A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  “Yeah, you too,” she says. “And awesome job tonight, guys.”

  Her voice is genuine when she waves to Topher, Nick, and Drew. “I can’t wait to hear you play again sometime.”

  “You need my help?” I offer.

  “Are you leaving?” Paloma asks at the same time.

  Ryan smirks. “Listen, we’re gonna go grab our money and run Clara and Drew home. You won’t fit with the drums. How ‘bout we come back and pick you up?”

  I look over at Paloma who’s biting her bottom lip. It’s not a nervous bite, though. It looks hopeful.

  “Rad, man,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Ryan nods. “I’ll text you from out front when we’re back.”

  “Goodnight!” Paloma calls after my friends.

  5.

  “Okay, I’ve got to ask,” she says. “What’s with the Xs on your friends’ hands?”

  Before I can answer, Paloma picks up my right hand to inspect it. I can’t help but suck in a quick breath that I hope she doesn’t notice, but I see a smile tug at the edges of her mouth and know she did.

  “You don’t have them,” she says. She takes her time, running a fingertip over the calluses on each of my fingers. I don’t want her to let it go, but just as I have the thought, she lets my hand drop to my side.

  “No,” I say. “I do sometimes for shows, depending on where we’re playing.”

  “And what’s it for?”

  I tilt my head to the side, debating how to answer, how much to reveal. “Okay, so me and some of the guys are straight-edge. And the X—”

  “So you don’t drink?” It comes out fast and a little demanding, and I can tell by the wince that she’s trying to pull the words back in.

  “I don’t,” I say.

  “That’s cool,” Paloma replies, more mellow now.

  I can’t help but raise a questioning brow when I say, “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, for sure. I mean, drinking isn’t that big of a deal.”

  I want to ask how much she drinks. How often, I mean. Why she sometimes smells like alcohol in the middle of the day, but it’s not my place.

  “Right.” I nod and shift my weight. “It’s not just drinking we avoid. It’s smoking and drugs, and—”

  Her phone vibrates in her hand, and I should look away, but...

  A text from Alexa:

  Where are you? Bunch of people meeting at House of Pies. U in?

  Paloma types a quick reply:

  Take off without me. I’ll walk home. Yes I’m sure. :)

  “Do you need to leave?” I ask.

  Paloma shakes her head and says, “Nope. Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while.”

  “Worse ways to spend a Saturday night,” I say. I back up into a table and rest my weight on it. Standing like this, for the first time, we are at eye level.

  The song changes, and, within a few beats, Paloma covers her face with her hands to hide a growing smile.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, trying to pry her hands away. “Paloma.”

  I like the way her name sounds on my lips. Full of surprising authority.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” Paloma says. “But I love this song so damn much.”

  I take my hand away, and Paloma spreads her fingers a little to peek through.

  I stare at her, straight-faced.

  “Don’t look at me all somber like that!” she says.

  “I can’t—I just can’t help it.” I fight the twitch of a smile.

  “Jesus, Oliver, you look like you’re attending the funeral of your Great Aunt Mildred’s cat or something.”

  “Paloma,” I say, really having to work to keep the smile at bay now.

  “I know!” she yelps. “I know it’s so lame, but gah! It just makes me happy!”

  I can’t take it anymore and burst into a deep laughter that has Paloma howling too.

  “You think I’m an idiot,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t. At all.”

  Paloma finally pulls her hands completely from her face. “I’m so glad you were here tonight. I mean, okay, so when you said you had a gig back at the museum, I sorta asked around. I wasn’t stalking you, I promise, I just—”

  “You were looking for me?” I ask.

  When her olive cheeks turn scarlet, I know I’ve embarrassed her, so I try to change the subject.

  “Do you…” I take a deep breath, because this is all new for me. “Do you want to dance?”

  I look around the room and no one is really dancing, except the super drunk dillholes who are moving all sloppy-like.

  We’ll look weird dancing. Especially to this ridiculous song.

  I don’t care.

  “That would be nice,” Paloma says.

  I touch my index finger to her waist. It’s soft and cautious, but she leans into me in response. I feel like maybe this simple touch is every unsaid thing between us.

  If you would have told me when I woke up this morning that, by the end of the night, I’d be dancing with the girl of my goddamn dreams, I would’ve called bullshit.

  But this is happening.

  I’m dancing to the most ridiculous song in the history of music, and it doesn’t matter that it’s been autotuned to hell or that the bass line is close to the shittiest I’ve ever heard. Because this girl is in my arms and it feels about as perfect as I’d imagined.

  At least it does for a few seconds before some guy is beside us, arms crossed. It’s the same guy I saw her talking to while we were playing our set.

  “P,” he says.

  And I hate that he has a nickname for her, especially one that doesn’t fit her at all. Reducing her name to a single letter misses the point of how incredible she is. But maybe this dude knows her better than I ever will. I hate that thought.

  “Been looking for you,” he says.

  “I’ve been here,” she says. She pulls away from me, and it’s the worst.

  “Got you that drink,” he says. “Figured this was your best bet.”

