The Someday Jar

by Allison Morgan

  For shame. Stop it! What the hell is wrong with you? Be thankful for Evan. Just like his kisses, he’s steady and predictable. Safe. Besides, it was just a look with Wes. A look. Nothing more. Not worth remembering.

  “Lanie?”

  It’s only then I notice we’ve stopped kissing.

  “Sorry.” I pull him closer. “Where were we?”

  He steps back, eyeing my sweaty clothes. “Where have you been, anyway?”

  “Kickboxing.”

  “Really? I hoped you’d gotten over that by now.”

  “No. I love it. Next week I’m learning kicks.”

  “I still don’t think fighting is an appropriate activity for a young woman. How about tennis?”

  “I don’t want to play tennis.”

  “Golf?”

  “No.”

  “What about your knuckles?”

  “They’re getting better.”

  “You keep me on my toes. I grant you that.” He glances at his watch. “Okay, I’m off.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Dinner and then catch the Suns game with Wes. Don’t wait up.” He kisses my cheek.

  Deflated, I sit on the top step of the stairs, listening to the voices of Wes and Evan until the garage closes and only silence remains.

  I meander toward the dresser and trace my finger along the top drawer groove, one side to the other, then back again. Something sparked between Wes and me. I can’t deny it. Nor can I deny it’s something I don’t feel with Evan. So what was it? A connection? Yearning? Desire?

  No. No. No. This is absurd. Totally absurd. Damn cold feet. It doesn’t matter that I feel confident and sexy whenever Wes stands close. It doesn’t matter that I fall boneless when he says my name. It doesn’t matter that my mind wanders to him, occasionally. All the time.

  I am not with the wrong man.

  With a long sigh, I gather my purse and on my way to the closet, think of my Someday Jar. The exact distraction I need. Focus on something else. I reach for the crock, pop off the cork, and dump out a slip.

  My heart sinks further as I read the words. Oh, God. This is the slip Kit talked about. Her favorite. The one I wrote as a kid. I twirl the fortune in my fingers and shake my head in disbelief. Could there be two more difficult words in the English language? A more unobtainable goal? No, I can’t. I can’t do it. There is no possible way. None.

  I tuck the slip back into the jar and pull out another.

  Scuba dive.

  Yeah, I can do that.

  sixteen

  This is very exciting. Terrifying, but very exciting. I sit at a front table in Dave’s Diving School. The brick walls surrounding me are decorated with framed pictures of diving trips, colorful reefs, and an underwater shot of a rather large shark that I’m going to pretend is fake.

  A few people trickle into the room. An elderly couple sit behind me and two men—father and son, perhaps?—situate themselves at the table on my left. I glance at the worksheets I was given when I arrived as my foot raps against the floor, eager to get started. Evan is meeting me here at one p.m. for a late lunch at the Mexican restaurant across the street, and then we have an appointment with Stacee to finalize the cake. Since he wasn’t thrilled with scuba diving, as it “seems far more dangerous than kickboxing,” I don’t want to keep him waiting.

  Luckily, I was able to take the instructional portion of the class online last night. I learned all sorts of stuff like oxygen/nitrogen ratios, diving do’s and don’ts, and how pressure affects the body—a lot. If I pass the quiz today, and after the required in-class lecture, I can attempt my first pool dive, which I hope is soon, because my bathing suit is creeping up my ass.

  A few minutes later, a man with curly hair on his head and upper arms walks into the room. “Welcome to dive school.” He reaches for a marker and spells DAVE on the whiteboard. “I’m your instructor and I gotta tell you, I’m thrilled to be back.” He snaps the lid on the marker and pauses. “You guys are my first group since the accident. But I’m sure it won’t happen again, right? I mean what are the chances of two groups drowning?”

  I stare at him in shock. Oh, God. What have I gotten myself into?

  He tosses the marker in the air, catches it, and says with a laugh, “Kidding.”

  Ha-ha-ha.

