Still Us

by Lindsay Detwiler

  Jacque, not really one for customer service or niceties, simply snatches my card, processes the payment, and heads to the area to clean up. He’s not exactly a five-star for friendliness, but his talent clearly makes it worth it. Next time, I’ll just bring headphones, although I’m pretty sure Jacque wouldn’t be okay with that.

  I find myself strutting out of the shop onto the sidewalk, hoping there are crowds to see my new hair.

  There is, of course, no one, and I simply retreat home, feeling like a new woman but not having anyone to show that fact off to. Nonetheless, I think the haircut is just what I needed to feel like I’m starting a new life.

  Judging by the new hair, maybe it won’t be such a bad start after all.

  ***

  By dinnertime, I realize the error in my ways and the miscalculation. It wasn’t a new haircut I needed—it was either a new living arrangement or a new mother to make me feel okay about the future.

  “Oh my God, what in the hell did you do to your hair? You were so pretty and now you look like a Backstreet Boy or something,” Mom proclaims when she comes home from work and finds Grandma and me watching Jane the Virgin. Grandma already has the hots for Michael and Rafael, and it’s only episode three.

  “Wow, thanks Mom,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Oh, Lucy, stop badgering the girl. It looks good. I mean, they say long hair is good to grab, but I think short hair just says powerful. Men like powerful in the bedroom. This will up her chances of—”

  “Oh my God, Grandma, please stop,” I shout, pausing Jane on a very unflattering facial expression and covering my ears with my hands. It’s too late to protect myself, though, from Grandma’s horrific observations.

  “Well, I think it’s not the best. Did you go to that creepy place Maren swears by? You should’ve known better, Lila. I mean, your sister had purple hair last summer. Purple. What’s gotten into you two?”

  “For starters, Mother, we grew up. And now we make decisions about our hair. We think outside the box. We mix it up. Not all of us have had the same hairstyle for eighteen years,” I utter without thinking.

  Even Grandma Claire knows I’ve gone too far and groans.

  Mom gives me her “game on” look. “I’ll let that slide,” she says, “because I know right now your life’s a disaster. But don’t take it out on me.”

  “My life’s not a disaster,” I retort, although the words don’t really have confidence behind them.

  “Well, that haircut is saying you’re a disaster. It’s just not flattering is all I’m saying. It looks like a boy or something.”

  “First,” I say pointedly, actually getting up from my seat, “that’s kind of the point. I’m trying something new. I’m free to explore who I want to be. And second, I don’t think some lowlights and a few inches off is crazy or boyish.”

  Feeling like a teenager, I stomp back to my room and shut the door. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I bury my head in my hands. How the hell is this happening? How am I back here under the gripping clutches of my crazy, helicopter mother?

  Most of all, I wonder how the hell I can make enough money to get out of here as soon as possible. Either I need to pick up some more hours, or perhaps I need to get myself a good-luck-charm cat and join Grandma on Thursdays more often.

  I try to take a calming breath and remind myself I knew what moving back in would be like. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I chose this. I thought this would be best.

  Listening to Mom and Grandma argue over how to unfreeze the television for five minutes, ultimately resulting in a swearing match—Grandma being the one to let the first vulgarities fly—I again ask myself what the hell I was thinking.

  Was it worth it? Was letting my stubbornness and my plans and my need for signs get in the way of us worth it? And most of all, were we really that far gone, that far apart that I couldn’t have worked a little harder to make it work?

  Was giving up on Luke really what I needed?

  I lean back on my bed, staring at the same ceiling I stared at all through high school as I wondered when life was going to get good and when I was going to be happy.

  Lying here now as an adult with my life falling apart, I start to question whether the problem isn’t life. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I just can’t hold on to happiness when I find it, or maybe I set the bar too high.

  Or, maybe, just maybe, my mother is right—not that I’d ever admit it.

  Maybe this is just grief talking, and maybe it’s going to take more than a haircut and a hilarious show to make me feel ready to face the unknown future.

