by K Larsen
I stop by the Pizza Shack after running a few errands after the game. Luke is sitting in the corner. The cute brunette is sitting right up against him in a booth, along with Dillon and another teammate. I stop at the counter and grab two slices of loaded potato pizza before heading toward Luke’s booth.
“What’s up?” I ask as I close in on them. Luke and Dillon’s heads snap up in unison. I try like hell to keep my serious face on.
“Uh. Dad, hi,” Luke answers.
“Can your old man sit?”
“I have to go anyways,” the brunette says in a high pitched voice.
“And who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Bree. Luke’s . . . ahh,” she shrugs and shimmies out of her seat. Standing next to me, she crane’s her head up to my face. The poor girl doesn’t even reach my shoulders.
“See you next time, Bree,” I say. I slide into the booth and set my paper plate down on the table.
“So uncool, Dad,” Luke mumbles and I smile as I chew another bite of the world’s tastiest pizza.
When I get home, I know that Luke still has an hour before his curfew. I also know that tonight he will absolutely come home by curfew and not push my buttons any more than he assumes he already has, so I strip off my T-shirt in the hall as I make my way to my room and toss it on the floor. I rub my abs, sore from a day’s work. I pull my belt loose from my jeans when I hit the threshold of my bedroom. I let my jeans drop to the floor and kick them aside. I’ll pick it all up tomorrow. I crawl into bed in my boxers, plug my phone into its charger and pull the covers up over my head. I dream of a diner, green ball gowns and snowflakes on fire.
Hey, Luke,
Sorry to mail you a letter like this is 1982. I didn’t know how to get your email address and I thought this might freak you out less.
Let me introduce myself, I’m Angelina Van Buren. Please call me Angie and no, never any Brad Pitt jokes or I may have to hurt you. Sorry to stalk you because I know you’re just a kid, but my mother is too stubborn for her own good, so I’m resigned to taking matters into my own hands—hopefully that’s something you can relate to.
If you’re still thinking I’m nuts, let me help remind you: My mom met your dad in a diner in New York, more than twenty years ago on New Year’s Eve in a snowstorm. Somehow, in the little time they were together, they left a lifelong impression on each other. I think, if I have the story right, you had some hand in encouraging your father to send the letter. So I’m being proactive, too. My mother has somehow gotten it into her head that she’s unworthy of love. I told her that a meeting isn’t a lifelong commitment, that getting to know your dad isn’t something to be afraid of.
Knowing my mom, I doubt she’s written him. She won’t tell me shit anymore because I threatened to contact him. You can let your dad know that she has taken action with her life. Earlier this week, she asked my dad for a divorce. Now before you go thinking this has gotten way out of hand—my mom needed a reason to leave and find herself again and the letter was just the kick in the butt to get her moving. They were miserable, I repeat, MISERABLE together. I know she doesn’t want Titan to know because she thinks he’ll judge her, call her rash and think she’s completely lost her mind.
I think they need to meet and I think you and I have to orchestrate it because otherwise, it will take them another twenty years to get up the damn courage.
What do you say to a little conspiracy? You can call or text or email me, Luke. Anytime!
Angie Van Buren 347–877–9532 [email protected]
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hi Angie,
I thought emailing would be faster. Plus, I’ve never sent a letter before and I didn’t want to ask my Dad for a stamp. He’d def. think something was up then. You’re lucky I got the mail today.
I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m going to just be blunt. Even my Mom wants my Dad to find your mom. She left a video for him before she died. We just watched it a little while ago and she actually said she wanted him to find your mom.
I’m 15, so I don’t really have funds to make any plan happen, but I’m game to do what I can. Um, my dad and I take a mystery ride a few times a year. Usually he surprises me with a destination but I could turn the tables on him this time and get him somewhere without him knowing in advance. Would that work?
Oh, it can’t be during week days because I have school and football but weekends are good.
I’m pumped you wrote to me. And, I don’t think you’re nuts.
