by Laura Miller
“Well,” she says, droppin’ her gaze, and at the same time, fiddlin’ with the jacket she has in her hands. “Meeting?” she asks, looking up and at the board that reads Austin.
“Yeah,” I simply say.
She nods, as if she expected my answer.
It’s funny. I did picture seeing her again. I did. There were those moments in the day when it was really quiet and then at night, when the world seemed asleep, that I pictured how this exact moment would play out. It was always in a crowded place. She would see me, and I would see her, and then the world around us would stop and fall away, like loose tiles on a wall. And it would always be as if we were expecting to see each other—as if we knew at any point, in any given day, that we would meet again, that it was inevitable. We just didn’t know when. And when we’d see each other for the first time in ages, our eyes would meet, and it would be as if all the pain were gone—as if it never happened. And she would smile. And I would smile. And we would reminisce about the first day we met or that night in Sunny Square. And then...and then, we’d look into each other’s eyes, and we’d promise each other, without sayin’ a word, that we’d make it...this time.
It’s funny now, though. There’s still a tinge of pain, and in place of that happy feelin’ I always pictured I’d have, there’s this huge hole of speechlessness and uncertainty. And work... In all the dreams, work was never a topic that came up.
“You?” I ask. “Why are you headed down south?”
“I...I live in Lakeway now. It’s not too far from Austin. I figured, I could work and keep tabs on my grandmother.” She bows her head and softly laughs. “Though, I think she’s actually the one keeping tabs on me.”
I smile, but somethin’ in my chest jabs at my heart. I don’t know why, but the fact that she lives in Texas now kind of hits me hard. I think it’s because it’s the first time I realize that I’m really no longer a part of her life. I didn’t even know where she lived.
“I was just here visiting some friends,” she adds.
That hurts too. I’m not even a friend she’d consider visiting. And I don’t even know if I’d know the friends she was visiting. Her friends used to be our friends, but then, I guess, you can make all new friends in the course of a year.
I nod.
“Are you still in Ava?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, grabbin’ the back of my neck. I think it’s a nervous habit.
She takes a deep breath. “How is everyone?”
Again, she asks it as if she really cares. Why does she have to ask it that way? I’m tryin’ not to picture her against that old maple, lookin’ into my eyes, smilin’ that pretty smile of hers and tellin’ me she loves me. And her being nice isn’t helpin’ any.
The line starts movin’, and all of a sudden, I notice there’s a gap between me and the person in front of me. Ashley smiles and rests her hand on the handle of her bag. I take that as a cue and shuffle up the line sideways a couple more feet.
“Everyone’s fine,” I say. “I’m sure they’re all the same as when you left.”
I notice her draw a sharp breath at my last word. I didn’t mean to make her hurt, but the fact is, she did leave—fast. Nobody leaves where I’m from, and they sure as hell don’t do anything fast. But then, I guess, I might have left—fast—too, if I were her.
All too soon, I’m bein’ stared at by a tall, slender woman takin’ tickets. She gives me a rushed smile, so I make an effort to smile, too, as I hand her my pass. She takes it, scans it, and I slowly shuffle into the tunnel that leads to the plane. But I stop when the line stops and watch as Ashley hands her ticket over and eventually joins me in the tunnel.
“You packed light,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
I look down at the backpack I’m corralling at the end of my fingertips. “I try to avoid baggage claim at all costs these days.”
She lowers her head and smiles. “Me too.”
I inhale and eye her one little carry-on. Today, I wouldn’t mind a stay in baggage claim if she were goin’ to be there. Damn, I really shouldn’t be thinkin’ these thoughts anymore.
“What seat are you?” she asks.
For the first time, I look to see my seat assignment. Until now, I didn’t care where I sat.
“15C,” I say.
“I think I’m in 11.” She looks down at her ticket. “11A.”
She looks up at me then. There’s something in her eyes. There’s somethin’ she’s not sayin’. And more than anything right now, I want to know what that somethin’ is.
“You know, if there’s an empty seat...you should sit next to me,” she says. Her words are soft and unsure.
I nod and start to smile. “I could do that.”
She presses her lips together, while I say a little prayer that the seat next to her isn’t taken.
“It’s been a long time,” she says, bringin’ me back to the moment.
My eyes land on hers. She smiles.
“Yeah,” I agree. I take a deep breath. “You still workin’ in publishing?”
She nods. “Yeah. I am. But I’m writing, too.” She grins a little wider now.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She fidgets with her jacket. “Well, a little.”
“Wow,” I say. I’m a little surprised at how genuinely excited I am for her. “That’s really cool.”
All too soon, we’re at the door to the plane, and the flight attendant is starin’ me down. I shuffle into the tiny aisle and immediately notice how full the plane is already. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Damn it! There’s already two guys sittin’ in Ashley’s row. I give them a good once over. They’re about our age—two young city boys. I’m instantly jealous, and I’m not exactly sure why. She’s not mine...anymore. But even so, I size ‘em up and figure pretty quickly that I could probably take ‘em. Knowin’ that makes me feel a little better.
