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The Someday Jar

Page 21

by Allison Morgan


  “It is.” His smile is infectious.

  “Anyway, I wouldn’t say I’ve excelled at any of the slips, although I’m getting better at kickboxing. Did you know I knocked over a six-foot bag with one punch? One punch!”

  “That’s great.”

  “I’m proud of myself for the tasks I’ve done. Every single one. Who cares if I haven’t accomplished them with grace or expert skills? Hell, I’ve done them. I’ve set out toward a goal and I’m meeting it. I’m determined to make broker one way or another.”

  “Absolutely. There’s no fault in that.”

  I pick at a piece of taco shell while the impossible slip I wrote as a teenager comes to mind. I still have no idea how to handle that one. No idea at all. Sooner or later, I need to find a way.

  He grabs a lime from my plate and squeezes it over his tacos before returning it. “Ready for the wedding?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Pretty much, I guess. I still need a dress, but everything else is planned. Are you . . .” I stall. “Are you and Julie coming to the wedding?”

  “Julie, no.”

  “You?”

  “I don’t think I’ll make it, either.”

  I nod and dip a chip into salsa. There’s an awkward silence between us for a minute and before I realize what I’m asking, I say, “Do you think Evan’s right for me?”

  Wes chokes on his chip and reaches for his beer. “Where did that come from?”

  I say nothing.

  He looks away, then returns his focus to me. “You want the truth?”

  “I do.”

  “Evan’s a hell of a guy, but I see you with someone lighter.”

  “Like an albino?”

  “No,” he chuckles. “A lighter personality. Someone who laughs at your jokes and appreciates your quirks.”

  “Quirks? I have no quirks.”

  “Really? I’ve been living at the house, too, you know?”

  “Yes, and for the love of God will you please hang up your towel after you shower?”

  “About your quirks,” he says. “You fluff and turn over each couch pillow, three times.”

  “I like the puff and uniformity.”

  “You can’t walk by a penny on the ground without picking it up.”

  “I have good financial sense.”

  “You tense when palm trees blow in the moonlight.”

  I think of the windy night after dinner at The Hill. “They make a frightening sound.”

  “You cry during the national anthem and I’ve watched you painstakingly flick off every walnut from a brownie before you eat it.”

  “You sound like a stalker.”

  “Perhaps,” he says with a definite voice. “Or maybe someone who pays attention.”

  “How do I like my coffee?”

  “A two-pump mocha.”

  “What’s my favorite color?”

  “Brown.”

  “What color are my eyes?” I close them quickly.

  “Green with tiny specks of brown.”

  How does he know all this about me?

  I open my eyes and swirl a chip in the salsa.

  “Look, I’ve nothing against Evan. He’s not necessarily someone I’d hang out with, but I appreciate his drive. Hell, I worked with his parents for a long time, they’ve been a tremendous account for me, but at the end of the day, I see you and Evan wanting different things in life.”

  “Different things? Like what?”

  “He’s into appearances, the right restaurant, the right car, the right clients. He likes the spotlight, which is fine. But you’re more, I don’t know, behind the scenes.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard that opposites attract?” I say, defensively.

  “I have.”

  “Not every relationship is ideal. I’m not falling for someone just because he fulfills some Cinderella fantasy for me. I don’t want empty charm. I want security and stability.”

  “Then marry a concrete pillar.”

  “I sense your sarcasm.”

  “You should.” He crumples his taco wrapper in his hands and says, “Listen, you asked how I felt and I told you. I just picture Evan with someone more—”

  “Classy? Sexy? What?” I cut him off. “Smart? Sophisticated? Say it. Say what you really mean. Someone more—”

  “Forgettable.”

  Oh.

  He looks at me and I open my mouth to say something, but close it again. Speechless.

  My phone rings and I nearly jump.

  It’s Evan.

  I spin away from Wes and answer. “Hello.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t get back to you sooner. My meeting with the roofer lasted longer than expected.”

  “No problem. I have a busload full of tacos here and I want to tell you what I did today.”

  “Picked out a dress?”

  Damn. “Actually, not yet, but I did—”

  “Listen, we’ll need to talk later, I’m late already. Whatever it is, can it wait until tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, remember, I have that early agency class tomorrow morning. I’m leaving for Flagstaff now.”

  “Oh, yeah. I totally forgot. Yes, I suppose it can wait.”

  “Okay, I’m turning onto I-17, probably gonna lose service in a minute. Have a good night.”

  “Yeah, okay. Wait. Before you hang up.” I cup my hand over the mouthpiece and peep at Wes, who thankfully listens to a message on his phone. “How do I like my coffee?”

  “What?”

  “My coffee. When we go for coffee, how do I order it?” My phone beeps its low battery warning.

  “I don’t know? With cream? Why are you asking me this? Do you want some?”

  “No, no. That’s okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  We hang up and I’m a bit deflated. But then again, who cares about silly coffee? Who cares that he doesn’t know how I order it? That’s a silly detail in the scheme of life. Right?