  Maybe it’ll just take time.

  ***

  “No pity coming from me. I told you moving home was a horrific idea. I think you’d have been better to live in a tent by the river,” Maren says the next morning as we sip coffee. I’ve got an evening shift, so I agreed to go dress shopping with her this morning. Maren, like with all things, has decided to wait until way too close to the wedding to go dress shopping. I think she did it just because Mom has been on her case. That’s Maren, though—a go-with-the-flow girl. I swear she could be happy picking out her dress the morning of the wedding.

  Our dress shopping venture is a secret because Maren wants a chance to browse dresses before Mom gets involved. We’ll go a second time when Maren’s basically settled on a choice so Mom doesn’t make her crazy.

  It seems like we’re harsh on Mom, and maybe we are. I know, deep down, her intentions are the best. But she’s just always been one of those over-the-top moms. Seeing Maren kiss a boy in eighth grade led to a way too detailed talk about babies and pregnancies and single motherhood and, in Mom’s views, the destruction of dreams. We were always warned about ill intentions of others, the dangers of drugs, and the necessity to avoid kidnapping. Mom, the ultimate worrier, has her reasons. She lost her own sister, Julia, when Julia was only fifteen. She died of a drug overdose. I guess Mom has always carried that with her.

  Still, it’s made her compulsively paranoid and compulsively controlling. This frustrated me as a teenager, and did not fare well at all with Maren. The two have had only about three civil conversations in their lifetime. I usually end up as the mediator. Such is the case with the wedding.

  “She’s trying to help, in her own way,” I defend, looking around the tiny café as we sip our lattes.

  “You tell yourself that. I mean, the woman needs to get a grip. We’re grown up. We’re going to be okay.”

  “Well, you’re okay in her eyes. I’m a complete screwup right now,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  Maren laughs. “It’s kind of funny because for all those years, she thought I was going to be the screwup.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m just kidding, sis. You know that. Don’t let Mom make you feel bad.”

  “Or like a spinster? An old maid? Because these are the words that have been not-so-smoothly slipped into conversations lately. It’s like we’re in the 1800s. Since I’m the oldest, I clearly have to be married first or face a lifetime of singleness. She’s been going on and on about Cousin Martha all of a sudden. Like this is making things so much easier for me. Like I don’t know I’m getting older.”

  Maren groans.

  Cousin Martha is our thirty-eight-year-old cousin who hasn’t married yet. In Lucy Morrow’s world, this is a grave disaster. Being single is a swear word in her language.

  Of course, in reality, I guess I can’t judge her too harshly. But things are different for me. It’s not that I don’t feel like I’m not a successful woman without a man. It’s not like I feel like I have to be married by a certain age.

  I just…. I do want that commitment eventually. I want a family, I do.

  But I don’t think Mom calling me a spinster is helping things, at all.

  “I honestly thought she’d be happy I broke up with Luke. He’s nothing like the guys she would pick for me, and it’s not like she ever really liked him,” I say, shaking my head.

  Maren shrugs. “May
be Mom hoped Luke’s singing would take off and you’d be a wealthy, famous wife of a celebrity. Then she could get her moment in the spotlight. Now you’ve dashed her dreams.”

  “Who knows. But anyway, it’s just driving me crazy.”

  “Speaking of Luke, have you heard from him?” Maren asks.

  “A text. I ignored it.” I bite my lip.

  “Lila, did you really?” she asks, as if she doesn’t trust me.

  “Yes. But I thought about answering it.”

  Maren shakes her head. “Lila, when you decided it was done, you were so sure. You have to trust your gut, you know? You broke up for a reason.”

  “But what if I was being an idiot? What if I was being unreasonable? What if Mom’s craziness growing up just tainted my view of love?” I ask, confessing my fears for the first time.

