The Someday Jar

by Allison Morgan

  Without answering, I inhale, find my kiai, and rather than use my kickboxing skills on the door, I sprint as fast as I can in his direction. Once past the second pew, I stop running and slide in my socks. Momentum glides me as I pass the third pew, then the fourth, squealing and slipping in the dust, my arms flailing in the air. “Aagghh.” I nearly reach the fifth pew, fall onto my knees, and laugh.

  “What are you doing, Lanie?” Wes’s sharp voice echoes off the walls. “Don’t you know you’re in a church? A house of worship?”

  Stupid, Lanie. What was I thinking? This place is sacred to him. This place holds his respect for his first love. I’ve made light of his pain. I scramble onto my feet and apologize. “Wes, I’m sorry, I didn’t—hey!” I shout as he darts past me, rips off his shoes, and tosses them aside. Once at the entrance, he spins around, bolts down the aisle, and slides in his socks. He stops an inch or two after the fifth pew.

  “That’s the best you got?” I draw a line in the dust with my foot where he stopped. “Give me some competition.” With a confident stride, I reach the doors, then skate toward him and pass his mark by at least a half inch.

  “Whatever.” He pushes me aside and tries once more. His arms pump forward and backward, his chin juts in and out, and his face is lined with determination. He picks up speed, gliding fast. Really fast. Odds are, he would’ve passed my line, easily, if he hadn’t caught his foot on the next-to-last pew, lost his balance, and crashed onto his butt.

  I shouldn’t poke fun. But I do. Obviously. “You looked—” I start to laugh. “You looked—” I laugh harder, so hard I can’t manage a complete sentence. I finally compose myself and say, “You looked like an ostrich with arms.” I mimic his pumping arms and jutting chin.

  “Shit,” he mutters, dusting off his hands.

  “You shouldn’t say shit in church.”

  He joins my laugh, climbs to his feet, and steps an inch from my face. “All right. Show me how it’s done. Five bucks says you can’t reach right here.” He points on the floor. “Right where I stand.” He’s a solid foot past the line.

  I tap his chest twice and say, “You’re on.” I stride past him and head toward the entrance. My cheeks have the slightest ache from smiling.

  He stands with his feet shoulder width apart and his arms crossed at his chest. “Bring it.” He motions me forward with two fingers.

  “All right, but I’m not holding back this time. And, when I win, no quarters, or dimes, or pennies. I want a crisp Abraham Lincoln in my palm.”

  “Just go.”

  I paw the ground like a bull preparing to charge and, with a smile wider than the church, take off full blast. Hovering my arms for balance, I zoom down the aisle. My socks glide faster than last time and I pick up even more speed. The mark is easily within reach. I’ll blow it away. The money is mine.

  Except I’m sliding fast. Really fast. Too fast.

  Wes must recognize the panic surely plastered across my face and he opens his arms to catch me.

  I crash into him and we tumble backward, landing on the hard floor. My body sprawls across his, our legs entwined, our faces inches apart.

  Wes groans and his face wrinkles into a grimace.

  “Are you okay? Did you hit your head?” I ask, and scan the floor for drops of blood but thankfully don’t see any.

  “Lanie.” His voice is barely above a murmur. With a curled index finger, he motions me closer.

  Oh, God. He’s really hurt, something must be broken. A femur? Forearm? Dear God, not his back. What if I’ve paralyzed this poor man?

  His breath tickles my skin as he whispers, “Jesus, woman, how much do you weigh?”

  “What?” I shoot him a scowl and dig my knee into his thigh as I climb off.

  “Ouch.” He groans again.

  “You owe me five bucks.”

  We sit beside each other, leaning against the cabinet. Night has completely darkened the church. The candles are still lit, but the flame’s light reaches just beyond our feet. The pews and doors are lost in blackness.

  Wes says, “You’ve been rather quiet during the renovation talks. Tell me, Lanie, what would you like to see done with the house?”

