by Nan Lowe
While he spent a week with his parents in the Caribbean, that entire summer was a blur for me. The week after graduation, I earned a sobriety coin. Then my court date went well, and I was released from probation. Mom and Dad celebrated by putting me and Van on a plane and sending us to my aunt and Grandpa Bull in Miami. I talked to Troya a few times over the phone but stayed far away from New Orleans until the week before I left for Auburn.
The neighborhood was unusually quiet the day Mom and Dad decided to take me. Van hugged me on the porch. “I love you,” he said. “This sucks.”
“This part does,” I agreed, holding on a little too long. “I’ll text you all the time.”
“You better.” He looked at Miss Verity, nodded, and left us out there alone.
“You’re scared,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” I took a deep breath and watched as Dad loaded the last of my stuff into the back of his car.
“You’ll be fine.”
The sting of tears threatened for the first time in weeks. “I hope so,” I said.
“You will.” There was no room for argument.
Only questions. “Will he?” I didn’t have to say Oliver’s name for her to know.
“You can’t change fate, Violet.”
I nodded and hugged her. It was hard to let go. Dad had to call my name twice, and when I turned around, I was bawling. Knowing I wouldn’t see Miss Verity, Van, or any of my family for months hit me harder than I’d expected. I barely made it through my goodbye to Ronnie, and my sniffling woke Hayden from his nap.
I didn’t look back or wave once I got in the car. It was easier to stare straight ahead. As the turn for Oliver’s house came into view, I thought about asking my father to drive by one last time. Our goodbyes were long over, though, and there wouldn’t have been a point except to pick at the scab.
It didn’t take long to see that college was different. There was no Van or Troya, and because they were still at Newman, I couldn’t even text them during the day. Most of the girls in my dorm were nice, but I’d never excelled at meeting new people.
I thought about Oliver and tortured myself by imagining that rehab had somehow fixed him. Maybe counseling would guide him to some epiphany that love was real. Then he’d show up at my dorm at midnight, beat down the door, tell me he loved me, and that he’d made a mistake.
The passing days made it clear that wasn’t going to happen.
I took the maximum number of classes allowed each semester to keep busy. When I still found myself with too much free time, I got a job as a waitress at a popular restaurant near campus. My other love was a student outreach program. I worked closely with the medical clinic, gave presentations on safe sex, and handed out a ton of free condoms.
As weird as it sounds, it was a great way to meet guys. A relationship was the last thing I wanted, but I still liked to smoke weed and have sex.
And there was no one to stop me, or drug test me, at Auburn.
Wren was my roommate, but we barely spoke that first year. With different majors, different interests, and different circles of friends, there wasn’t much time for togetherness. At the end of the year, we agreed that living together hadn’t been bad and tossed around the idea of getting an apartment.
I knew I had to go to New Orleans for Van’s graduation, but I had no intention of staying there. I wanted to keep my job, and I could get ahead by taking summer classes. I was clinging to any and every excuse to get back to Alabama as quickly as possible.
My worry ended up being for nothing. Oliver was a no-show and didn’t see Troya walk across the stage. I wasn’t sure whether my relief or my disappointment was greater.
Nothing really changed for a long time until, one day, I realized it had been a few days since I’d thought of Oliver and what had happened back in New Orleans. Days turned into weeks, and eventually, weeks turned into months.
Those old thoughts and memories dissolved until I could barely remember what he looked like or how he smelled… or his stupid camera.
Wren and I had decided to graduate early, so we reeled in our social lives by several notches and became homebodies. We took classes during the summers and loaded ourselves down during the regular school years. After three years, we had undergrad diplomas in hand and an apartment in Atlanta waiting for us.
I had a plan.
It didn’t involve a guy.
I’d stopped my escapades when I’d changed zip codes and adopted an “abstinence only” mantra to get me through graduate school. I’d given up booze and weed, so it was easy to give up men, too—for the first year, anyway.
Then everything changed with one simple invitation to a Hawks game.