Luke
Ty, there is so much I would like to tell you. I’m torturing myself because it pains me that I’m not perfect. I’m not the same girl you met in the snowstorm or the girl you shared coffee with in the diner. I’m complicated, I come with instructions and I’ve spent way too many years now neglecting my love life. Speaking with you ignited something deep inside me. I’m terrified to continue this because I doubt I can live up to the vision you have of me, young, fresh and idealistic—my whole life still in front of me.
I’m afraid of telling you too much or too little. I’m afraid that reality cannot live up to our fantasies or that we remember things the way we want to remember them and not really as they came to pass. How can one cup of coffee give you the feeling that you’ve known someone forever? How can one letter inspire you to radically alter your life as you know it? I don’t know what you do to me, Ty. Never before has another human had such a profound effect on me.
Yours, timidly, Jess
It’s been a quiet few days. The weekend came and went without fanfare.
Then yesterday I woke up and had an email from Jess. I’ve replayed every word of her email in my head since then. I admit that when I saw an email from her, a grin as wide and broad as the Cheshire cat’s, overtook my face. I don’t have answers for her questions though. Twenty years is a long time. Neither of us are the same people we were that night. Life alters you, changes the fabric of your soul and teaches you things over time. I’m in the yard raking leaves. I’d wanted to respond immediately but I didn’t. I need time to formulate a response that is just right for her. I’m contemplating my response, still, when Luke arrives home from practice.
“Dad,” Luke says running up to me.
“Luke,” I say while leaning on my rake. He’s a ball of energy, bouncing from one foot to the other.
“You know our mystery rides?” He asks the question as if we haven’t taken a mystery ride once a quarter for the last five years. Basically, we hop in the car and drive until we reach a destination—it’s a surprise for Luke until we arrive. We spend a night away together. Sometimes we just rent a room at a local hotel with a pool, sometimes I take him farther and we look up fun things to do while we’re there.
“Ah, yeah. I’m familiar with them,” I laugh.
Luke beams with pride, making me wonder what he’s up to. “I’m taking us on our next one.”
“Are we walking?” I tease.
Annoyance crosses his face. “No! Come on. I pick the destination. I will give you directions as we go but you are going to be the surprised one,” he says animatedly. His smile and enthusiasm are infectious. I can’t say no to the kid.
“Deal,” I say. Luke grins widely and nods his head. “Do I get a heads up on when this mystery ride will happen?”
“Naw. That’d take all the fun outta it,” he says. He tosses his backpack on the grass and picks up a paper leaf bag. “You rake, I’ll hold the bag for you.”
Jess,
Twenty years has that effect on people. I never expected that you would be the same person. I know I’m not. I don’t know how a chance encounter can stay with someone for so long, all I know is that it has for me, too. My only expectation is that, should we ever meet again, the conversation we have be as easy as the one we shared decades ago. Something about you, simply put, set my soul at ease. Maybe just the cadence of your voice or the words you chose to speak. I can’t know.
I doubt you come with instructions. Surely you aren’t a robot or a dvd player. If I’ve learned anything in the last twenty years it’s this; all women are complicated; all women strive to feel understood and all men strive to give that—while trying to be uncomplicated themselves.
We can always just email, if that’s what puts a smile on your face.
Yours, Ty
“You can put them all in the truck that’s going to Albany,” I say to the movers. I’ve been bubble wrapping John’s pictures from his home office. They consist mostly of framed degrees, various accolades—things of that nature. John has decided to stay permanently at our house in Albany. I’ll keep the townhouse in the City until I can downsize to something more reasonable. Things have been moving so fast, that now and again, I’ve almost lost my footing. But I’ve managed to stay positive through most of it. I’m living my truth, so I keep telling myself that things can only get better for me.
My hair is tied up in a bandana and I’ve got paint splatter all over my arms and face and the painter’s smock I’m wearing. I painted John’s office as soon as I took the frames down, it was a compulsion, probably a subconscious desire to erase him. I don’t have any malice toward my husband, I’m more angry with myself for hiding, for not speaking my mind sooner. I wonder if John’s voice will stick around, condemning me. When I was putting primer on the window sills, I could almost hear him chiding me, “Jess, people of our standing do not do their own interior painting. Other people need jobs—let me hire some Mexican.” Like his voice will always follow me, putting me down, constantly disapproving of everything that’s important to me.