  “Everything okay?” Wes asks.

  “Yes,” I lie. “Totally fine.”

  We finish our tacos in silence. He tosses the trash and wipes the counters, then says, “Thanks, that was really good.”

  “Sure.”

  “Lanie, um . . . I’m sorry for what I said about Evan. I probably overstepped.”

  “No, it’s okay. I asked for the truth.”

  He finishes his beer, then says, “Got time for me to show you something?”

  “What?”

  “Just something, it’s not far from here, twenty minutes or so.”

  I don’t feel like sitting home all evening alone; I’m still revved up from my day. “All right. Mind if I change first?”

  “Sure.”

  After a quick shower, I dress and before heading downstairs, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. I wear a gray Puma hoodie, jeans, and tennis shoes. Kit would hate this outfit. She says white tennis shoes and jeans look like people don’t care about their appearance. Like they’ve given up.

  She’s right.

  I spin on my heel and turn toward the closet, but stop. I don’t want to appear like I’m trying to impress Wes. No. The given-up look is best.

  “Ready?” he asks as I step into the kitchen.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Except for a couple of comments about the weather, as the wind has picked up and the threat of a desert storm hovers on the horizon, and recent movies we’ve each seen, we ride in silence. I’m surprised how comfortable I’ve become in the stills between us. We can enjoy the ride without feeling the need to talk. And though the console and gearshift separate Wes and me, maybe this comfort, this ease, is why I feel guilty, like we sit too close? I re
ach for my phone to call Evan, hear his voice, and let him know where I am, but my phone won’t turn on; the battery has died.

  “Mind if I borrow your phone? I thought I’d call Evan.”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s right . . . damn.” He pats both front pockets.

  “What?”

  “I left my phone on the kitchen counter.”

  “What? You don’t have a phone?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “It’s okay. We won’t be long. Believe it or not, people roamed the earth for millions of years without cell phones.”

  “Yes, and they’re all dead. Just think how much easier their lives would have been with GPS.”

  “Is that why the dinosaurs went extinct, too? No smart phones?”

  “Nope, lung cancer. They were chain smokers.” I bite my lip and quell my smile.

  He laughs.

  I’m about to ask how much longer this drive will be when he flips on the blinker and makes a right-hand turn onto a long cobblestone road canopied with mature trees.

  Although the road was seemingly charming at one time, neglect and Mother Nature have taken their toll. Most of the tree branches either droop or have snapped off completely and fallen on the ground. Wind stirs the dried leaves, which litter the pavement, and several landscaping lights that line either side of the drive are either cracked into pieces or missing altogether.

  “I haven’t been here for a while,” Wes says, squeezing the steering wheel tighter; his knuckles flex, and he slows his speed. “It’s changed.”

  “Where are we?”

  Before he answers, a small adobe-style chapel comes into view at the end of the road, with heavy iron doors and vines snaking along the stucco.

  This must be where Wes married.

  Without any comment, Wes parks the car beside the chapel and we step outside. Swirling dust and the smell of rain tickle my nose as we walk across the gravel toward the three stone stairs, leading to the dark arched front doors encased in matching steel, one of which sags from its hinge. Whoever owns this place must be remodeling, for the two front windows are boarded shut and scaffolding surrounds the four walls. Planks of wood are piled in the corner.

  “This place sure needs work.” He squints as he gazes up toward the belfry.

  “Yeah. It’s beautiful, though, so quaint and . . .” My voice trails off, not knowing what to say as Wes seems lost in memories.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, I just thought you might like to see it.”

  “I do. Thank you for bringing me here.” I peek at the front doors. “I bet it’s lovely inside.”

  “There’s a mural of angels painted on the far wall.”

  A gust of wind forces me a step back and a tumbleweed skips between us and Wes’s car. My hair blows wild and sand granules pelt me in the cheek.

  “Let’s go in,” he says.

  With my hand shielding my face, I glance at the small gap between the front doors. “Are you sure we should?”

  “C’mon. Just for a second. It’s miserable out here and we won’t hurt anything.”

  Large drops of rain ricochet off the ground, and the metal poles that support the planks wobble in the wind, squeaking as they flex. The sky has turned an ominous blue-black. Storms in Arizona are fast and deadly. I shout above the wind, “There’s a storm coming. Maybe we should head back.”

  With that said, a wicked grumble of thunder cracks in the sky and a burst of lightning strikes a tree near Wes’s car. Rain pours down in sheets, blows sideways in the wind, and splashes our legs and feet. Water, dirt, and leaves surge snakelike between the cobblestones until they overcome the road, and the path to Wes’s car is now a river of mud. An Arizona flash flood.

  We dunk under the plank and at the same time, another blast of wind flings open the sagging front door.

  He points at it. “Now, that’s a sign from God.”

  We hurry inside.