  “Love is never reasonable. Get that straight right now. And so what if you were, Lila? Look. Contrary to Mom’s beliefs, you’re not ancient. You’re young. You deserve to explore a little, which you didn’t really do. If you weren’t sure about everything, you did the right thing. Go out there and scope out the field. Have some fun. See who you could be as just Lila for a while. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “What if I made a mistake? I still love him, Maren.”

  “Of course you do. You don’t just shut off love like a switch. But love isn’t the only piece of the equation. Seriously. And you know what, Lila? If you did screw up, if you do realize someday that you were an idiot, there’s nothing saying you can’t fix things. Love is crazy and winding and, quite frankly, fucked-up. Call me a romantic or whatever, but since Will, I’ve learned that you don’t figure out love, and you don’t plan it. It comes for you when it’s ready, and when it does, you know it’s the real deal. You know when it’s right.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head.

  “What?” she asks. “I give you this beautiful advice, and you laugh? Screw you, jerk.”

  “No. It’s just that only you could use fucked-up and romantic in the same monologue and make it work.”

  “Well, it’s true. Listen, I get to sound wise about love, since I’m not the spinster of the family. Just trying to help you out.”

  I kick her under the table, and a kicking fight ensues. We laugh loudly, and a few other customers stare at us. “Are you ready to go find your dress?” I ask.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with it? I know the timing isn’t exactly great.”

  “I know. You bitch, how dare you get married when I decide to break up with my boyfriend. You should at least call off the wedding for a year or two for my period of grief, as Mom calls it.”

  “Well, Mom would have me call off the wedding for a year, but only so your hair can grow.”

  “You’re right. She scowled at it this morning. You’d think I got some pornographic picture shaved into my scalp or something.”

  “Good old Lucy’s not a fan of the lob, apparently. I love it.”

  “You only love it because Mom doesn’t.”

  “Yeah, sort of. On second thought, this whole shopping for my wedding dress without Mom first might not work. I don’t think I’ll be able to pick one without knowing which one she hates the most, you know? What if I pick one she actually ends up liking? That would be devastating.”

  “You are such a jerk. She’s your mother.”

  “She’s your mother. I don’t claim her,” Maren says, and I smile.

  Maren and Mom have had their moments, it’s true. I know, though, behind the surface-level anger is love.

  Maren’s right. Love isn’t always this clear-cut, movie-like emotion. It’s freaking complicated and messy.

  It’s just that we have to decide, I guess, whether or not it’s worth the mess.

  Chapter Seven

  Luke

  It seemed like a good idea at that time, a text to see what she was up to. In reality, I was just missing her and under the influence of Evan’s insistence that Jack Daniel’s would make me forget her.

  Days later, though, that unanswered text on my phone stings worse than the final goodbye. She’s really done. Those years together weren’t the building of forever.

  I suppose that’s really my fault, though, because I wasn’t living like I was playing for forever. I messed it up, and it’s no one’s fault but my own.

  They say heartbreak makes for good songs, but standing at the corner of Montgomery and Fifth Avenue, I don’t really feel like the songs are great tonight. My guitar case is open as I stand in front of Dot’s Doughnuts. Usually, after a night of playing to the sparse crowds, Lila standing nearby watching with a smile, we’d go inside, order our favorites, and chat up Dot.

  Not tonight, though. Things are different now. Here I stand, just a singing wannabe, strumming on my guitar, playing a sad song that even I can tell isn’t quite right. A few stragglers take pity and toss a buck into the guitar case. This doesn’t make me happy, though. This was never about money. It was about being heard. It was about my passion for it.

  Lila was the one who inspired me to keep singing. Her smile at my song, the look in her eyes as I played her favorite, that was what I did it for.

  Now, standing here, just a lonely guy with an unanswered text on his phone, I don’t feel like there’s even a point. I pack up early and hurriedly wave to Dot without going in. I can’t face the prospect of a table for one tonight. I can’t sit there with my three peanut-butter glazed doughnuts alone, remembering how we’d always share the third one, breaking it exactly down the middle but still fighting over the best half. I can’t stand the thought that life without her is empty and pointless.