“Mom?” I hear Angie shout from the entryway.
“Upstairs, in the office!” I yell back. I’m glad she’s here. Angie always helps me get out of that headspace.
“Hey, Mom. What are you doing in here?”
“Changing the color. I never could understand your father’s obsession with bone, cream and ivory for every room in the house. I want color. I’m ready for some variety in my life.”
“Oh, I know where you can get some color,” Angie says, raising a brow at me.
“Did you come over to harass me?” I say, but I can’t help but smile. She is a ball of fresh energy and she’s unloading take-out cartons from the giant plastic bag she’s carrying.
“Don’t try to take the high road, Mom. Dad had all of your interior touches shipped off to the Episcopal Church donation. He bought bachelor furniture, black leather—you’d hate it. Honestly, I bet that’s why he got it.”
“He’s entitled to his vision, Angelina. I’ve probably been a dominating decorator holding him back from his bachelor dream pad.” I wipe sweat off my brow and place my paintbrush in the paint pan as Angie hands me a steaming container of lo-mein noodles.
“Giant, flat screens in both the bedroom and the living room; it’s like he’s having the time of his life, breaking all of your house rules. Oh, and the herb garden—the one we spent so much time designing? Turning it into a patio. Cement and wood, Mom. Say goodbye to our dreams of aromatic dining.”
“It’s sensible, I guess. He can’t cook a thing unless it’s on the grill, so maybe it’s smart planning on his part. Hope he doesn’t starve to death,” I say, as I slurp up noodles with my chopsticks.
“He and Andrew are bonding over it and it’s so gross, I could gag. I was like, he hated you last week and now you’re his best friend? I guess he forgot that he wouldn’t give him permission to marry me. Now they’re talking about rib-eye steaks and which shitty beers go best with them.”
“Well, your father could use a good friend and I’m glad he finally came to his senses about what a good man Andrew is.”
“Oh my God, can’t you just say something mean about him like a normal person?” Angie yells, gesturing at me with a huge piece of broccoli gripped precariously between two wooden chopsticks.
“He’s your father, Angelina. He is a good man, just wasn’t a great husband.”
“You want to know if he’s dating anyone?” Angie passes me her mushrooms, dropping them into my carton. She gives me the raised eyebrow again, like she’s enjoying it—like she’s up to something.
“No, I don’t care. Incorrigible, my dear, that’s what you are.”
“If you don’t run after this, someone else will take him. You know he’s a catch. He’s Fairfield’s most eligible bachelor.”
I raise my own brow back at my daughter while I’m crunching on water chestnuts.
“Snooze, you lose,” she says, then reaches into her plastic bag and waves a magazine in front of my face. I grab the magazine and see Ty on the cover. He’s dashing, no, God, he’s sexy. That might be the problem. He’s as sexy as any man who is paid to pose for magazines. “Mom, you’re blushing.”
“He really is about the most stunning man I’ve ever seen. I wish everyone else didn’t agree with me. It makes it even more intimidating than it already was.”
“He’s probably seen hot pictures of you on the internet. Don’t be such a spoil sport.”
“Didn’t you bring any wine to go with this take-out?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Angie says. But she reaches into her oversized purse and pulls out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, smiling with glee.
“Look at you, purchasing wine all by yourself. I can’t believe you’re twenty-one, Angie. Seems like just yesterday you were crawling on these floors.”
Rising from my knees, I pull the kerchief off my head. My hair tumbles into my face and I set the Chinese take-out on the desk and look straight at my daughter.
“I would love to—but I’m just not ready, is the answer to your question.”
“Will you ever be?” Angie asks as she closes up the containers.
