you feel like you can’t. I thought maybe you could put your wishes and worries in here. Write down the things you can’t say. Hell, tell me I’m an asshole and hide it away in this box if you’re not ready to say it to my face. This box is for your feelings, and if there’s ever a time when you want me to read them, just hand it to me and I will go through every single note. I won’t make my final decision, if I have one to make, until I consider everything you want me to consider. For when we can’t talk, or when you aren’t ready to speak, let it out here.”
He pushes the box forward again, the open side facing me. I run my finger along the inside edge then pinch the clasp and draw the top down slowly, snapping it locked again.
