Still Us

by Lindsay Detwiler

  I aimlessly scroll through Facebook, telling myself I did the right thing by deleting that voice mail. I’m moving on. I can’t let him pull me back in.

  I’d been shocked after all these months to hear from him. When I saw the familiar number under missed calls and the voice mail, though, my heart instantly stopped. Was something wrong? Surely there was a major emergency if he was calling.

  But when I listened to the message, that familiar voice sending a shiver through me, I’d smiled. His dreams were coming true. In a way, the dreams we had together were coming true. We’d spent so many nights talking, fantasizing about Luke’s career, about what he wanted, about how music could be his day job. I was his number-one fan and his cheerleader, keeping him going when he wanted to quit. His voice is truly special, and he has this charm about him that comes alive onstage. It’s like he was born to be there.

  When Luke couldn’t see that, I helped him. I was there in the front row at every gig, from basement-like bars to small fairs, listening to every word he sang, feeling like he was always singing to just me.

  But not now. Now, there is a new girl in my seat. There are new eyes he stares into as he sings. There are probably new words, new songs for a new life he’s built without me.

  It hurts, even if I don’t want it to. It kills me to think about that girl in my seat, where I’d always been.

  And it’s not because I want the fame and the glory. It’s not because I’m afraid he’s going to write killer breakup songs about me that hit the radio. It’s because… well, I don’t know the answer to the because.

  I just know it hurts not being the one there with Luke.

  I snap out of it, shoving it aside. It’s over. We’re over. We walked away.

  Now I’m finding new happiness, the happiness with a safe, secure man who can lead me to my goals, who can maybe someday give me my dream life.

  The horn honks outside. Oliver is apparently waiting in his car. I don’t completely blame him—Grandma Claire is quite the handful. Still, I look over on the sofa where Grandma Claire is watching the evening news with Cookie and Trixie on her lap and I see a frown.

  “You know, in my day, it was rude to just wait outside when you were picking up your date,” Grandma Claire says huffily.

  “Oh, stop. Oliver is an amazing guy. He’s probably just in a hurry.” Mom hands Grandma Claire a cup of tea as she waves at me. “Don’t you think…,” she begins, eyeing my outfit.

  “Goodbye, Mother,” I say, rushing out the door before I can hear about how if I want a proposal someday, I need to start taking my time with Oliver seriously.

  Mom is, of course, Oliver Waynesboro’s biggest fan these days. A prominent family, a solid career, good looks, and just the right amount of charm equates to a perfect match for her daughter, at least in Lucy Morrow’s book. Oliver, at least in Mom’s eyes, is everything Luke wasn’t. He’s dedicated and rational. He’s a planner and a go-getter.

  He’s serious about family, about marriage, about life.

  So naturally, Mom has been pushing nuptials since Maren’s wedding.

  He is an amazing guy, I think as I head to the Mustang and Oliver waves. And he is serious about family, about marriage, and about everything. He’s the perfect fit, the perfect, stable guy to give me the life I’ve so desperately been wanting for the past few years. Looking at Oliver, I can see this life set out before us of the white picket fence, two kids, and a steady, planned-out way of living.

  I get into the car, and Oliver leans over, kissing me gently. “You look gorgeous,” he says, and I smile, buckling up as we pull out.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Well, I have to be back to Park Lane in an hour, so I thought we’d make a quick stop at that doughnut place we tried before.”

  “Oh, yeah, great,” I say, trying my hardest to make the smile on my face genuine. “Do you mind if I grab Henry, then? Dot loves him and we can grab a table outside.” We’re backing down the driveway, but there’s still time. I reach to unbuckle my belt.

  Oliver puts a hand on mine to stop me. “We don’t have a lot of time, and it’ll just be easier without him, don’t you think?”

  I stare into those gorgeous blue eyes I’ve been getting to know.

  I paint back on the smile. “Sure,” I say, thinking about how things with Oliver are easier.

  Easier and simpler.