  After ninety minutes of discussion about equipment and safety and thirteen more lame jokes, Dave wraps up the lecture with coral reef preservation and responsibility.

  “Any final questions? Comments? Complaints?” He passes out the one-page quiz, stopping in front of my desk. “When you walk out of here today, remember at least one thing. One thing. I cannot stress it enough.” His words are sharp. His stance solid. His eyes focused on me.

  “Yes?” I’m rapt with attention.

  “Never go diving alone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Reason one, if you have equipment problems, your partner can help you.”

  “Got it.”

  “Reason two, if you run out of air, your partner can share.”

  I nod. Share air. Good.

  “Reason three, if you come upon a shark, odds are fifty-fifty your partner will become lunch instead of one hundred percent you.”

  He laughs. “Kidding.”

  After I pass the test—a perfect score, thank you very much—Dave fits me with a dive regulator and a scuba buoyancy compensator and adds weight to my belt. With fins and mask in hand, I follow Dave and the others toward the pool. One of his assistants, Tracy—a broad-shouldered and tan twenty-something—rolls scuba tanks toward the pool’s edge.

  I slip the mask to my forehead, snagging it briefly in my hair, then adjust the weight belt that digs into my side.

  “Sure you want this?” Dave pats the scuba tank. “I think oxygen is for wussies.” He laughs. “Careful now, it’ll be heavy.”

  I brace my legs. “Ready.”

  He hoists the steel tank and straps it to my BC.

  I nearly topple over. Good Lord. For once, he wasn’t kidding.

  Tracy helps the others.

  Dave waits for me to lower my mask and affix my regulator.

  Okay, now I’m a bit freaked out. With this mask snug around my face, I find it hard to breathe. This growing tightness in my chest reminds me of the time Dad taught me how to suck air underwater in a Jacuzzi. He’d guided my fingertips to an airstream flowing from the seat bottom and said, “Purse your lips real tight around the air, like you’re gonna kiss it.”

  I dove underneath the bubbles, did as he said, and took a breath. All was fine until the cycle shut off and midbreath I swallowed a lungful of water.

  Mom was pissed.

  Dave must see the apprehension in my eyes. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.” He wraps his hands around his neck and pretends to gasp for breath.

  Funny.

  He double-checks the air connections and tightens the strap of my weight belt. “Once you’re in the water, you won’t feel the weight of the tank or the rigidness of the equipment. Remember, keep an eye on the air level.”

  I nod.

  “You’re all set.” He moves me so my butt faces the pool. He inches me backward until my heels dangle off the edge.

  Oh, God.

  “When you’re ready, hold your mask and jump backward into the pool.” He moves on to the teenage boy beside me. He’s adjusted and fitted in no time and before I can blink, he effortlessly plunges into the pool.

  Show-off.

  I’m convinced none of the others will have his same level of fearlessness, especially the older couple, but within seconds, I’m the only one on the surface.

  “You’re still here?” Dave jokes.

  Lanie, don’t be a wuss. People do this all the time.

  With a gentle nudge from Dave on my shoulder, I fall into the po
ol. The water swallows me slowly, cooling my skin.

  Dave splashes into the water and offers an okay sign. I return it. He motions me toward the opposite end of the Olympic-sized pool. In the distance, I see my fellow classmates and the obstacles Dave mentioned beforehand. There’s a hula hoop to give us a feel for the size and span of our equipment, a large plastic turtle and several fish tethered on the pool bottom to practice swimming near animals without endangering them, a net where we’ll learn how to untangle if our tank gets snagged, and my favorite, a makeshift coral arch to swim through.

  All the same, I’m nervous as I flick my fins and follow Dave toward the deep end. But, hey, look at me. I’m breathing in and out, underwater. I’m scuba diving. This is easy. This is fun. I swim with the others along the pool bottom, play catch with a rubber torpedo, tossing it back and forth with Dave, and twirl around the faux fish.

  Ten minutes later, Dave swims through the arch and motions me to follow.

  Cool. I’m ready.

