True Divide

by Liora Blake

  Trevor twists ever so slightly to avoid her elbow but seems unfazed. “Screw that. I know as much as you do—I was sitting right here when she made this big reveal about Jake popping her cherry instead of Deputy Dickwad.” Trevor pauses and nods his head in my direction. “Good job on that, by the way. I still can’t imagine any woman ever taking her pants off for Dusty at all, let alone putting him on the field first. Smart move.”

  My eyes go wide as a heated flush covers my cheeks. Trevor and I don’t converse much. At all, really. This is the closest we’ve ever come to a significant one-on-one, and he’s opened the line of communication by giving me props on who I lost my virginity to.

  “Trevor! Jesus.” Kate drops her head into her palms.

  He ignores his wife’s groaning and presses on. “Jake isn’t fucking with you. We aren’t best friends or anything, but it’s obvious the dude isn’t hardwired to be an asshole. I spent enough years in LA, where people make a sport out of talking from both sides of their mouths. So I can see, smell, and hear a bullshitter coming before they’re in the same county as I am. But Jake’s an open book. If he’s trying to start something up with you, he’s not doing it to entertain himself. It’s because he’s interested.”

  Trevor emphasizes the last word and shakes his head in slight exasperation before picking up his phone again. “Also, he’s trying to get horizontal with you. Totally wants to hit that again. But that’s fucking obvious, I should hope.”

  Kate groans again and mumbles an apology before laying a small kiss on the side of Trevor’s face. Despite how jarring his candor is, if Trevor is right, well, that changes everything.

  6

  Every Sunday afternoon I call Ruth Ann at the retirement home and give her an update on the state of affairs at The Beauty Barn. If I owned a pair of smart-looking reading glasses, I’d don them when we talk, just to add an air of needless professionalism to the whole conversation. But I don’t. Instead, our talks usually focus on business for roughly five minutes, before taking a detour into things we both enjoy far more.

  When she first moved away, I took these reports very seriously, because I was determined to show her I could handle everything and I liked the implied importance of going over sales numbers, bank balances, and inventory as if I was a real businesswoman. After a few years, though, Ruth Ann grew less interested in hearing about those things and more keen on knowing how our little town was faring in her absence. As much as I still enjoy feeling like a businesswoman, I’m happy to humor Ruth Ann in whatever way she prefers.

  She relishes in the smallest details, like the current color of the leaves on the five enormous oak trees that tower over the town square. Knowing when those leaves finally give up and fall to the ground under the ever-cooling temperatures of autumn. Asking if they’ve put the Christmas lights up on the ancient grange hall yet, or which farmers have turned their fields under for the season. Whether the Talley brothers have moved their cattle to the winter grazing grounds, prompting the annual halt of traffic through town as the herd traipses right down Main Street. Every marriage or impending divorce; every new baby’s arrival.

  Sometimes I think that if I tell the stories well enough, then Ruth Ann can come home to Crowell for a bit. Even if it’s only in her mind, or it’s only as a fleeting flicker, perhaps these narratives return her to Vernon and the place they called home. Knowing how deeply this place can imprint your life, waking up anywhere else must feel foreign.

  Over the last few months, she has grown more tired much more quickly than she ever used to. The nurses say it’s perfectly normal: despite being as sharp as ever intellectually, her body can’t quite keep pace. Last month she turned eighty-nine and I had to accept that someday, probably a lot sooner than I want, she won’t be around anymore. Selfishly, I’ve considered what that means for me. The Beauty Barn will be no more. Where I’ll go or what I’ll do, I’m not sure.

  Today we’ve talked about the snow mostly. I’ve nestled myself up on the bed and drawn the shades back so I can watch the sun give way to the dusk and quiet of a late Sunday afternoon. Ruth Ann loves winter and has never once cursed the cold of Montana in the way I usually do. She’s a hot-chocolate-loving, ice-skate-adoring, heavy-scarf-donning woman who happily greets the first snow with nothing but amusement.

