Higher Ground

by Nan Lowe

  “I’m giving up the gym until after Christmas. I’m going to enjoy every bite of Miss Verity’s cooking this week and then diet like hell starting January 1st.”

  “Lucky bitch. I want Miss Verity’s cooking.”

  “Come down for New Year’s Eve.”

  “Oh, that would be ah-may-zing,” she says. “I’m going to call Nick to see if he’s in. See you tomorrow.”

  She hangs up without a goodbye, off to convince Nick to come to New Orleans. This will be Wade’s first time visiting, and if they can swing it, partying with our best friends on New Year’s Eve will make it even more memorable.

  By the time I rejoin them in the family room, the others have finished with their gift exchange. There’s a football game playing on the TV, but it’s background noise. Laughter and voices are in the air.

  Wade senses me before he sees me, whips his head around to look at me, and tilts it toward the empty spot next to him on the couch. I sit as close as possible and smile when he buries his face in my hair and inhales.

  “You’ve been outside,” he says.

  “Wren called, so I took a minute to hit her back. We’re going shopping tomorrow.”

  A satisfied grin covers his face as he leans back. “Sounds like fun. What are you going to buy me?”

  “Organic parsnips.” It takes less than a second for his smile to convert to a grimace. “That’s what you get for asking.”

  “He’s always been like that,” Patricia says. “One year, I caught him cutting one of his gifts open with a pocket knife. There was a brand new roll of Scotch Tape next to him on the floor.”

  “Seriously?” I ask Wade. “You ruined the surprise?”

  “I was heartbroken.” Patricia pauses to take a sip of her wine and smile. “He’d already opened and repackaged almost all of his presents.”

  “She cried,” Wade says. “I felt horrible. I think that was the worst Christmas ever for the both of us. Dad was stuck in the middle. Yeah… Not a good year.”

  “You were a mess when you were little,” I say, toying with his hand on my leg.

  His fingers catch mine, and he holds them firm but with affection. “Don’t worry. No one jinxed me with the ‘I hope you have a kid just like you’ curse.”

  “Mine never wished that on me, either.”

  Patricia smiles and leans forward to hand me a glass of wine. “Wade’s driving. You’ll like this.”

  “It’s from a winery over in Guyton,” Ari says. “Hillary and I have wiped out two bottles in three days.” Without thinking, I lift the glass to my lips. The sweet tang of muscadine grapes hits my tongue at the same moment Ari catches sight of the diamond. “You’re engaged!” Her hands leave her lap to flap excitedly. “Oh, my God! Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Wade says as I swallow and nod in agreement.

  “May I?” she asks. Her hand’s already outstretched, fingers reaching for mine and begging to inspect.

  “Sure.”

  She tries not to be overly impressed with my ring, but she studies it long and hard enough to show she is. “Lovely.” I’m forgotten quickly as she drops my hand and leans over to pat Wade’s shoulder. “Congratulations.” Her first questions are the same as everyone else’s. “When? Where?”

  My folks will want the same answers in a few days, and Wren’s going to want details. Wade and I are going to have a talk on the way home. We need a plan and answers, even if they’re vague.

  Ari starts talking expenses, educating us on the joys of deposits. She and Hillary have already talked to a few caterers and florists. I toss back the rest of my wine and hold out my glass for a refill.

  We’ll need those things, too.

  A planner, a dress… a photographer.

  Wade gives me a look when I polish off what’s in my hand and reach for the bottle to pour a third for myself. I shrug and whisper, “It’s good.”

  Since I take the time to sip it and contemplate the idea of a minister versus a justice of the peace, all the while listening to Ari talk about bridesmaids’ dresses and matching tuxedo cummerbunds, the third glass lasts longer.

  “I like vests better,” I mumble, staring into the deep red wine in my hand for answers to wedding enigmas.