  Only shards of light filter through the stained-glass windows, which span the length of each side wall, near the roof line. Exposed and ornately carved wood beams decorate the ceiling and just as Wes said, an arched mural of three flying angels graces the far wall. Underneath the painting sits a rustic cabinet, reaching the width of the room, with a dusty candelabra and several half-burned candles on top. Pews border both sides of the aisle and an altar has been pushed toward the east wall. The entire chapel couldn’t hold more than thirty people. It’s old. It smells of damp wood and clay. The tile floor is smooth and slippery from a thin layer of dust, which causes me to slip. I grab onto Wes’s forearm. “Oh, sorry.”

  His hand covers mine. “Easy there.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I release my hand.

  Wind whistles through the boarded windows and there’s a kidney-shaped water stain on the wall nearest me. But, like Hollis, age and wear have made the chapel rich with love and history. It’s the most romantic place I’ve ever been.

  “It’s beautiful.” I wrap my arms around myself, chilled from the dampness.

  Wes says nothing and I’m touched by the power the memory has for him.

  Rain pours through a hole in the roof at the far end, soaks the floor, and catches his attention.

  “Over there.” I spot a bucket, probably left behind from the construction workers.

  Wes hurries and places it under the leak.

  We both gaze at the foot-wide hole in the ceiling and the increasingly gloomy sky. At the same time, another gust of wind howls through the chapel, and the front door slams shut, followed by a scraping sound and thud, leaving us in near darkness.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “Don’t know.” Wes steps toward the front. He pushes on the heavy wood door, but it doesn’t budge.

  “Put your back into it,” I tease, but soon discover he’s pushing hard. Really hard. “What’s wrong?”

  “It won’t open. I think the scaffolding fell. It’s blocking the door.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Wes grunts as he pushes.

  I help, but the door resists.

  “Is there another way out?” I squint toward the rear of the chapel, but it’s lost in the blackness.

  “Nope, this is the only door. And I think we’ll go straight to hell if we try to kick out the stained-glass windows.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I guess we’re gonna stay here until the workers show up in the morning. I noticed a tool bag hidden on the side. I bet they’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?

  What about Evan? I can’t call him or anything.”

  “Yeah, that part’s no good.”

  Thunder cracks again and a flash of lightning briefly lights up the chapel.

  “Holy crap! Did you see that?” I blurt, then cover my mouth. “I probably shouldn’t say holy crap in a church.”

  “Probably not. Stay right here.” A moment later, his voice echoes from across the room. “Let there be light,” he jokes. Small flames glow beside his face and the darkness lessens, as he lights each candle. Shadows flicker along the walls and the mural illuminates as if lit by heaven itself. Once all our candles are lit, he blows out the match. “Luckily, I found this matchbook in the cabinet.”

  I sit in the front pew.

  He sits beside me.

  “We’re stuck,” I say.

  “We are.”

  “For the night.”

  “I think so.”

  “Got anything to eat?”

  “No.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “No.”

  “I’m craving margaritas.”

  “You’re screwed.”

  “Yeah.”

  I trace my finger along the grain in the pew. “Who sat here?”

  Wes thinks for a moment. “My dad.
Then my mom and sister. My brother stood beside me at the front.”

  “You’re the oldest?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where’s your family?”

  “Mom and Dad are in Florida and my sister lives in L.A.” He stands and walks to the spot, presumably beside where the altar once stood. He kicks at a splinter of wood on the floor. “She was too good for me. I knew it the moment I saw her.” He pauses, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and gazes toward the entrance. “But when she stood at those doors in her wedding dress, with the sun haloed behind her, honest to God, I thought she was an angel.” He stares at the floor. “I’ve tried hard to focus on that memory, block out her pain, the monitors, the hopeless look on the doctor’s faces. Her cold hand in mine. When I think of her now, I try to remember only the moment when she stood right there, in the doorway.”

  No wonder it’s hard for him to see a woman in a wedding dress.

  “Anyway.” He sits beside me and clasps his hands between his knees. “I guess hearing the talk about your wedding has surfaced some memories for me, made me remember things I’ve forgotten. Made me remember how important love is.” He pauses. “Listen, I shouldn’t have said what I did about you and Evan, earlier. I shouldn’t make judgments. I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper. And although my thoughts are completely unfair and unfounded, I find myself angry with Julie. I’ve never met her, never set eyes on the woman, and yet I want to stand inches from her face, grab onto her shoulders, and scream. Does she have any idea how lucky she is? Does she realize what a beautiful heart Wes has? What a tender soul? She’d better nurture and cherish him. She’d better give him the love he deserves. She’d better be his angel.

  “Enough of that sad stuff.” Wes interrupts my inner rant. He leans against the backrest and says, “We’re stuck here for a while. What should we do?”

  I take a moment, clear my head, and then look at him square in the eye. “You know what I want to do?”

  “Run naked through the church?”

  “No.” I smack him on the shoulder. “This.” Before I come to my senses, I slip out of my tennis shoes, roll up my jeans two folds, and run toward the front with my palms and back pressed against the doors. A smile spreads across my lips.

  “What are you doing?” Wes stands and watches me.

 

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