  The guy hands her a bottle of water, and her eyebrows pull down. She’s pissed.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” Paloma says. “I wasn’t really even thirsty.”

  “Always looking out for you, P.” He says it to her, but he’s looking at me.

  Then I pull back and crush my fist into his jaw.

  Except, in reality, I extend my hand like I was taught and say, “Oliver. Nice to meet you.”

  The guy doesn’t shake my hand, but he does nod and say his name is Martin.

  Martin, the guy who wants to ruin my life, leans in and whispers something to Paloma. She pulls away and shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to talk, Martin.”

  I know I’m tall, but I’m scrawny. And Martin looks like he knows how to rumble. That said, I’d risk my face if it meant looking out for Paloma. So I straighten up a little and mimic his stance with my arms over my chest. At least I’ve got the height thing going for me, so I’m looking down on him.

  “Please,” he says through tight lips. “One more shot. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll take you.”

  Paloma looks up at me and says, “I want to go home.”

  “I— I don’t have my car,” I say. Fuck me.

  Martin chuckles a little, and I actually might start something with him now.

  “I can take you home,” Martin offers.

  “Come on, Oliver.” Paloma pulls on my arm and, fuck yes, I follow.

  “My house is two streets over.” She pauses to look over her shoulder, making sure the dickhole isn’t trailing us. “You mind walking me?”

  There is not a goddamn thing in this world I’d rather do than walk her home.

  6.

  When we step outside, it’s drizzling again. I look up at the misty sky and smile, and, even though I sort of hate walking in the rain, I don’t want her to have second thoughts about me walking her home and go back inside to that douchehole.

  “No stars tonight,” Paloma says.

&nb
sp; “Nope,” I say. “Clouds are too low.”

  “Bummer,” she says. “I bet you’re one of those smart guys who knows all about astronomy and constellations and stuff. You could probably point them all out, huh?”

  She nudges my arm with her shoulder and smiles.

  I know exactly zero percent about stars. Except I can maybe find one of the dippers on a clear night, but I doubt that would impress her.

  Instead, I say, “Take my coat.”

  “I have a jacket,” she says.

  “Yeah, but mine has a hood.” I shrug out of my jacket and hold it out to her.

  Paloma offers no protest and hands me her bottle of water to hold while she pulls on my jacket. Her fingers are clumsy, trying to work the zipper, and I don’t know if it’s the cold, or if maybe she’s as nervous as I am. I could offer to help, except I’m turning over questions in my head to keep the conversation going, but each one feels more invasive than the last.

  So I go with, “Have you always lived in this neighborhood?”

  And even though I thought that was totally benign, I notice she slows her pace for a few seconds.

  “We just moved here a few years ago,” she says.

  Whenever she had changed schools, she must have moved. The look on her face says she doesn’t want to go any deeper than that tonight.

  “Cool,” I say, wishing I’d asked anything else.

  “I can get there from here if you need to go,” she says. “It’s really not far at all.”

  I shake my head and say, “Not a chance.”

  We walk side-by-side as we cross the street, and I try again. “Do you work anywhere?”

  “I lifeguard in the summer,” she says. “Well, sometimes if there’s a pool party or something I’ll get a call to work during the year, but mostly just the summer. And I give swim lessons sometimes.”

  I swallow hard and give it my best effort to not imagine her in a swimsuit, all wet hips and curves, but fuck, it’s a pointless battle.

  “Cool,” I say again. Then I hear Colm’s voice in my head, ‘smooth Oliver Wu,’ so I add, “So that’s your big secret, huh?”

  I don’t have to be touching her to feel her bristle next to me, and for a few moments there’s no sound other than the gently chirping crickets and the buzz of the street lights.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a lifesaver?” I clarify. It was a stupid thing to say. I suck so bad at this.

  Paloma lets out a short, nervous laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, just at the pool, not like the beach or anything. Do you know how hard it is to get one of the beach spots? It’s super competitive.”

  “Really?”

  Paloma nods. “Yeah, my cousin is a lifeguard in Huntington. Said it was tougher getting a job there than when he joined the Marines.”

  “That’s crazy,” I say. “But it’s cool that you have something you love.”

  Paloma nods softly, then looks at the ground again.

  “What about you? What’s your big secret, Oliver?” she asks.

  I want to tell her how I regularly imagine myself as someone different. Sometimes, I imagine my reactions to things—the way I wish I could really react to them, if I were brave enough.

  I want to tell her how I’ve never quite felt like I belong. Anywhere. Not with my dad’s family, who are all mostly in China, and have a completely different lifestyle than we do here. Or my mom’s family, who are true Californians—all loud and confident, and all play fifty sports.

  How I’m not really sure I buy into the whole straight-edge vow as much as I let the band believe. I mean, I don’t want to smoke or drink, or whatever, but I don’t know if I need a solemn vow to prove it to myself or anyone else. But how do you tell your best friends—your only friends— that you lied about sharing their philosophy?

  How I kick myself every day for not being as bold as I wish I was. For not taking a chance on much of anything. For not taking a chance with her.