I stay back to help Ashley get her bag into the overhead compartment, even though she really doesn’t need my help. I try to act casual about the whole thing, and I make damn sure I make eye contact with each of the city boys at least once. They don’t need to know she’s not mine.
“Thanks,” she says.
I nod.
“Well,” she says, lookin’ over at her seat, “in case I don’t see you when we get off...”
She stops. And there’s somethin’. There’s somethin’ there again. I should say somethin’. I should ask her to lunch or...
Another guy about our age in line behind us loudly clears his throat and cuts short my thoughts. I give him a stern look.
“Well, if I don’t see you later,” she starts over, “it was nice seeing you again, Rem.”
I almost say somethin’, but then I don’t. “Yeah,” I say, instead. “Yeah, it was nice to see you, too.”
She smiles, turns and then takes her seat. And after another long breath, I drag my feet to my seat and plop down next to two people—a woman and a child. And I just sit there and stare into the back of the seat in front of me, thinkin’ about what just happened. I just saw Ashley Westcott for the first time in more than a year, and she’s just as beautiful as the day I met her. And I still want her just as much, yet there’s that wall there. She knows it’s still there; I know it’s still there. It’s keepin’ me from sayin’ anything. And I know it’s keepin’ her from sayin’ anything, too.
I try my best to see her through the cracks in the seats, but I can’t, and after several more minutes, I eventually give up. And then gradually, my mind goes back to the last couple years. I think about the time we were together and the time we were apart. I think about our first dance and our last day together. And I stop there. And I kick myself for not sayin’ more to her just now. But then I feel my heart drop in my chest when I realize that no matter what I could have said today, the outcome still remains the same.
And before I can even imagine that much time goin’ by, an hour and forty-five minutes is gone. And right on time, the voice
comes over the speakers tellin’ us to buckle our seatbelts and make sure our seat backs and tray tables are in their full, upright positions. I glance out the window and see the tops of buildings. Had we really been up in the air for nearly two hours already?
I do as the voice commands, and then I just sit there and think about her some more. I don’t know if I’m gonna see her again once I get off this plane. I want to see her, but then, it might be easier if I don’t.
The plane takes its good ol’ time taxiing to a gate and then finally opens its doors. And as if someone literally gives the word—although, no one ever does—a dozen rows of people stand up in front of me. Usually, I stay sittin’. I’ve learned it doesn’t do me any good to start rushin’ too soon. I liken people gettin’ off of a plane to a herd of turtles crossin’ the road. But today is different. Today, my palms are sweaty, and my heart is racin’. And it’s all because of a girl—a girl I never quite got over. And I’ve gotta do whatever it takes to see her one more time—even if I have no idea what to do after that.
I stand and look for her, but I can’t see her through all the damn heads swayin’ back and forth. So, I grab my backpack and just wait. I wait for enough people to crawl off the plane before I follow the line between the two rows of seats. I notice her seat is empty when I pass it. I tip my cap to thank the flight attendants and make my way into the tunnel. I hurry through it, and within seconds, I’m at the gate. I look up and immediately see her bent over a chair, messin’ with her bag. My heart instantly speeds up a notch, and I smile.
She could have stalled on purpose. She could have just needed somethin’ out of her carry-on. Either way, I’m happy to see her. I take a few moments just to watch her. There was a time I called her mine. I used to be able to walk up behind her and put my arms around her waist and kiss the soft skin on the back of her neck. I used to be the only man in the world that could get away with doin’ that.
I used to be.
Those are the four saddest words in the English language, according to my grandpa. And it’s not until just this very moment that I understand why.
I feel my smile startin’ to fade the moment I realize that that time is gone now. And after a few more seconds of me starin’ at her, not exactly knowin’ what to do next, she finishes what she’s doin’ and looks up. Immediately, our eyes meet, and she smiles. I feel the hesitation in my bones. It’s as if there’s this disconnect between my mind and my feet, all of a sudden. I want to go to her, but I can’t, and she knows it. I see the hesitation in her eyes, too, and it kills me.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
I can’t look away from her, even as her happy smile turns sad and falls from her pink lips.
And then she waves.
It’s just a simple, subtle wave, but it holds a word I’ve grown to hate. Good-bye.
I force myself to keep it together, as I manage to lift my arm, open my hand and muster a small smile. She gives me this knowing look, and then she turns.
And she walks away.
And I just stand there for a few moments, watchin’ her, watchin’ her walk away. And the whole time, my heart is screamin’ at my mind—tellin’ me to chase after her—but it’s not doin’ any damn good. My feet stay planted exactly where they are, until eventually, I can’t see her blond hair anymore. And it’s not until then that I take a step after her.
But then I stop.
And just like that, the world comes to a halt. Everything’s at a standstill—except my heart. It keeps beatin’ a hole into my chest, tearin’ right through every bone and muscle fiber I’ve got tryin’ to protect it. It beats like that until I draw in a long, deep breath, and then I feel it eventually startin’ to slow. And after a few more telling moments, I mindlessly sling my backpack over my shoulder and start my walk in the opposite direction.
It was just like the movies. I don’t look back. I’ll never know if she does. And that’s it. The love of my life comes back into my life for exactly one hour and forty-five minutes, and it’s nothin’ how I expected it would be. Nowhere even close. Yet, it’s exactly as it should be. It’s exactly as it needs to be.