  I can’t stand the fact I did this to us.

  More than that, I can’t stand the fact that my damn pride or my messed-up family or whatever else a psychologist would say is standing in my way won’t let me back down. Because as much as I miss her, I can’t find it in me to give in and admit I was wrong. I can’t find it in me to want to change things, to be the Luke she deserves and to map out the path to a future she needs.

  “Screw it all,” I say as I put my hood up and lug my guitar case back to Evan’s, not home but home for now.

  ***

  “What the hell is that, Luke? Are you serious?” Evan exclaims the next morning when I call him out to the front of the apartment building to check out my new ride.

  I’ve traded in the ancient Ford for a bit of an upgrade—a Dodge Charger.

  “How the hell are you affording it? I mean, you’ve been working on some roofing jobs, but Jesus, if it’s that profitable, maybe I should come work with you,” Evan says, staring at the glossy paint and shaking his head.

  I shrug. “I took out a loan.”

  “Can you make the payments?”

  I smile from the driver seat. “Settle down. I can still make rent, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “So is this your plan? Buy a babe-magnet car?”

  “No. My plan is that I always wanted one, and Lila said it was too expensive.”

  “So it’s a ‘fuck you, Lila.’ I see,” Evan says, hopping in the passenger seat to check out the interior.

  “No. It’s not like that.”

  “I think it’s sort of like that.”

  I shake my head as Evan turns up the radio and demands I take him for a ride so we can see what the top speed is.

  I drive through town and find the highway exit, slamming my foot on the gas pedal and driving like a bat out of hell, Evan cheering me on.

  As we fly by the other cars and the scenery becomes a blur, I think about how good it feels to let go. The payments are ludicrous and it wasn’t wise, but wise was never my thing. That was hers. She was the one who helped me budget and helped us save for the future.

  But the future’s screwed now, so I might as well have a little fun, right?

  “Let’s go out tonight,” I say, and Evan looks like he’s seen a ghost.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious. Luke Bow
man isn’t done just yet. You’re right. We’re young. Let’s get out there.”

  Evan lets out what can only be classified as a rebel yell, and I run a hand through my hair as I slow down to a normal, civilian-like pace.

  Evan talks a mile a minute about hot places, good times, and sexy women, but I don’t hear him.

  That’s sort of the point, though. I don’t want to hear anything, feel anything. I want to just be, to just breathe, and to maybe just have some fun away.

  The Luke I was with Lila is gone. I’m back to the old Luke, the I-don’t-give-a-shit Luke. I’m back to the guy I was before her, just with a little less belief in love and a little more heartbreak. I’m the badass who was one choice away from making a huge mistake. I’m the rebel without a cause who was one bill away from financial ruin.

  I know I should care. I’ve turned it all around these past few years with her.

  But we all know how that turned out. So screw it.

  I stomp on the accelerator again and fly down the road, not looking back.

  Chapter Eight

  Luke

  Before Lila, this was my routine. Work throughout the week, sing a little on weekends, and get shitfaced on weeknights with Evan, hoping to get some action. In short, I was a wreck of a man. I was an asshole in many ways. I didn’t know what it meant to actually feel something, to look ahead.

  I could blame it on daddy issues. I could blame it on Mom being too busy to keep an eye on me. In truth, though, I think I was born to just be a little free-spirited and a lot anti-authority. In school, I was the kid racking up the detentions and skipping class when I got a clear break to the door. I was the kid who was never going to college—even if I had the grades, we didn’t have the money. The only thing that made me slow down even a little was music. Put that guitar in my self-taught hands, and I was different. I was calmer and more focused. I was a person with feelings instead of just a smoking, curly-haired bastard.

  After high school, the roofing job helped give me a steady income. I didn’t use it to get myself on track or to plan ahead. I used it to party a little more, to have a lot more fun. Looking back, I was just meandering through life.