  When I don’t immediately answer, she swats at my arm and says, “I bet you don’t even have any. You’re one of the good guys.”

  “Speaking of guys…”

  Paloma stops to look at me and wrinkles her nose before walking again.

  “Martin? I sort of knew that was coming.”

  “If you don’t want to talk about—”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s just, there isn’t much to tell.”

  I wish I could say how relieved that makes me.

  “We dated for a while, and then we broke up.” Paloma shrugs. “It happens. He was kind of a dick tonight, though, right?”

  Yes.

  “Nah, I bet he just misses you.”

  “Something like that.”

  “It’s this one over here on the left,” she says.

  We cross to the other side of the street and her arm swings, making her hand brush up against mine. I want to grab it and hold on, but I know that no matter what I do, I can’t make this walk last any longer.

  She digs in her pocket and says, “Shit, I forgot my key. One sec, let me run around to the back patio and grab the hide-a-key.”

  I watch her slip through the side gate, and the heavy wrought iron slams shut behind her, echoing in the stillness. The moon is hidden behind the low hanging clouds and the only light is from the flickering street light across the road. Still, it’s enough for me to see what I’m doing when I pull the postcard out of my back pocket and unclip the half-size permanent marker from my key ring that I keep with me to write down song lyrics.

  I take a deep breath before touching the ink to paper. I write fast, without too much thought. Knowing that the ink is permanent, and it can’t be taken back, feels like the boldest thing I’ve ever done.

  Paloma rounds the corner to the front of the townhouse just as I’m recapping the marker.

  “Whatcha got there?” she asks. Her hair swings from the skip in her step, and her voice is a little playful. It’s the first time I’ve heard it that way.

  “Nothing.”

  If I give it to her—once I give it to her—there’s no turning back.

  “Okay,” she says, softly biting down on her bottom lip. “Got the key.”

  I walk her up to the door, and I have no clue if I’m supposed to kiss her or not. I want to, but it feels like it’s maybe too soon for that? I try to think back to how long my ex-girlfriend, Cora, and I had hung out before I’d kissed her.

  Paloma and I are close. Close enough for me to see the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

  We both pause in the doorway and do that awkward thing where you start a sentence but really don’t know what to say so you let the words slide away before you finish.

  Finally, Paloma says, “Thank you for walking me.”

  I don’t kiss her tonight, because I know from the smile she’s giving me that there are going to be other nights like this one.

  Instead, I slide the postcard out of my back pocket and slip it into the pocket of my coat.

  The coat she’s still wearing.

  “Do you want your jacket?” she asks.

  “Keep it for now,” I say. “I’ll get it back from you next time.”

  Next time.

  I watch as her hand slides into the pocket as she closes the door.

  (Written in Paloma’s room. Undelivered.)

  7.

  It was too fucking bold.

  That’s what I think the entire walk back to the party. I could have just written my phone number. Shit, I didn’t even leave my phone number.

  I probably would have lost my way on the walk back from the party, not because it’s so complicated but because my mind is a fucking mess right now. The dull roar of the party is like the North Star, though, and I figure out where I’m going. I wonder if the cops will get called out. I don’t know how much noise is acceptable noise and how much is police-level noise. This isn’t my scene, and probably never will be, but I’d be lying if I said this night wasn’t worth it.

>   When I make it back to the house, the party is thinned out, but it’s still going. I could wait out front, but I (happily) don’t have a jacket and the rain is picking up. So I give the guy who claims he’s the DJ some song recs and hope he plays some of them while I sit on the sofa and wait for Ryan’s text that the guys are back for me.

  I sip the bottle of water that Paloma had handed me and suffer through some truly terrible Top 40 before, surprisingly, the guy playing songs takes some of my suggestions and an old Bad Religion song is on.

  It was one of the first songs I’d learned to play on bass, and hearing it right now feels like the perfect way to end the night.

  I take a long pull from the bottle of water and close my eyes.

  I think about Paloma at first.

  And then I keep my eyes closed a while longer because it feels better that way.

  Because holding my eyes open is hard work.

  Because each time I try to open them, the room spins a little more.

  Because I’m not sure if my life depended on it if I could open my eyes right now.

  There’s a hand on my knee, and a laugh, and I don’t think either belong to Paloma, but with my eyes closed I can almost pretend they do.

  There are so many stairs. Too many. And the person helping me smells like cigarettes. Normally I would find the smell repulsive, but being repulsed would take too much energy right now. So I just accept the help with a ‘thank you’ and try not to fall on my face.

  8.

  You know that perfect place between sleeping and being awake? Where you’re hella peaceful and can hear everything going on around you, whether it’s a dripping faucet or a TV on a little too loud in the next room, but instead of annoying you, all those sounds act as a lullaby?

  You just fade in and out of sleep, and everything feels like a dream.

  That’s where I am now.

  I hear a familiar song playing somewhere down the hall, but my lips are too tingly to move enough to sing the lyrics, so I just curl them into a small smile instead. I hear the rasp of the sheets beside me. It’s all a cacophony, a symphony that meets at the intersection of drunk and hung-over.