  Wade bumps his shoulder against mine. “Tuxes, huh?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  He laughs, resting his hand on my thigh and squeezing in light reassurance. “We can figure it out later,” he says. “You okay?”

  “Sure,” I answer, leaning my side against his to feel him. “My knees are warm, so this should probably be my last one.”

  “Okay,” he says. “If that’s what you want, you’re cut off. Since you hate public restrooms and it’s a long drive home, it’s not a bad idea.”

  “Ugh.”

  I hate it when he’s right.

  We stay long enough for me to finish the third glass of wine, dodge a conversation with Patricia about honeymoons and financial stuff, and for Wade’s grandma to finally hush the room by saying, “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Give it a rest before they decide to hop a plane to Vegas to elope. You’re going to scare the poor kids to death!”

  Maybe not to death but definitely to drinking.

  I decline a fourth glass when Jeff pops a third cork. Wade has to be at work early tomorrow, and we have a long car ride to look forward to. “I’m done,” I say, covering my glass to keep the delicious red away.

  “We should go soon,” Wade adds.

  It takes another half hour to break away. While there are sweet goodbyes and hugs on the front porch, Jeff helps Wade carry gifts and leftovers out to the car. They stand near the trunk, laughing and talking. It takes a lot of effort and my full attention to remain standing without swaying.

  Patricia holds tight a little longer than usual and keeps an arm around me to guide me down the front steps. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart. He’s wanted to ask you for so long…” She smiles, glances at the ground, then to me, and continues. “You make him happy, and we’re all so happy, and…” This time, she trails off into tears—the good kind that comes with smiles.

  “I’m happy, too,” I say.

  She doesn’t release me until we’re standing at Wade’s car. He opens the door for me and waits patiently as I say goodbye to Patricia one last time and wave twice to his grandparents on the porch. They wave back, as does Ari, who holds her wine glass in the air in a final toast.

  “Love you, Mom,” Wade says, leaning over to kiss Patricia on the cheek.

  “Love you, too,” she says. “Both of you. Be careful.”

  “We will,” he answers.

  They’re still outside, watching us, when Wade backs out onto the street. He stops at a gas station on the way out of town, because it’ll be well past dark when we get home later. A long stretch of the trip is boring highway, so I make a quick trip to the restroom while he fills up the tank and buys a large black coffee for the road.

  Because I fumble in the stall, banging my head against the stall door in a true moment of grace, it takes me longer than expected.

  Wade’s leaning against the wall when I exit the bathroom. “I considered sending in a search party,” he says.

  “Sorry. My coordination’s suffering at the moment.” I rub my sore forehead. “That third glass was probably a bad idea.”

  “Probably,” he smiles, resting his free hand where my back meets my ass. “Do you want anything?”

  “No. I’m good.”

  The cool air feels good as we walk across the lot. He kisses me quickly on the lips before moving his hand to open the car door for me.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Classic rock plays quietly between us as he pulls away from the station and merges onto the highway.

  “What did your mom say this morning?” he asks.

  “Oh, the usual guilt-trip bullshit.” I relax against the headrest. “I told her I wanted to stay at a hotel, and she put Van on the phone to talk me out of it.”

  “How’s
he doing?”

  “Good,” I say. “He’s disappointed you won’t be there for the game Tuesday night. He seems to think the Pelicans can beat the Hawks.”

  “Yeah, right,” Wade says, tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m going to be outnumbered as the only Hawks fan there,” I say, pouting.

  “You might be,” he says, agreeing for the first time that he might not make it before Christmas. “I called a couple of people this morning. No luck on a swap.”

  My eyes slip closed, and acceptance tinged with relief washes through me. “It’s okay. It’s just a few days.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll have to make it up to me on New Year’s Eve,” I say. “We’ll go to the riverbank for fireworks, hit Bourbon after that, and then eat beignets as the sun comes up while some band plays blues covers in the background.”

  “It’s a date,” he says.