  My mind threatens to wander back to all those times Luke and I walked Henry up for doughnuts, his favorite being the vanilla birthday cake supreme doughnut, which Dot would decorate with a biscuit when Henry was in tow. It threatens to think about all the laughs and the questions we’d get as Henry slobbered underneath our tiny table out in front of Dot’s, as we’d talk about our favorite shows and what we were doing tomorrow.

  Just like the voice mail, though, I hit delete. I throw those thoughts away because they’re useless now. Luke was my past.

  Looking over at Oliver, who is animatedly chatting about his sister’s pregnancy announcement and how he can’t wait to be an uncle again and how we should go visit his family in Maine sometime soon, I smile.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “You’re a great guy,” I say, meaning it, hanging on every word.

  “And you’re pretty amazing yourself, Lila. I’m lucky to have you in my life. You make me happy.”

  And with that, the past is tossed aside, talks of the future, of my future, settling in.

  ***

  Dot hugs me as Oliver and I settle into a table—a new table, our table—after Oliver orders for us. When Nicholas brings us our plate, there aren’t peanut-butter doughnuts.

  There is one chocolate toffee doughnut and one plain, glazed doughnut.

  “Oh, they both look good,” I say, meaning it. “Want to split them?”

  Oliver looks at me. “Um, why don’t you just pick one?” he asks.

  I nod, a little disappointed, which is crazy because it’s just a damn doughnut. I grab for the chocolate toffee doughnut, and Oliver picks up the glazed.

  We talk about the recent patients at Park Lane and about plans for the holidays. Oliver tells me he bought us two tickets to the symphony for next weekend, and I graciously thank him, telling him it will be my first time. We chat about the weather and about the new restaurant in town.

  In short, we chat away the time together. All the while, I notice Dot studying us from behind the counter as she’s wiping down surfaces and talking to other customers.

  When we’re just finishing up, she wanders over. “How is everything?” Dot asks, and I know she isn’t just talking about the doughnuts.

  But Oliver is none the wiser. “Everything was great. This glazed doughnut was perfect. I know people like a lot of fancy frills, but why mess with simple when it’s good, right?”

  Dot rests a hand on the back of my chair, leaning over my shoulder. I can smell her flowery perfume. “Agreed, young man. Agreed. Sometimes in life we’re looking for something new and exciting and frilly, but what we had right in front of us was just simply good, you know? Being adventurous and bold and trying new things sounds great, but not if it isn’t what you really want. That plain glazed doughnut, if you eat it every single day, can get dull and less exciting. You might be tempted to move on to something better, to something that seems better for your life. They say variety is the spice of life, but I disagree. I think once you find something that works, it’s worth sticking with it, even if it seems like life is just passing by.”

  I feel my chest tighten. I don’t think we’re talking about doughnuts anymore. Dot gives my shoulder a squeeze, but I don’t turn around. I can’t turn around.

  “Wow, that lady really is passionate about doughnuts,” Oliver says, shaking his head, but none the wiser.

  I smile. “Yeah, she really is.” I feel myself getting misty-eyed, but I try to shrug it off, clapping my hands and talking about how that chocolate toffee doughnut was amazing and how happy I am that I got to try something new.r />
  But Dot’s words stick in my head. Was that really what I’d done? Had I convinced myself I couldn’t be with Luke anymore because it wasn’t what I wanted in life when the truth was I just felt like I needed a change? Had monotony and fear just overthrown the best damn thing that happened to me?

  And did my three peanut-butter doughnut life really get better when I went to a glazed and a chocolate toffee doughnut?

  Was letting Luke go for a chance at a life I thought I wanted, a life of commitment and stability, really making me happy?

  I get what Dot was saying. I do. As Oliver grabs my hand and leads me to the car, kissing me on my cheek, I settle against him, thinking that I’m just in my head too much.

  Dot’s words might ring true, I don’t know. Regardless, I don’t think I’m brave enough to give her words a go.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lila

  “Good? That’s all you’re going to give me? Really? I thought we were sisters slash best friends,” Maren complains as she sashays up the walkway to the apartment we’re looking at.