  “Miss Lacey, tell me something new about you. I’m tired of hearing about everyone else.”

  Ruth Ann has called me Miss Lacey since the day I met her. For years I called her Mrs. Taylor, until one day, about two years after Vernon died, she quietly asked me to stop. I mumbled that I had no idea what to call her then; my traditional country roots meant that the idea of calling her by her Christian name might cause my grandparents to turn over in their graves. Nevertheless, I understood she was asking me to do so because she missed Vernon so deeply and hearing herself referred to as his, even if only by name, was too hard.

  “Oh, Ruth Ann, there isn’t much to say on my front. I wish I could keep you entertained with stories of my interesting capers, but I can’t.”

  “Dear, give me something. I’m an old lady. I live with other old ladies. We do nothing but watch that terrible Judge Judy and eat pudding cups. Anything you do that doesn’t involve those things would be interesting to me.”

  I laugh, softly, and try to think of something. Of course, the only item of interest in my life is the reappearance of a certain guy with good hands who likes my ass a whole lot. Better than nothing, I guess.

  “Well, let’s see. A guy who grew up here showed up back in town when Kate had her baby. A bit of a blast from the past. He’s a pilot now.”

  “I said I wanted to hear about you, Miss Lacey. Does this boy have anything to do with you? If not, try again, dear.” Ruth Ann coughs for a moment, then finally settles her lungs and breathes steadily but heavily into the phone.

  “In high school, he and I used to date. Kind of.” Flopping backward onto a heap of pillows behind me, I pull my hand up to cover my eyes. Hiding from my own silly flustered state at this decade-old confession.

  “Is this the boy that used to sit in the town square all afternoon waiting for you? The one with the skateboard?”

  My brow immediately furrows at her comment and I narrow my eyes toward the ceiling. How could she know this? After we started seeing each other, as long as it wasn’t blizzarding out, Jake used to station himself down at the base of an oak tree in the town square while I worked for a few hours after school. He would usually keep busy with a book or finish homework to pass the time. Sometimes he would just lie in the grass with his headphones on, napping and listening to music, his boot-clad feet propped on his skateboard, occasionally rocking it back and forth mindlessly. After I finished, he would wait just long enough after I started my walk home, then once we were a good distance away from the middle of town, he would lope in behind me on the sidewalk. We usually ended up at an old abandoned canning factory on the outskirts of town, a massive building with tons of hidden spaces that worked so well for all the things we liked doing together.

  “Ruth Ann, how could you possibly know that?”

  She chuckles, the effort inspiring another round of listless coughing. Once she stops, she sighs.

  “It was obvious to anyone with eyes, dear. I may have been an old widow, but I wasn’t blind. You two weren’t exactly experts at undercover operations. If you weren’t peeking out the window at him, he was gawking across the way trying to get a glimpse of you.”

  As an adult, I can see how stupid it is that we spent so much time hiding from everyone, including ourselves, thinking that we were smooth. At the time, it seemed so important to keep it a secret. Now it just sounds adolescently dramatic.

  “His name is Jake.” I nearly whisper it, yet another foolish reaction from a grown woman. Especially when that woman is simply mentioning a guy’s name. Still, I hold my breath after saying it, as if I’m waiting for a dramatic musical overture to
punctuate the moment. Maybe cymbals clanging together, just once, but hard enough to clear my head a bit.

  Ruth Ann says nothing—the overture also never appears—and I consider that she may have nodded off. Finally, she takes a deep breath, loud enough that I can hear every second of it.

  “And? Is that the end of your story, Miss Lacey? I was hoping for something a little more exciting. This Jake character should watch a few Cary Grant movies to inspire him, learn how to sweep you off your feet.”

  I laugh and pull a pillow over my face. Jake doesn’t do Cary Grant style, that’s for sure. Obviously, I can’t tell her about his filthy email attempts at sweeping my pants off. Not quite appropriate given the audience.