“Violet, this is Wade.” Wren’s brother pointed over his shoulder at the mess of dark hair and perfect shoulders I’d been admiring.
The guy behind Stephen turned around and grinned. “You’re the Poe specialist,” he said.
“Oh. Are you a fan?”
He had on loose-fitting jeans and a gray Hawks hoodie. Nothing about him screamed literary junkie until he opened his mouth and said, “But we loved with a love that was more than love—I and my Annabel Lee.”
“My favorite,” I said.
His lips turned up at the corner. It was a devilish smile that highlighted the smooth line of his jaw. My stomach flipped in a long-forgotten, terrifying way. “Mine, too.”
I sat back in my seat, wishing I could disappear into the hard plastic, but he refused to be ignored.
“When will you graduate?” he asked.
“They tell me it’ll take six years, but I plan to do it in five. That leaves me with three more.”
“How?”
“I take as many classes as possible each semester and summer. It can be done.”
“Well, yeah, but you can’t possibly have time for anything else.”
“Exactly.”
I didn’t see him again until summertime a few months later. Wren had forced me to spend our one free week in July down at her parents’ condo in Pompano Beach. Her brother was already there, though, with Wade in tow. Stephen and Wren started arguing about who would get to stay before she even put her suitcase down. When it got heated, they left us to have their discussion on the beach.
Wade walked to the fridge while I went straight for the patio. He followed, sat in the chair across from mine, and slid a beer across the table. It was the first of many late-night talks on the deck as the ocean tumbled and crashed in the background. He was a night owl, like me, and he was a voracious reader. He knew Shakespeare and Hemingway, but horror and psychological thrillers were his favorites.
Midweek, he confessed it had started for him when his stepdad had given him a box of his old Hardy Boys books. “It took me a while to figure out he did it to have something to talk to me about.” He looked down at the beer in his hand to avoid my stare.
When it took me more than an hour to fall asleep that night, I knew I was in trouble.
He talked about Savannah and seemed intrigued when he found out I grew up in New Orleans. I asked about his job, and that was when he told me his major was journalism with a minor in English. He interned with CNN through Emory and had been there ever since. We shared a love for the Oxford comma, but he belonged to the camp that believed Poe died from rabies. It was a popular theory, but I strongly disagreed.
“Okay,” Wade said. “If it not rabies, then what?”
It was my last night there. Wren and I were both enrolled for the second summer session and had to be back in Atlanta and ready to function on Monday. Wade was staying in Florida through Wednesday. As much as I hated to admit it, I’d grown fond of our chats and even of our disagreements.
“It was election day,” I said.
He groaned. “Cooping?” There was a condescending head shake or two. “You think the cause of death was voter fraud?”
“For years, yes, but I have to admit that I’m conflicted over new theories of a brain tumor.”
“It’s too
bad Lizzie Doten didn’t ask his spirit when she had the chance.” There was something almost wistful in his voice, and happy surprise lit his features when I laughed out loud.
“Right? It would’ve been a hell of a story,” I said. His mind was a lovely, open thing to behold. “Miss Verity said it wasn’t rabies, though, so you can put that theory to bed.”
“Miss who?”
“My grandmother,” I said. “Miss Verity. She said it definitely wasn’t rabies.”
“Is she a medium like Doten?”
“She prefers to be called a psychic.”
The smile slipped, and his mouth dropped open. “You’re serious.” He leaned forward in his chair. “That’s amazing.”
“She doesn’t really talk to dead people, though. Well, not in a professional way, anyway. I mean, they don’t answer…” He looked thoroughly confused. “Oh, my God.” My hand covered my mouth, and I laughed.
“So, Miss Verity won’t be publishing poetry communicated to her by a dead author any time soon.” I wasn’t sure how he said it with a straight face, but he did.
“No, she won’t. She dabbles in tarot readings and palmistry.”
“Like a hobby?”