  We’re in a pretty run-down area of town, and the apartment building is no exception. The red paint is peeling in huge chunks on the front, and the “shutters” on the windows out front are crooked and ready to make their downward descent to the ground.

  But when I look at the building I called last week after finding it in a newspaper ad, I see one thing: Freedom.

  Freedom from Mom that is, who won’t get off my back about Oliver, my hair, student loans, my job, and my eating habits.

  “Maren, we’ve only been… dating, I guess you could call it, for a little over a month.”

  “Yes, when two people go out a few times a week making googly eyes at each other, we call that dating.”

  “Not to mention their hot lunch dates at work every day and their flirtatious smiles over rabies vaccines,” Zoey chimes in from behind me.

  “Honestly, I don’t know why I go anywhere with both of you.”

  “Because you love us. And you need our opinions on your life to make sure you’re making good decisions,” Zoey says, squeezing me.

  “Well, what are your opinions of Willow Estates so far?” I ask, appraising the building in front of us.

  “I don’t think I’d use the word estates, is what I think,” Zoey says as we eye the building in all its glory. We can hear two angry voices yelling from up above, and one of the third story windows has a beach towel billowing in the breeze—out the window.

  Not quite my dream home.

  “I think even if there are dirt floors and no doors, it’s still got to be heaven compared to living with Mom. I honestly don’t know how you’ve survived this long.”

  “With lots of tequila from Dad’s stash,” I say, meaning it. It’s been a long road.

  Maren opens the door, the handle almost coming clean off. We scuttle toward the crudely hung “office” sign on the first door, which is written on lined paper and taped up with duct tape. This isn’t looking promising.

  “Hi, I’m Lila Morrow. I called about looking at your open apartment?” I ask the elderly woman at the desk. She coughs dramatically for a solid ten seconds, eyes us all suspiciously, and then wordlessly walks out from behind the desk.

  She trudges past us and down the hallway. We stand, staring at each other in the hallway.

  “Are you coming?” she asks.

  “Right, yes,” I say, scurrying to the front of the group as she leads us down the hallway to 104A.

  “Feels like a mildew-ridden hotel,” Maren whispers.

  The lady coughs again as she opens up the door.

  “Home sweet home,” she says. I would think she’s being sarcastic, but there isn’t an ounce of emotion in her voice.

  I step inside the apartment—which does look like a mildewy hotel room from a bad horror film. The carpet is a terrible brown color, and it appears to be in every room. I walk down the entranceway to the living room, a bare box of a room with no character to speak of. There’s a tiny kitchen with the essentials—also carpeted, I might add—and a bathroom big enough for maybe just me.

  Still, there is a balcony off the living room and there’s a large backyard for the entire complex—and it’s fenced in.

  Plus, this place accepts dogs. Which isn’t surprising because it smells a little like a damp dog.

  It is not the home of my dreams. But it’s a start. It fits my budget.

  And there’s no grating voice of my mother here.

  “What do you think?” Maren asks, her face clearly saying it’s not a good idea.

  “It smells a little funky, but we could always get some air fresheners, you know?” Zoey says, being a good sport.

  “It doesn’t quite look like a place that would get a Lila Morrow stamp of approval,” Maren says, then remembering the landlady is here, adds, “No offense.”

  The landlady is biting her fingernails, not out of nervousness, but out of boredom. She doesn’t respond.

  “It doesn’t. This is not a place I would have on my life plan in a million years.”

  “Well, I guess you could deal with Mom another few weeks, right?” Maren says, strutting out.

  “Which is why I’ll take it,” I declare, smiling, despite the ugly carpet and weird smell. “It’s going to be fine. And it’ll be a step in the right direction.”

  “I’ll get the paperwork,” the lady says, unimpressed by my life decision.

  “Lila, are you sure?” Zoey asks. Zoey currently lives with her brother in a super nice townhouse on the outskirts of town, so I’m sure this looks like a dump to her.