  “Me?” I do have several ideas. “I’d cut it in half. Maybe fourths. Okay, eighths. It’s much too big and ostentatious. It feels like a hotel.”

  “I can see that.”

  “And that breakfast nook off the kitchen, it’s all boxed in. I’d window that whole wall, open it up, and bring in the outside.”

  “Good idea.”

  I sit tall and crisscross my legs, facing him. “If I ever designed a house, it’d be two-story with a double-door entrance. Tall, knotted-wood doors that I could open at the same time and welcome people into my home. You know what I mean? Double doors just seem so inviting. I want four or five steps leading to the entrance so I can set pumpkins on each step. I love decorating for Halloween.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  “I want a master bedroom at the top of a winding staircase with a sitting area by the window, so I can read by natural light. And tiny fiber-optic lights sprinkled in the ceiling above the staircase. Or maybe in the foyer. When you flip the lights on in the evening, they look like stars. I love it. Have you ever seen those?”

  “I have.” He folds his arms across his chest. The flame casts a shadow across his face.

  “Speaking of stars, I’ve always wanted a huge tree in the backyard.” I’m excited now. My words come quickly. “Wouldn’t it be cool to read and take naps under the shade of a ginormous tree?”

  “It would. What else? An area for Larry Fitzgerald memorabilia?”

  “Only if there’s room.” I laugh and dust a piece of lint off my jeans. “I’d love a separate little space of my own, an office kind of thing. Nothing big, you know, just a spot that I can retreat to, hang a few pictures, maybe a wall of bookshelves. Oh, and I want a greenhouse. I’d plant strawberries, basil, and cilantro.” I catch my breath and stop. “Sorry.” I wave my hand. “There I go again, talking your ear off.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  We sit in silence, until Wes groans, “I’m sore.”

  “Me, too. My legs are dead. Whose idea was it to skate in socks? That was too much like exercise.”

  “Hey, look, the rain stopped.” Wes points at the ceiling.

  I follow his gaze. “Leave it to Arizona. Storms pass as quickly as they come.”

  The sky has cleared and only remaining drops of rain slide off the roof and into the bucket. Through the hole, hundreds of tiny stars decorate the night sky. They glow brighter and bigger the longer we stare.

  “Stars aren’t stars, you know,” I say to Wes.

  “No?”

  “Nope. When I was a kid, my dad told me stars are actually peepholes of light from heaven. He said angels get dressed up and love to dance, and when they do, their high heels poke holes in the sky, and out shines the light.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Yeah.” I fall quiet, thinking of my dad.

  Wes and I say no more. We just stare silently into the night.

  Outside the chapel, voices stir me awake. I lift my head only to realize where I am. And who I’m with. Wes. I slept on his leg, curled on my side with my head on his thigh. His arm wraps around my waist, warm, safe, and heavy. He still leans against the cabinet, his head fallen to one side.

  Wes stirs at the screeching sounds outside the front doors.

  As soon as he’s aware, without a word, he pulls his arm away.

  I sit up, mindful of the intimacy and the cold void from the absence of his arm.

  Blinding morning sun invades the room as both doors swing open. A short dark-haired man stands in the doorway, a tool belt hanging from his hand. “Hola,” he calls.

  “Hello. Over here.” Wes waves. He stands and re
aches for my hand to help me up.

  We step toward the doors.

  “Thank you for opening the doors. I thought we might be trapped in here forever,” I say.

  The man, shorter than me, smiles with a missing bicuspid. By the look on his face, he didn’t understand a word I said. He rattles off something in Spanish, and the look he sees on my face assures him I didn’t understand a word he said. A year of Spanish in high school, two more in college, and I can’t remember anything except más cerveza, por favor. Yep, my hard-earned college tuition dollars were spent on more beer, please.

  “Guess we can go now,” Wes says.

  “Yeah, guess we can.”

  We climb into his car and he switches on the windshield wipers, cleaning off the rain spots.

