Outside, the weather is defiantly composed. The sky is a bright, clear blue and a salty breeze blows in from the bay, which is visible on the horizon, beyond the sloping, white-dotted grass.
The fingers of my right hand absentmindedly smooth over the surface of the small, glossy photograph in my pocket. I don't need to pull it out to see the image in my mind's eye. That image is all I need to give me strength.
My mother and I walk wordlessly between graves, and without any hesitation or doubt as to where to go. Even though all of the headstones on this side are identical slabs of white stone, the spot where my father is buried is ingrained in my mind, the steps written on my bones.
Even before we reach it, my eyes lock in on it, the headstone bearing my father's name and the two most important dates of his life. It's cast in the shadow of a large tree, a fact I find comforting, until I remember it's not like my father can feel the merciless sun beating down on him all summer long. Still, the view is nice and that, too, brings me a strange comfort. Things he would've appreciated, even if he can't now.
I stop short of the grave, but my mother gets down on her knees in front of it and lays a hand on the top of the stone, as though it were his shoulder.
She starts talking, her head hung low. At first, I can't hear what she's saying but every so often, certain phrases drift in my direction.
I thought we'd get through it together.
Why'd you leave me, Finn?
My chest cinches tighter, and tighter, as though her words were a belt strapped across it. I wish I were somewhere else, anywhere else.
Before she gets to her feet, she sets down a single yellow carnation. The idle thought occurs to me that my father doesn't care for flowers and would've rather we left him a beer. But he's not here and he doesn't get to decide how my mother grieves.
She steps away and I come forward, getting to my knees as well so that I'm eye level with the inscription of his name.
"Hey, Dad," I say, my voice just an undertone. "It's been a while, I know. I guess I should try to come more often. It's just…it's strange, still, not being able to see you." I clear my throat. "Anyway, everything's fine. And…if you can hear me, somehow, I don't want you to worry anymore." I glance over my shoulder, self-conscious. My mother is right there, hanging on to my every word. "I know I haven't been taking good care of Mom lately. I know I should be doing better, seeing her more. I'm going to try. I'm not saying I condone what she did, but I think I can understand the desperation of losing someone who's a part of you and feeling like you've been ripped in half. I felt that too, when you left. But I think she felt it more because she's always been so in love with you, Dad. You know that." My mother's crying again behind me, I can hear her loud sniffling. "I…I forgive her. And I forgive you, too. You were sick and needed help and no one around you knew how bad it really was. I get it now. I get that it wasn't your decision to leave us. I get that it was your illness that made it for you. So, I won't be angry with you anymore, Dad. I promise you that. I love you, Dad. We'll catch a baseball game together again, on the other side."
My voice is even more hoarse when I finish and I clear my throat again. Then I get to my feet and rub a hand over the top of the headstone. The rough, cool surface of the stone grinds at my palms, but somehow it makes me feel closer to him.
When I look at my mom again, she's clearing her tears with a tissue. She smiles at me, nose red, and asks, "Who is she?"
I blink, unsure I heard the question correctly. "What?"
My mother walks up and places a hand on the side of my face, something she hasn't been able to do in over a year. Before she says anything, she nods over to the place I knelt, indicating the moment that passed and the things I said.
"I'd recognize a woman's touch anywhere, son. So, who is she?"
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Julia
"I'm so proud of you," Lex says. "You're declaring your terms, no holds barred."
"Yeah," I say, as I clear out empty bottles from the bar. I haven't stopped moving all day long. "I guess I am."
It's not the first time she's said this, but it's like she knows I need the reminder. It's hard to feel good about what I did when this sadness hangs over me.
Last night was the first I spent without Giles in a while. But I couldn't sleep. I kept expecting him to call me to find out where I was, or to try to talk things out. But he didn't. And when I left for work today, I left with my heart sinking like a boulder.
Maybe he felt pushed into a corner because I demanded answers right in the moment. But you know what? If he hasn't figured out what he wants by now, he doesn't get to enjoy me in his bed. It's not fair for me. I know what I want.
Standing in front of him and practically begging him to tell me that we're a real couple just left me feeling needy and pathetic. I shouldn't have to beg him to realize I want things completely and absolutely clear. I don't want to be one of those girls caught between something real and nothing at all.
It doesn't matter how good Giles and I are together; we will never be good enough while one of us isn't ready.
"You look like you're regretting your decision," Lex says.
I get to my feet and grab a nearby towel to wipe my hands. "I could've held off on confronting him on it for another day, I just got so upset after overhearing his conversation with Ava."
"Why would another day be better?"
"Giles was supposed to meet with his mom this morning. So a part of me feels guilty that I added more to his plate last night."
"They went to visit his father's grave?" Lex asks.
I freeze, staring at her. "What did you just say?"
"I'm just assuming, since you said a while back the anniversary of his father's death was coming up."
"Fuck," I say, under my breath. My stomach sinks and sinks until I have to hold onto the edge of the counter to keep from sinking with it. How the hell did I not put that together myself?
"Are you okay?"
"I think you're right. I think today's the day. And I fought with him last night and left him to face it alone, after promising I'd be there for him. Fuck." I shut my eyes.