  Midway, my hand accidentally snags my breathing hose—okay, maybe I do flail my arms a bit—and the regulator pops out of my mouth.

  Oops. It’s okay. Don’t get flustered, Lanie. Just because Dave and the others swam to the shallow end, leaving you here alone, is no reason to panic. Dave explained what to do in this situation. All I need to do is calmly grasp the regulator, gently insert it into my mouth, purge it, and, remaining relaxed and in complete control, take a breath. Simple. There is a backup regulator should this protocol not work.

  The hose seems to have drifted out the other side of the arch. Silly little bastard. No problem. Keep calm. My lips are pressed tight and, though my lungs have developed the slightest ache, I’m in ten feet of water. If need be, I can shoot right up.

  I tug on my breathing hose but it’s caught. Caught on the stupid coral arch. I yank again, hard, but it won’t come loose. My lungs burn and bright-colored specks dot my vision.

  My backup regulator. Of course. I pat around my body, trying to find the damn thing. Where is it? Where? Oh, God. I’m going to drown. Right here and now. I’ve read that most people drown in shallow water, but I didn’t think that was true. I didn’t think anyone could be stupid enough to suffocate in water with air a few feet away. But I’m proof that I’m stupid enough. Won’t this make a good obituary for Hollis to read? Dumb-ass drowns with a full oxygen tank strapped to her back.

  Fuck the regulator, I need air. Now! I need to blast up and suck in a lungful of sweet mother-loving oxygen.

  I crouch low and with a mighty push, spring toward the surface. After a foot or so, I’m yanked back to the floor as if fixed to a bungee cord pulled taut.

  What the . . . ?

  I tug and tug but nothing happens. My secondary regulator is nowhere.

  I need air.

  I try to bolt for the surface one more time.

  It’s too late.

  Blackness.

  “Lanie, wake up.” Evan’s voice registers in my brain. Kneeling beside me, he pats my cheek. “Lanie?”

  I open my eyes, inhale, and then cough, sputtering water out of my mouth.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I moan as my head swirls. There’s a ringing in my ears. The bodies behind Evan are fuzzy. I blink to clear my vision, but it doesn’t help. I do not feel well.

  Dave rushes over with an ice pack and places it on my head, though I’m not clear why.

  Bile creeps up my throat. “I’m think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Let’s sit her up.” The ice bag slides to the ground.

  “First kickboxing and now this?” Evan shakes his head.

  I’m much dizzier sitting up. Facing Evan, I press a hand to my lips.

  “Really, Lanie. Enough. These so-called goals of yours are insane.”

  “I really don’t feel well.”

  “I told you this jar wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Evan, I—”

  Before I can stop myself, I throw up in his lap.

  “Jesus!” He jumps up and stares at his pants in shock. “These are Armani.” With a clenched jaw, Evan marches toward the restroom.

  I’m on my knees now—feeling much better, thank you—and realize what I’ve done. Oops.

  Dave crouches beside me and hands me a towel. “You all right?”

  “I think so.” I wipe my face. “Just a bit weak.”

  “You gave us quite a scare.”

  “Yeah, the arch snagged my regulator hose and I couldn’t find my backup. What exactly are your safety measures because I don’t think—”

  “You hit your head.”

  “What?” There’s a sudden pain on the top of my noggin.

  “You were flinging your arms through the arch, doing . . . well, I’m not really sure what you were doing.”

  Swimming. Obviously.

  “You hit your head on the arch. Sank like an anchor.”

  “I did not. Your equipment is faulty and your arch . . . ouch, my head hurts. I did?”

  “You did.”

  “I remember tugging on my hose and needing air.”

  “Lanie, you were in the water for only a few seconds before we pulled you up. You’ve been lying here for a couple minutes and yes, while unconscious, you kept reaching for your regulator. You smacked Tracy in the face with it.”

  A baggie of ice is pressed to her cheek.

  “You knocked out four of her teeth and dislocated her jaw, too. She’ll likely need surgery.”