Chapter Nine
Past (2 Years Earlier)
Rem
“So, this is it,” I say, spreading my arms wide. “The Times Square of Ava. I know all the lights and fanfare are probably burnin’ your eyes. Just try not to look at it all at once.”
She gives me a sweet smile.
It’s our first date. I’m nervous as hell, but she seems as cool as the other side of the pillow. I wish I had some of her courage.
I look over at a crowd gatherin’ around the stand that sells grilled hot dogs and cheap beer. “Can I tell you somethin’ you probably already know?” I ask.
She looks up at me. “Sure.”
“All right, well, this right here,” I say, pointin’ to the ground at our feet, “is quite possibly the only place to be on a Friday evening in Ava.”
She nods. “Somehow, I gathered that.” Her eyes wander over the crowd. “Is everyone here?”
“Just about,” I say, takin’ in all the people and the street vendors and the lights that line the walkway. We’re downtown. Everyone calls it Sunny Square. Most people don’t know why it’s called that, but I do. My grandma told me why years ago.
“Can I tell you somethin’ you probably don’t already know?”
“Sure,” she agrees once more, showin’ off her teeth this time.
“This place got its name years ago, back when the farmers market was goin’ on down here and they used to play matinées at the theater.” I point in the direction of the big glass doors framed in oak with the black and white marquee hangin’ above them. “You wouldn’t know it now because it’s gettin’ dark, but this is the sunny side of the block by early afternoon. Hence, Sunny Square.”
It looks as if she tries not to laugh. “That sounds very...logical.”
“Well, we’re a simple people, Miss Westcott.”
She bows her head and just nods as we continue our walk down the sidewalk, passin’ by Joe Kimper sellin’ his county-famous kettle corn.
“Wait, you’ve gotta try this,” I say, backin’ up and stoppin’ at the stand. “Can I have a bag, Joe?”
He nods and hands me a long, white paper sleeve. I immediately offer some to her, and she obliges.
“So, I know your name and where you’re from,” I go on. “And I know you showed up here a few months ago. And I know you’re pretty as hell, but I don’t know anything else about you.”
She raises her head just a little, just enough that she’s lookin’ up at me through her dark eyelashes. I’d swear she was tryin’ to hide the little blush on her cheeks. “Well, what do you want to know?”
She puts some of the kettle corn to her mouth, and for a moment, my stare is stuck on her pretty, pink lips.
“Everything,” I say to her.
“Everything?”
“Yep,” I agree with a nod. “I want to know you better than I know this town.”
“Hmm,” she hums. “I’m guessing that would be everything then, all right.”
“Pretty much,” I agree.
She puts another handful of kettle corn to her mouth.
“Well, I can tell you I love this popcorn.”
I just smile wide. I knew she would.
She giggles then and quickly covers her mouth. It looks as if she’s tryin’ to keep the food from spillin’ out.
“Okay,” I say, tryin’ not to laugh, “so what about...your favorite childhood memory then?”
“My what?” She swallows and reaches into the white sleeve again.
“Your favorite memory—like the one that defines your childhood. You know? The one memory you couldn’t make leave your head, even if you tried.”
She eyes me, and at the same time, pushes her lips to one side. “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”
I just shrug my shoulders, offering her no escape. In response, she tilt
s her head back and looks up into the darkening sky before levelin’ her eyes back on me. “Does everyone have one of these?”
“They sure do,” I say with a definitive nod. “You can tell a lot about a person by the memories they hold dear.”
“Can you now?”
I laugh. “Well, that’s what my grandma always used to say.”
“Okay,” she concedes. “Um, well...” Her gaze wanders to the ground for a few seconds. “Okay. When we were growing up, we had this old house, like turn-of-the-century kind of old.” She pauses. “Like the last century. Not this one.”
“I gotcha,” I say. “Like horse-and-buggy old, not Y2K.”
She looks at me and smiles. “Right,” she agrees, “like that. And anyway,” she goes on, “the house had a furnace room. It was just this little room with this big, scary gray box that would kick on with this loud bang every time the heat would come on. But the room was so warm in the winter, and my sister and I would always huddle in the corner next to the big box. It was like our secret hiding place. We would sneak back there when no one was looking, and we’d eat frosted flakes out of the box.” She stops and laughs. Her eyes are trained on somethin’ out in front of us, but it looks as if she’s more interested in seein’ the memory than whatever it is her eyes are stuck on.
“Frosted flakes?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “My mom hated when we ate the cereal straight out of the box. We thought we were such rebels.”
I smile because she looks so happy and because I like her memory.
“Well?” she asks.
“Well, what?”
“Well, what does that tell you about me?”
“Oh,” I say. “Well... You like your sister—well, enough to share a box of frosted flakes with her. ...And you’re tough.” I stop there because she’s givin’ me a funny look.
“Tough?”
“Yeah, you weren’t afraid of the big, scary furnace.”
“Aah,” she says, with a smile.
“And...you’ve got a little of a wild streak in ya.”
She laughs. “So, it all started with those frosted flakes.”