  “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  My eyes hold on to the reflection of the chapel through my side mirror as we drive away. I wonder how the place will look once restored, once the water stains darkening the stucco dry, the scaffolding is gone, the doors are adjusted, the trees are trimmed, and the hole is patched in the roof. The stars hidden.

  There’s a qualm rippling through my body. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay in the chapel. I want to stay in Wes’s arms.

  Oh, God. My body tightens and I twist my engagement ring around my finger, staring through the windshield, praying that Wes can’t read my thoughts. Wishing I couldn’t, either.

  I don’t see Wes during the day and Evan isn’t home when I return from work later that evening. He left a message on my phone, saying several fellow brokers are meeting for dinner, and then he’ll start the two-hour drive home.

  As I step out of my shoes and line them up beside the entry rug, I feel the moisture in the air from Wes’s bathroom. He must’ve recently showered and left, for the house is quiet. I pour myself a cup of tea and linger in the solitude.

  Aimlessly, I meander through the house, straightening the picture on the wall in the entryway, fluffing the couch pillows, three times just as Wes said, and picking a few stray pieces of lint off the armrest. The plants have enough water, the blinds are twisted closed for the night, and the hall bathroom has plenty of toilet paper. Before I realize it, I find myself in the guest bedroom.

  Wes’s room.

  I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be in his room, invading his space like some sort of creeper. I ignore that voice of reason and convince myself it’s technically not his room. Legally or anything.

  Slung over the backrest of an armchair is the light brown T-shirt Wes wore to the chapel. Although I specifically order my legs otherwise, they walk over to the chair. I pick up the shirt, soft in my hands, and before I can stop myself, I lift the shirt to my nose and inhale Wes’s scent. It smells like oak. It smells like the church. It smells like him.

  What are you doing, Lanie? Put the shirt down.

  As if the cotton catches ablaze, I throw the shirt onto the chair, slinging it over the backrest as it was. Something slips from the breast pocket. I reach behind the chair and pick up a small photo, creased and folded in half. I shouldn’t open it. It’s none of my business. Nothing that concerns me.

  Okay, just a peek.

  I unfold it and find a picture of a strikingly beautiful woman with olive skin and long dark hair. Julie? She’s at the beach, sitting on a blue-and-white striped towel, smiling in her profile at a small boy, probably Trevor, as he digs with sand buckets and shovels beside her. The boy’s bottom tooth is missing, leaving an adorable gap. There is a sweet innocence in this boy’s eyes. Eyes that share a resemblance to Wes. Eyes that blind me with reason.

  Get out of here, Lanie Howard. Get out of here now.

  Carefully, I fold the picture and tuck it into the pocket. I clamp my hand around the body of the shirt, making it look messy like it did initially.

  Good. He’ll never know I was—

  “What are you doing?”

  I spin around and see Wes standing at the door. He leans against the jamb with his hands folded across his chest.

  “Hi, I was, um . . . just looking for my tiara. Yes, my tiara. I thought it was behind this chair, but now I remember it’s in the closet. I mean, why else would I be here? In your room.” I laugh as if I told a hilarious joke.

  He stands still.

  “Right. So, anyway, may I?” I point toward the closet.

  “By all means.”

  “Great, thanks.” I dig open the top box and pull my tiara free from the bubble wrap. “Here we are. Got it. Got what I came for. Okay, I’ll be going now. Excuse me.”

  “Nice tiara.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can see why you’d want that now, so many years later.” There’s a tease in his voice.

  “It’s special to me.”

  “Aren’t you going to wear it?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Aren’t you going to put the tiara on?”

  “Right, right. Of course. That’s why I’m here.” I rest the crown on my head and smile.

  “You look ridiculous.”

  I meet his gaze.

  “Lanie,” he whispers, his voice slow and thick. His lips inches from mine.

  “Yes?” My heart hammers hard enough that I’m afraid he’ll spot it through my shirt.