  “He isn’t exactly a Cary Grant. A little less polished, but in a good way.” Sitting up again, I twist my hair into a loose bun, securing it with a pencil. “Was there ever a time when you thought Vernon was, I don’t know, too much for you? Or were you two always perfect together?”

  Ruth Ann laughs a loud cackle. “Perfect? God, no. Vernon and I were so different that there wasn’t a single day when I didn’t stop to consider how we made it work for so long. He was fanatical and fastidious; I was fancy-free and flighty. He liked bluegrass music, and I can’t stand the sound of a banjo. The man hated chocolate. Chocolate! Who hates chocolate?”

  She sighs, and if I weren’t so many miles away, I would swear I could see her in front of me with tired, watery eyes threatening to spill into real tears at the simple recollection of how her husband hated chocolate.

  “But he saw me, completely, and I saw him. If he didn’t remind me to lock the front door on the store, I would have forgotten more often than not. If I didn’t go over to his place and deliberately disorganize the drill bits just to make him laugh, his face would have frozen into a frown.” Another quiet sigh escapes her. “And he was a rascal in the sack. That was worth going home to, no matter what.”

  My jaw drops open. “Ruth Ann! Did you just say ‘rascal in the sack’? Honestly, I thought you were a woman of good breeding.”

  “I am. I was. Until the doors were locked. Don’t underestimate the importance of a man who curls your toes, Miss Lacey. If this young man still curls your toes after all this time apart, I’d think long and hard about letting him slip out of your hands again.”

  I close my eyes and consider. Jake’s a toe-curler, no question. So, two votes for Jake today. An endorsement from Trevor on his inability to be an asshole and a toe-curling assessment from an old lady who knows about true love better than anyone.

  After hanging up with Ruth Ann, I reread Jake’s emails, looking for clues that might help me define what this thing between us is. Unfortunately, every pass I take means more confusion. When he doesn’t offer a parting salutation, just his name at the end, is that a sign of his indifference? When he uses the words “pretty girl,” is it an endearment that’s just for me? Does he really want me to tell him how I feel about his ass? If I email him back with a long explanation of how the perfectly curved spaces on the sides that I glimpsed as he jumped out of the hot spring plague my idle daydreams now, will he laugh and say he was fucking with me?

  Between Trevor and Ruth Ann’s insights, I want nothing more than to dive into this thing, letting him tow me under whatever it is he has in mind. If I drown, I drown. Chances are it will be worth whatever comes in its wake.

  With the decision made to topple headfirst in mind, I pull out my phone and tap a few keys.

  Hey.

  It’s perfunctory, bordering on lame, but it has the desired effect. My phone rings within a short minute.

  “Hello?”

  “Don’t text me things like ‘Hey.’ Either make it dirty, with a picture, or don’t bother. Next time you want me, just dial my number, Shoelace.”

  Grinning, I wilt into the pillows at the sound of his voice. Deep, rough, and tender, all at the same time. “Just so you’re aware, I’m never sending you dirty pictures. Ever.”

  “Never say never. I’m incredibly good at nudging you out of your comfort zone.”

  When he huffs a low chuckle after saying it, there’s provocation in his voice and the way my belly tumbles at hearing the challenge isn’t good. I consciously steady my voice.

  “Yeah, well, me hitting send on something like that would take a hell of a lot more than nudging on your part.”

  He laughs, full-throated, and the rich timbre of it makes my lungs swell. “Now you’re just asking for it. You have no idea how much tenacity I’m capable of when I want something. Like, for example, a naked picture of you.”

  Instead of responding, because I’m now distracted by the indecent ways his tenacity might benefit me, I give up a small giggle. But because I’ve let my mind wander inappropriately, the noise ends up sounding like a squeak instead.

  “I was starting to worry about you. Normally I get an email back by now. Did I scare you off?”

  “No.”

  He lowers his voice. “You sure? All my dirty declarations about your ass and the things driving me crazy didn’t make you nervous?”

  Taking a deep breath, I try to sort out my thoughts as quickly as possible. Before he takes control over this conversation and I end up a stuttering mess of whimpers and weak verbalizations that don’t form complete words.