  “Positive.” And I am. I need to get my life going in the right direction. I need to do something.

  I sign the papers and agree to move in the first of next month, which will give me time to usher in the new year in my new home and my new life.

  “Mom’s going to hate, hate, hate this place,” Maren says as we stroll out. “She’ll probably hate it so much, she won’t even visit you here.”

  “Which means she’ll have to use her visiting time at your place,” I say, smiling.

  “Oh, hell no. Newlyweds excuse, remember?”

  Maren has been telling us all no company allowed because she and Will are still newlyweds and enjoying their time—wink, wink.

  “You know, that excuse is going to wear off soon enough,” I argue.

  “I will renew our vows every month if I have to in order to keep that excuse in play.”

  “You two are so mean to your mom,” Zoey teases, getting in the back seat. Maren drives off.

  I turn to eye Zoey. “Really?”

  “No. Trust me, I’ve felt Lucy Morrow’s wrath. I think you deserve a medal for living there as long as you did. And Grandma Claire, too.”

  “Grandma Claire is too drunk most of the time to care. Plus, I think she enjoys pissing Mom off.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Maren asks. “Now, where are we going to celebrate?”

  “Big Dippers!” Zoey and I scream like children, which is our favorite ice cream stand in town.

  “Honestly, you two are both so juvenile. But ice cream sounds about right. So when are you breaking the news to Mom?”

  “Next week, I think. Give her time to get her griping out and plus, I’ll have to start packing soon.”

  “You’re going to tell her over Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “It’s already chaotic, so why not?”

  “Oh, dear. This will be quite the Thanksgiving then,” Maren says, looking over at me. It seems like she wants to tell me something, but then she must think better of it because she turns the radio up.

  Something’s going on with her. I can sense it. But I don’t push her, singing along to the new song by Bruno Mars as we pull into the Big Dipper parking lot, all three of us anxious for the Big Dipper Sundae Special.

  We eat our ice cream, chatting about home improvements I already need to make and taking bets on how many guilt trips Mom will play about me moving out.<
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  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lila

  “Oh, please, let’s watch Pretty Woman. I do love that one,” Grandma Claire begs from her perch on the sofa, Trixie on her lap. I’m a little worried the cat isn’t even breathing because it hasn’t moved in hours.

  “Grandma, no. We’ve seen that one so many times,” Maren says from her seat on the other sofa, leaning on Will.

  It’s our Morrow family pre-Thanksgiving Moviefest. Every year, we all pile into the living room and eat homemade pizza—thanks to Dad—and watch movies to welcome in the holiday season. Tomorrow night, as scheduled by Mom, we will put in a Christmas movie after the Thanksgiving dinner has been finished, and decorate the tree.

  We get pretty serious about the holidays around here, thanks to Mom.

  “Let’s let the guest of honor pick,” Mom says, shooting a smile to Oliver, who is cuddled up next to me on the love seat. Henry is snoring at our feet.

  I was pretty nervous about Oliver coming over tonight. Not that he hasn’t seen the Morrow family in their shining, blaring glory—but still, it’s one thing getting a taste of them, and it’s another to spend an entire holiday with them. Oliver’s staying in town for the holiday, even though his parents in Maine are a little upset.

  Mom swears this is a good sign Oliver’s going to propose—even though we haven’t even said the “L” word yet. Mom chocks this up to “details.”

  “Yes, let’s let Lila’s boyfriend pick,” Maren says. She’s been using that word every chance she can, to my chagrin. Although obviously it’s true. We’re far past the friends stage now. I think spending Thanksgiving with someone’s family pretty much seals that.

  “Star Wars?” he suggests, prompting a groan from me, Maren, and Grandma Claire, but a “Hell yes” from Dad.

  “You’re not a Star Wars fan?” he asks me.

  “God no,” I say, which prompts him to open his mouth in mock horror.

  “Well this might be off then,” he says, and I nudge him in the ribs.

  “All right, let’s just go with Pretty Woman and be done with it,” Mom finally says, rolling her eyes.