  “I, um, you—” At that very moment, his phone rings. The familiar jingle. Once again. And, as if electrocuted, he quickly steps back, stares at the wall behind me, and says, “Excuse me.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He strides toward the front door. “Hey, there, how’s Trevor?”

  The picture of Julie and Trevor comes to mind. I recall the smoothness in her face, the gap in Trevor’s teeth, and the simple beauty of the moment.

  The photo was crinkled and lined, like it’s been folded and unfolded a thousand times.

  Julie. What would she say if she discovered I’d spent the night in Wes’s arms? What would she think of me? What would Evan?

  The tiara slips from my head and falls onto the floor.

  I want to cry.

  Later, it’s after eleven o’clock and I lie in bed, waiting for Evan to come home. I contemplate calling Kit, but she’s in Maui. The last thing I want to do is sour her trip with my problems. Wes is downstairs. The TV is on a sports show, I think. He’s opened the fridge twice, and from the clanking glass, I assume he’s retrieved a beer. Wes and I are still alone.

  My mind wanders to the familiarity and comfort and confidence I feel when we’re together. The safety of his arm wrapped around me. The fact that I long for his touch, even if just a quick brush of our fingers.

  I pull the comforter over my head, trying to hide from my musing, trying to block out my feelings, trying to suffocate my conscience, but it doesn’t work. Why can’t I get him off my mind? Why can’t Wes be more . . . forgettable?

  I punch at the blanket until it slips onto the floor, then let out a long sigh.

  It’s more than that.

  It’s more than my feelings for Wes.

  It’s more than just wedding jitters.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t pretend any longer.

  Evan and I need to talk.

  twenty-three

  I didn’t hear Evan come to bed and it isn’t until the following morning, when wafts of coffee drift by my nose, that I see him. I open my eyes and find him dressed in the navy suit and tie I bought for him last month, holding four coffees tucked safely inside the cardboard carryout tray. Two dozen roses decorate the nightstand beside me.

  “What’s all this?” I sit up.

  Evan joins me bedside, and says, “Here.” He hands me the coffee tray. “I got four different types.” He refers to the black hash marks on the side of each cup and says, “This one is a white mocha, this is a macchiato, and this i
s a—”

  “It’s okay, Evan. You can set them on the nightstand.”

  “Listen, I need to apologize. I’ve been a beast, lately. All this talk about listings and remodels and promotions and wishes has really got me thinking.”

  “Me, too.” I smooth a bedsheet wrinkle with my palm, sigh, then say, “Maybe we’re rushing into this. I’m not sure we should—”

  “Marry me.” Evan interrupts me and by the focused look in his eyes, I’m not certain he heard what I started to say.

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t think we—”

  “Today.”

  “What? Today? Why today?” I scrunch the sheets with fisted hands. “What about all of Stacee’s plans and the lily centerpieces, and the cranberries, and . . . and why today?”

  “I’ll call Stacee and write her a check for her effort. Let’s hop over to the courthouse this afternoon.”

  I stare at him confused. “Evan, I—”

  “I got to thinking. Remember when Hollis acted surprised that you and I were moving into Orchid Lane before we’re married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s honor him.”

  “What?”

  “Call me old-fashioned, but let’s get married before we move into the house. Speaking of the house, we’re going to remove that dining room wall so you can have more light, just as you asked.” He chuckles. “You’re speechless.”

  “Evan, this isn’t a good idea.”

  “Are you kidding? This is an excellent idea. Let’s be spontaneous. Isn’t that what all this Someday Jar business the past few weeks has been about? A little fun? A little impetuousness?”

  “I suppose, but—”

  “C’mon, love. You and me, the courthouse, four o’clock. We’ll spend the night at some swanky hotel and finish what Wes interrupted.” He winks. “Let’s have some fun together.”

  I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say, so I spout what comes to mind. “Um, I don’t have a dress.”

  “Come with me.”

  In my pajamas, I follow him downstairs.