  “Fine, they made me a little nervous, yes. But you’re going to have to try a little harder to scare me off.”

  Jake groans. “Thank fuck. Tell me what makes you nervous, then. I don’t want you skittish. I’m sure I can put your mind at ease.”

  Even when I’m nearly convinced this emotional swan dive will work out to my benefit, I can’t ignore the obvious. Because I’m a woman, and as Trevor put it, we think too much. One thing we always think about is “after.” After he ruins me for sex with anyone else, which I’m pretty sure he will, what then? He left before with no warning. If he did it then, when our lives were as simple as they would ever be, when we were an open book waiting for a happy ending, what stops him from doing it now?

  “You already left once. Just left. Adios, folks. And there were some people who figured they might have at least gotten a little warning about your plans. Maybe if they were clued in, they would have gotten you a bon voyage cake or something.”

  When I finish, it’s clear how much this still bothers me. It’s ancient history between kids—and we aren’t kids anymore—but even now, I can feel the ache of realizing he was gone and not knowing what I did wrong.

  “Lacey, just to be clear, when I left I wasn’t leaving you. I left Crowell. That place was suffocating me.”

  His voice is calm, but the words are exacting; no apologies for how bailing like that might have affected anyone else. My first instinct is to demand more, an apology or a concession. At the least, he could own up to skipping over the courtesy of a good-bye. Instead, I take a deep breath and muster the courage to tell him what I thought every time I cried myself to sleep that summer.

  “I would have followed you anywhere. Anywhere. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “God, you didn’t belong in the places I ended up. I couldn’t take care of you. Fuck, I could barely take care of myself. I had two hundred bucks and a backpack, no plan beyond getting out of town, zero backstop.”

  He pauses, another sigh. “I watched you the entire day at graduation. You were wearing this pretty little pink dress under your gown, with your hair all done up, and I realized for the millionth time just how fucking perfect you are. And I couldn’t risk even saying good-bye to you, which I’m sorry for, but if I didn’t leave without looking back, it would have ended me. Trust me when I tell you that it was the hardest decision I ever made, but I was trying to do the right thing. For both of us.”

  Despite the apology in there, a flash of almost anger passes over me, making my response abrupt. “That is what makes me nervous. You d
ecided what the right thing was. You never asked me what I thought.”

  After that, he tries to apologize in earnest, but in the logical part of my head, I know he doesn’t really owe me that. The kid who made a choice years ago isn’t the man who’s on the other end of this line.

  That swan dive now feels like a belly flop; the whole thing stings and it’s knocked the wind out of me. We say good night because there isn’t anything else to say.

  Three hours and one impulse online shoe purchase later, I check my email for the purchase confirmation on the over-the-knee whiskey-brown boots I’m convinced will make me feel better. Instead, I find something else.

  TO: laciegracie93

  FROM: jake.holt6239

  SUBJECT: [none]

  I was in love with you. You know that, right?

  So it killed me to leave you.

  I can take care of you now. I couldn’t then.

  I can take care of you now.

  We’ve reconnected for a grand total of a few hours in person and spent a couple weeks emailing each other. When in that time did he decide to make this something real? And, God help me, I’m not sure why, but just seeing those words is enough to have me grabbing my phone again. We’ve had the conversation I thought we needed to have and even if it didn’t end on a high note, it’s done. We can cross it off the list. Confront Ex For Disappearing Act. Check.

  I falter a bit before hitting the call button, just to be sure I want to do this. Gnawing on the edge of a pinkie nail, I make my choice. Yes. I do.

  When he picks up, I don’t even get a chance to announce my intentions before he launches in. “Lacey? Don’t hang up or anything. Please, let me—”

  I cut him off. “Your hands.”

  Jake makes a confused sound, halfway between a cough and a snort. “What?”

  “In your email from this morning, you asked me what my thoughts were on your ass and other body parts. I’m answering you. I can’t stop thinking about your hands.”