  “Speaking of dates, everyone wants to know. My parents are going to ask the same questions your mom and dad did. Were you serious about wanting to get married soon?”

  He glances over and nods. “We know we fit, so there’s no point in waiting.”

  “Will the new job affect your ability to take time off?”

  “If I get the position, I’ll still be able to request vacation time in advance. What do you have in mind?”

  “New Orleans is beautiful in October.”

  He smiles, drops one hand from the steering wheel, and wraps his fingers in mine. “This October.”

  “This October,” I echo for emphasis. “I can tell my mother what we want, and she’ll have it organized and unbelievably perfect.”

  “What do we want?” he asks.

  “Outdoors, lots of candles, maybe an arch with flowers in front of the fountain…”

  “A night wedding?”

  “Maybe sunset.”

  “I like suits better than tuxes,” he says.

  “I like that idea. Black or navy would be nice.”

  “Black.”

  “I hope your parents like my parents,” I say. “They’re not as nice as yours, but they aren’t horrible.” Wine’s better than truth serum in some ways. It loosens the tongue without any twisting. “My siblings are cool, though, and I have the best grandma.”

  “Your parents are nice,” he says. “Not even close to horrible.”

  “Do you want to go on a cruise?” I ask. Patricia was right about the convenience of a port in New Orleans. We could steal away quietly on a ship to some faraway beach.

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not opposed to the idea, but it would have to be a short one. We could even wait until the next summer and do something else entirely.”

  “Shit,” he says, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  Blue lights flash behind us, making my pulse race and teeth clench. Both fists ball on my thighs, and I try not to panic.

  It’s a traffic stop. Nothing more.

  Wade pulls into the emergency lane, slows and stops the car, and leaves the engine running. I jump when he leans across the console to open the glove compartment in front of me.

  “You okay?” he asks, pulling out his registration.

  Before I can answer, a state trooper knocks on his window. Wade lowers it and apologizes immediately. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know why I stopped you?” The trooper leans down to peer into the car.

  I swallow and lick my lips.

  “Speeding?”

  Nodding, the officer watches Wade search for his license and insurance card. He finds both, passes them through the window with the registration, and glances at me.

  “Stay right here.” The trooper turns on his heel and leaves us to return to his car.

  Wade shifts in his seat and uses his hand to break the death grip I have on my thigh. His palm presses against mine, and he entwines our fingers. “You’re shaking,” he says. “It’s a speeding ticket, Violet. That’s all.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you sick? Did you drink too much?”

  I shake my head in a partial lie. I’m not drunk anymore, maybe mildly buzzed, but I feel sick.

  He reaches for the small cooler in the back seat. “Mom packed a couple of bottled waters with the leftovers.”

  Cool water helps with the dry mouth, but my grip on the bottle between swallows is shaky. The cop comes back with Wade’s belongings and a ticket for twelve miles over the speed limit. He tips his hat at us after saying goodnight.

  Wade signals, gathers speed, and merges onto the highway to continue the trek home.

  “Have you ever been arrested?” I ask, eyes focused past the sunroof, trained on the stars in the sky above us.

  “No.”

  “I have.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Then

  The rest of Christmas break was spent with my family. Ronnie came home wearing maternity clothes, and knowing there was a tiny person inside her bump was the most bizarre thing. She smiled and showed us pictures of her first ultrasound, of my nephew.

  I dropped my fork when she broke down crying at Christmas dinner. My brother-in-law comforted her first and then told us he was being sent to Iraq. He wouldn’t be home for the baby’s birth. Van and I sat quietly while the adults talked around us, throwing out ideas and developing a plan.

  Ronnie wanted to come home to New Orleans and stay. She didn’t want to have a baby alone in a strange city. None of us wanted that.

  We waved to her on New Year’s Day when they got into their car to drive back to Texas. She said goodbye instead of sneaking off without one, and knowing she would be back soon made it easier on all of us.