Even if we aren't a couple, even if he doesn't want that with me, it doesn't change the fact that I care about him. It doesn't change the fact that we are friends, real friends. You can take everything else away from us, but you couldn't take that away. Giles is my best friend and I'm not there for him when he needs me most.
Lex's voice is cautious. "It's not too late," she says. "You could call him."
I scratch my nose and glance away. "I doubt he'd want to talk to me right now."
"I have a feeling he does."
"What makes you say that?" I ask, looking up at her.
"Just go. Go home, go talk to him."
"Oh God." I cover my face with my hands, suddenly mortified by how selfish I was last night. If I hadn't been so wrapped up in myself, I would've put the pieces together and realized what it meant that he was meeting his mother and why he was dreading it so much. "How do I even look him in the eye today?"
Lex gives my shoulder a light squeeze. "You'll be fine. Go. I'll cover for you."
I take a breath then hand her my apron. "God, Lex. Thank you so much…"
"Don't thank me just yet," she says, uneasy.
Back home, I close the front door behind me but it's not until I'm greeted by the empty living room that my nerves rip through my stomach. Giles's car isn't in the driveway. My phone is in my hand, ready to dial his number. But what do I say?
Lost in thought, I head to my room, my footsteps slowing as I rehearse lines in my head.
I didn't know. I'm sorry.
A door closes, but on the other side of the hall from Giles's room. Ava appears at the hall entrance, looking both surprised and relieved to see me.
"Oh good, I thought you forgot," she says. She's fully dressed, hair and makeup done, ready to go out somewhere.
"Forgot?" My stomach sinks again. If Ava's talking
about what I think she's talking about, why is there the hint of a smile in her eyes?
"The game, you're still coming, right?"
"Game?"
"The Padres game, at eight."
"Tonight?" I ask, trying not to let judgment creep into my tone. It's the anniversary of her uncle's suicide and she's going to a baseball game?
"Yes, tonight."
"Where's Giles?" I ask, distracted.
"He's been gone all day," she says, looking down.
Of course. He's probably still with his mother. I stick my phone back into my pocket, deciding I shouldn't interrupt him. As badly as I want to make things right, the impulse to do it right now serves only to soothe my own discomfort and guilt.
"Are you coming?" she asks again. "We need to get there a little early or parking will be a bitch."
I shut my eyes, running a hand over them. People mourn differently. I get that. But I, for one, am not in the mood for a game tonight.
Ava notices my reaction because her tone grows desperate, "Please don't bail. Everyone else bailed. Please. I took the night off and I got tickets, but I can't sit in a stadium by myself. I need to get out of this house or I'm going to go crazy."
She's serious. There's a plea in her eyes. It whispers something to me in the silence, words without a voice, stirring an instinct that's nagging at me to go with her. I may not be in the mood for company, but Ava's in need of it. And if I can't be there for Giles tonight, the least I can do is be there for Ava.
"Yeah. Okay, " I say, my voice sounding as far away as I feel. "I'll go."
Ava drives us there with the windows down, and the sounds of the road around us drown out my thoughts the whole way. Petco stadium is just under thirty minutes away, but the drive feels much longer when neither of us speaks a word. The silence isn't awkward, exactly, but there's uneasiness to it, as if we are both afraid to say the wrong thing. But also, tonight is the first time Ava and I are spending any real time alone together in the months we've been roommates.
We find parking in the giant lot and file into the stadium among a growing group of people pouring in. I get what Ava meant about not wanting to sit in the stands alone. There's nothing lonelier than being surrounded by strangers.
Ava pulls me into one of the vendor lines, and we both stock up on food, though I don't have much of an appetite.
Walking out onto our seating section takes me by surprise. It's my first time at this stadium and I was not expecting the picturesque view. Ahead, past the outfield and beyond the beaming overhead lights, the diamond shaped structure opens up into the night, framing the cityscape.
It's half past seven and the sun is making its way down in the horizon, obscured from our view. The clouds over the buildings are tinged in a majestic array of purples and pinks.
Ava and I take our seats and for a while, we're both too distracted looking around the stadium at sights around us to talk much. Our seats are on the seventh row of a balcony area behind the home plate. We have the perfect view of the field in its entirety, though any figures on the field resemble dolls from this height.
"He used to bring us here a lot, when we were younger," Ava says. Her voice draws my focus on her, chewing on a cheese fry as she stares out onto the field, absently.
"He?"
"Uncle Finn. He was a huge baseball fan and would bring us to as many games as he could. Giles never cared about baseball and just came for the food. But me? I learned the game inside out. Those nights, I got to pretend I had a dad and a brother for a little while. Giles hasn't been to a game in forever…" She trails off and throws another fry into her mouth, chewing for a few minutes before looking at me sideways. "Do you love him?"
My mouth parts in surprise, confused for a wild second about which of the two men she means. Though it's obvious that she could only be referring to one.
"I do," I say, nodding through the tightness in my chest, the truth squeezing me there until I can no longer ignore it. I do love Giles. We may never be able to be together the way I want to be, but there's no denying that I love him.