  “What? Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I dart apologetic glances between Tracy and Dave. He wiggles his eyebrows.

  At once I realize.

  Together we say, “Kidding.”

  “You should’ve seen yourself.” He mimics my swimming and chuckles. “You were all over the place.”

  We laugh for several moments until I notice Evan and the large wet stain in the crotch of his pants.

  A disgusted look is plastered on his face.

  Oh, please. It was mostly water.

  We decide I shouldn’t eat or drive, so Evan takes me home after canceling our lunch reservation and appointment with Stacee. “Lanie’s priorities are a bit jostled at the moment,” I heard him tell Stacee. “She’s very sorry to disrupt your schedule.”

  Regardless of the ruined afternoon plans, Evan’s snippy attitude, or the fact that a bag of ice rests on the knot on my forehead, my excitement can’t be bruised, for in my lap is my freshly printed Certificate of Completion signed in Sharpie by Dave. I passed all the requirements before smacking my noggin. So, hooray for me. I’m a certified scuba diver. Technically, I’m only Discover Scuba certified, but still.

  And I’ve completed another Someday Jar slip.

  We merge into the carpool lane and I settle against the headrest, thinking about the morning. Truly, the whole incident is hilarious.

  I hit my head on a makeshift arch.

  Knocked myself out.

  And threw up on Evan.

  But I shouldn’t laugh about that.

  seventeen

  The following evening, I slip into my little black dress and slide my feet into matching heels that I bought at Macy’s last fall, marked down from $169 to $79, which makes them all the cuter. A half a size too small and they pinch at the heel, but hey, no one said being adorable was easy. My hair is wrapped into a loose-yet-stylish knot at the nape of my neck, and the sterling silver drop earrings I wore when Evan proposed shimmer in the light. Evan is taking Wes, my mom, and me to dinner at Ivy House, a newly opened Italian restaurant in Mesa.

  “Ready, Lanie?” Evan calls from the foot of the stairs.

  He’s much cheerier since Hollis confirmed our appointment for Monday and the dry cleaner promised his slacks weren’t permanently stained.

  I’m still cheery considering all that I’ve accomplished to
date. I broke a record—attendance, yes, but a record’s a record—am learning kickboxing, became a certified Discover Scuba diver, and most importantly, am a day away from securing a co-broker position. Whoo! Life is good.

  So, when I woke this morning and gazed at Evan’s sleeping face—well, the parts outside his eye mask—I promised myself to be a better fiancée. To regard him with more love and attention. To appreciate all that he is and accept what he isn’t. Try not to make any more waves.

  I grab my purse and meet Evan downstairs.

  “You look lovely,” he says.

  “Thank you.” I receive his kiss.

  “Mom is meeting us at the restaurant.”

  “Great. Wes is already outside.”

  Evan backs out of the driveway. He and Wes start discussing various aspects of Orchid Lane, the drywall texture, the trim height. They lose me at offset toilet flange.

  I pull down the visor and check my lip gloss.

  In the mirror, Wes catches my eye.

  My stomach flutters. The exact sort of thing I’ve promised myself to ignore from here on out. Enough is enough. It’s a silly pre-wedding crush, anyway. Meaningless. He’ll be gone and out of our lives in a couple of weeks. All the same, I stare a moment longer, wondering what he’s thinking. His eyes give nothing away. I flip the visor closed.

  Several minutes later, we arrive at the restaurant and find Mom seated at the table in a navy knit dress. A Chianti bottle candleholder with wax dripping along the sides illuminates her smile as she sees us.

  “Jane, is that a new dress?”

  See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. Evan’s adoringly sweet to my mom. How many sons-in-law treat their future mother-in-law with such kindness? She even lists him as her emergency contact, after me, on her medical questionnaires.

  She stands and hugs Evan. “Why, yes, thank you for noticing.” Mom blushes. “Don’t you look handsome as ever.”

  “It’s the look of love.” He winks at me.

  “Charmer.” She laughs.

  “Hi, Mom.” I hand her the napkin I retrieved off the floor.