  The rumors about Oliver, Chloe Sinclair, and ecstasy started during our first week back to school in January. People stared at me in the halls more than they ever had before, and the whispering between classes was pronounced.

  Oliver never corrected anyone or denied anything, but he never admitted anything, either, not even when I asked him point blank.

  “Did you have sex with Chloe?”

  We were on his bed, alone for the first time in weeks. His father had packed and shipped his things to some address in Mississippi, and his mother was taking advantage of her newfound freedom by burning the midnight oil somewhere.

  “Give me some credit,” Oliver said. He placed a Marlboro between his lips and pushed down the ball of the lighter in his hand. After a quick pull, he continued. “Chloe’s not my type.”

  He set the cigarette in the ashtray on his night table and pulled out a vial of coke. When he held a small pile on the pad of his thumb, I inhaled. All the questions melted away when the euphoria hit. Oliver kneeled between my legs and tugged at the button of my jeans. His hand was hot on my thigh as he pulled them and my underwear off my body.

  I was too high to help much, but he was functioning well enough for both of us. He lined his cock up at my entrance and then shoved in without hesitation. He pinched and pulled, payback for calling him out, and when I didn’t come, he turned me over and yanked my hips into the air so he could fuck me harder. His fist twisted in my hair when his orgasm hit.

  It was the first time he’d failed to take care of me.

  “Fuck,” he said, shoving me away by my ass cheeks.

  His cigarette had burned into a snake of ash in the tray, so he lit another on his way to his bathroom. I was already regretting what had happened, so I dressed quickly while he was gone and sent Troya a text. I asked for a burrito or some kind of snack, but what I really wanted was her and a few of our friends.

  I wanted to yell and scream at Oliver. I wanted to accuse him of lying and fucking, to tell him what an asshole he was, but I had to remind myself repeatedly that Oliver wasn’t my boyfriend, that he kept coming back to me.

  Chloe was forgotten a couple of weeks later when new rumors started flying about Oliver and Britney Thomas. He ignored that one, too, but every time she passed me in the hall, she winked and
puckered her lips in an air kiss.

  Troya, Sonny, Van, and the others became buffers. I still let Oliver take me up to his room after school, but I made sure we were surrounded by classmates and friends afterward. The temptation to ask questions or scream demands was always there, and witnesses meant I’d never act on it.

  Our friends ignored what was going on the same way we always did: we hung out and got high. Troya, Penn, and I even studied most days.

  My first acceptance letter arrived the first week of February.

  Vanderbilt.

  Nashville.

  Tennessee.

  More than five hundred miles away from New Orleans.

  Penn, Celeste, and Troya were happy for me, while Oliver didn’t speak to me for three days. I spent those afternoons wondering who he was getting high with, who he was fucking. When he got over it and decided he wanted me again, I followed him home after school and let him punish me with his body instead of his silence.

  Avoidance was our new normal. We fucked, got high, and never talked.

  I gave up Friday night parties with my friends. Oliver had started spending more time at Mitchell’s with college kids who acted like assholes every time the rest of us showed up. It was a slow unravel none of us knew how to stop.

  On the day of the Oshun & Pygmalion parade, Troya knocked on the front door at noon. Since George was in town for Mardi Gras and Van was going with him, I’d planned to skip the festivities. It didn’t take long for Troya to convince me to join her, though.

  Miss Verity fed us cucumber sandwiches and homemade pasta salad for lunch. “Be mindful of others tonight,” she said. “The city’s packed. Stay together, and don’t take drinks from strangers, not even bottled water.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  She was quiet while we ate, but she hovered, wiping the same counter twice to keep busy. On our way out, she stopped me with a gentle hand on my bicep. “I wish you’d stay home, Violet.”

  “We’ll be fine, Miss Verity. I promise. I’ll call Van to see if he wants to meet up.”

  “Please be careful.”

  “I will.”

  She hesitated a moment and then released my arm. “I’ll see you tonight.”