"Good," Ava says, not looking at me. "That's good."
She's wrong. It's the worst kind of torture, realizing you're hopelessly in love with your best friend. A guy who can't give himself to me the way I need, the way I want. A guy who will always be just out of my reach.
The seats around us fill and the sky starts to dim, notch by notch, as the sun finally sets somewhere over the ocean. All this time, music plays over the speakers, catchy tunes to excite the crowd. And everywhere around us, people sit with huge containers of food and tall cups of beer. From our seats, we can see the Padres pitcher warming up just off field.
I'm sipping from my drink and staring at the sky when Ava jabs her elbow into my side. "He's looking for you," she says, nodding over to the front of the rows.
"Huh?" I say, eyes trained on the large form of the Padres mascot standing at the end of our section, his back to the railing.
The friar costume looks even more ridiculous in person. Massive, oblong eyes stare out, unblinking, over an enormous nose. His smile is wide and permanent and his protruding chin nearly lost in the roundness of the face. A single row of thick, black hair runs over the top of his forehead, ear-to-ear, comical in the way it serves as both his eyebrows and what's left of his balding head, which pokes out on top.
He wears a shapeless monk gown with the Padres logo on it and flip flops on his abnormally large feet
Catching my attention, he continues to wobble a large arm, signaling me to come down to him. I point at myself to make sure it's me he wants and he nods vigorously, large head bobbing so violently I'm worried it might fall off.
"Go see what Luke wants," Ava says, laughing a little.
I consider for a moment just ignoring him. The mascot is a beacon for attention. A few people in the rows in front of us are snapping pictures of him with their phones. But Luke is adamant in his cartoonish gestures for me to come up to the railing. And so I do, squeezing past people in my row and lowering down the steps until I reach him.
"Hey, Luke," I say, without much enthusiasm.
Overhead, the announcer's voice chimes from the speakers, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please rise for the presentation of the flag." There's a scramble of fabric and movement as everyone behind me gets to their feet.
Luke leans in, the freakishly large face of the smiling friar inches from my own.
"I've got something to show you," he says.
"Right now?" I ask, self-conscious that I'm standing in plain view of our entire section.
"Yeah, right now," Luke says, turning to look at the field.
Unable to gauge anything of Luke's expression from behind the mascot suit, I turn in the same direction as him. My hands close over the cold metal bar of the railing as I gaze out intently, though unsure what I'm really looking for. The color guard, a group of uniformed US Navy sailors, march the flag onto the field, stopping just beyond the pitcher's mound.
The announcer comes on the speakers again. "Ladies and gentleman, he first sang at Petco stadium when he was just twelve years old. Here to perform the national anthem again, San Diego's own Giles Caldwell."
My heart skips a beat and lodges somewhere in my throat. Mouth parted, I watch Giles approach the infield, microphone in hand.
I can't see his face. He's facing away from the crowd, and me, looking toward the flag and the outfield beyond. But my eyes move over every inch of him, marveling in how he looks so small from this distance and yet larger than life.
The giant screen over at the end of the stadium switches from a live shot of the color guard to a close up of Giles as he raises the mic to his mouth with a faint echoing sound.
My hand moves to my chest and beside me, Luke's does the same. Except mine didn't move there in anticipation of the national anthem, but instead because my chest literally swells at the sight of Giles. Up on the screen, the face I know so well is in crisp focus.
I can't help but stare
. He's gorgeous and radiates a confidence that fills the entire stadium. I battle the urge to run to him now, to run down however many flights of stairs I have to in order to reach him. But I stand, frozen, watching.
Giles opens his mouth and the very first note he sings erupts with such a strength that it drives right through me. My heart thumps madly against the palm of my hand as I listen to his powerful voice. It's deep and rich, with a tremble that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Incredible. It's incredible that he sounds like this. Incredible that he's here singing. Something about his performance is haunting and exorcising all at once.
You should do something special that day, something to commemorate his life.
He took my advice.
Deep in my gut, the truth rings out that he's singing this song for his father. He's singing it for me, too, his eyes staring back at me from the screen as if he can actually see me where I stand. All of this makes my own eyes burn and a small breath catches in my throat.
God, I love this guy. My heart's about to burst from my chest as though offering itself up as proof. It aches at the thought that I might never feel those lips on mine again, that we might return to the time when we tried to be just friends.
Cheers of appreciation erupt at random from behind me as my section—and people around the entire stadium, it seems—react to Giles reaching his ultimate crescendo. And when he sings the very last lines, everyone goes quiet. His final note echoes around the stadium, reverberating through me and around me, nearly lifting me off my feet.
My ears ring from the cheers and applause of the crowd at the performance. The now-familiar voice of the announcer booms, cutting through the stadium noise.
"And now a quick message from our performer."
The noises die down a few octaves as Giles turns to face the crowd. To face me. He's so far away and yet I can feel his eyes lock onto mine. Even with the distance between us, with me up here in this balcony and him down by home plate, I suddenly feel right in front of him. The cheers around me die away completely, as though I've been enclosed in a soundproof box.
Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3) Page 23