I can’t answer. I don’t have one. I’m as unsure about this as I ever have been about anything. I don’t remember ever feeling so insecure about men, but after twenty years of living with John, I don’t feel desirable or even feminine. I’m out of practice and terrified of failing, of making a fool of myself and proving right all of my husband’s theories about my inadequacies.
“Maybe we need a getaway. A spa weekend or a hiking weekend in the mountains—just the two of us, some fresh air and some exercise.” Angie follows me downstairs with the wine as we go in search of wine glasses.
“That actually sounds divine, but what about the show? We tape on Friday and that would leave only two days for us to hit the road.” Angie pours me a huge glass of wine and I’ve got a feeling she’s up to something sly.
“We’ll run a pre-recorded episode or re-run a popular show. We could give them Urban Gardening again. People lost their minds over that topic. But don’t worry about anything, Mom. You keep painting and packing and I’ll get everything in order. You just show up with a suitcase and an open mind. We’ll have the time of our lives!”
Angie’s smile is too big and she’s only had a few sips of wine. But I can’t refuse her, I can’t refuse my only daughter “the time of her life.”
There is a mountain of invoices and receipts in front of me that I need to reconcile but my attention just isn’t there. The air is crisp and people are burning leaves. A smoky petrichor mixes together and makes the distinct smell of autumn. I’ve settled up with the Vanderbilts and they have now moved on to working with an interior decorator.
The magazine edition with my mug on the cover, came out and the entire town has been buzzing about it. I will never live down this whole Most Eligible Bachelor business. This morning, when the sun was barely up and starting to cast shadows through the blinds, Luke and I had coffee together and decided we should do our mystery ride this coming weekend. I need to get away from all the hub-bub here. All the peering eyes. All of a sudden, between the Craigslist post and the magazine, I feel like a slab of meat. Women are so much worse than men and coming from a construction guy, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been heckled and cat-called and shamelessly flirted with. The draw of settling down here with Ro
ry and Luke was that it was a quiet, small town. A town where nothing ever happens.
Rusty and Dan are the worst. I will be known as MEB for years to come. Luke’s mystery ride idea seems like the best idea either one of us have had in a long time. A weekend away at some cabin on a lake would be a God send right about now. I don’t even care where he takes me, so long as it is out of our county lines.
I roll my chair away from my desk to stretch. The reconciling can wait. Right now, I need to get out on the water and stare at some clouds in silence for a while. Sunset comes earlier and earlier these days. There won’t be too many more boat days, so I might as well enjoy them while I can. Locking the door behind me, I stroll out to the truck and start her up.
Ty,
Somehow, whatever you say is always what I need to hear. I saw you on the magazine cover. You will not be eligible for much longer now, of that much I’m sure. Your houses are beautiful works of art and you should be proud of how you built that business yourself, from the ground up. I loved reading the article about you. And I can see you haven’t changed much. You’re still humble and honest, handsome and kind—any woman would be so lucky to have you in her life. I couldn’t help but think of how much I’d love to work on a project with you. I guess that sounds silly, but I would love to see you in action, turning those blueprints into something so concrete and meaningful. I’m afraid I’m no good at keeping secrets, Ty. I hope you won’t run the other way when I drop this bombshell on you and please know that had we not reconnected—the outcome would have been the very same, eventually. I don’t want this decision to put any pressure on you or for you to think that it necessarily signifies something between us. Deep breath. My husband, John, and I have split up.
This is why I’ve been reluctant to answer. It seems like such a monumental decision requires some down time. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Thinking it through. Trying to decide what my next step will be, now that I’m on my own. I’m repainting the entire house, room by room. It’s helping me to recall some of the good memories we shared as a family in this house. As I go, slowly and meticulously, I’m bringing color into my life and meditating on the changes I’d like to make. As much as I try to distance myself from you and the picture you’ve left in my mind, you keep popping back up, persistent as always in my subconscious. What is it about you, Ty? What happened to us that night? I often dream of falling into your arms. Even though I keep distance from you consciously, in real life, both my mind and my body revel in your presence with me at night.