When he’d leaned forward in his seat, he’d also angled his body toward me, so when I turned to answer, my knee touched his. My instinct was to pull away, but I couldn’t. “It’s her day job. And her night job, too. She’s good at it.”
He looked down at our legs, his skin on mine, and lifted his hand. Accidental touching was one thing, but the thought of Wade touching me on purpose was scary. I stood before it could happen, made up an excuse, and left him sitting alone on the deck. He was asleep the next morning when Wren and I loaded her car and slipped away at sunrise.
It was hard not to ask for his number, and I stalked him on Facebook. Well, I looked at his profile once or twice. My thumb hovered over the Add Friend button, but I didn’t tap it.
Wren invited me to Stephen’s birthday party that September. Wade was there, too… with a girl. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was frustrating to see him and not talk to him. I hadn’t wanted to hide in a bathroom so badly since high school, but I refused to admit I was having a problem. Instead, I watched them out of the corner of my eye all night and left without ever having said hello.
New Year’s Eve was the turning point. Wren had decided to throw a party at our place. It was mostly school friends, but Stephen showed up close to midnight. Wade was with him—girl-free and looking amazing in jeans and a dark-grey sweater—as was another friend, Nick, who worked with Wade at CNN. Nick’s crush on Wren was born the moment Wade introduced them.
“Hey,” I said to Wade. “Where’ve you been?”
“Working.”
He asked me about school, and we talked about my weekends-only job at a bar in Little Five Points. At midnight, his fingers grazed the back of my hand, and instead of running away, I stepped into his personal space, felt the warmth of his chest against mine, and brushed my lips at the spot where his lips met his cheek. His response was immediate and encouraging. His hands gripped my hips, and he put his mouth on mine in a way that pushed friendship to the back of both our minds. At first, his tongue was hot and teasing, then sweet and gentle. His kisses melted into a smile when the cheering interrupted us.
He and Nick stayed to help clean when everyone else left, and we sat at our kitchen table talking until the sun came up. It felt like a date, maybe the first real one I’d been on since I’d moved to Atlanta, and when Nick said he had to go, Wade handed me his phone.
“Can I…?”
My fingers were already typing my name and number.
It was hit or miss for the next month. Classes started for me, and Wade worked a funky swing shift. We talked a few times and had dinner once or twice. The third time we went out, I invited him back to my place.
It was the best sex I’d had in years. He paid attention to me and wanted to make me feel good. Morning brought the panic, but he handled it well, with an easy goodbye kiss and simple words.
“I’ll call you later.”
And he did.
For a while, it was good.
Then February came.
And, with it, a storm.
I didn’t even realize it until after class on a random Wednesday. The rain was coming down in sheets, my clothes were soaked, and my shoes were waterlogged. All I wanted was a hot shower and leftover fried rice. When I got to my building, I paused under the awning to close my umbrella and came face to face with Oliver.
For a moment, I thought he was a ghost. It didn’t make sense for him to be standing outside my apartment when I hadn’t spoken to him in over six years. He didn’t say anything, just stared with his lips parted and his brow drawn.
I kept walking.
I pushed open the door, walked into the lobby, and jabbed the button for the elevator. The doors opened, and I rushed in, immediately pushing the button to close them behind me.
“It wasn’t him,” I said aloud.
In the shower, I worked even harder to convince myself. “Couldn’t be.”
And when Wren came home that night, I asked her, “Did you see him? Was Oliver out there?”
She looked at me like I was high and shook her head. “It’s storming and freezing out there. No one’s outside, Violet.”
By the next morning, I’d convinced myself I’d imagined the whole thing, but when I got home from work that night, there he was again. I didn’t stop to look at him, and at my request, Wade came over to watch the Hawks game at my place instead of meeting our friends at a sports pub.
He stayed late, long after the game ended, but I didn’t walk him out, just in case.
On the third night, Oliver spoke as I hurried by him.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said. Curiosity stopped me in my tracks—or maybe it was the sound of his voice after so many years—but I didn’t turn around. “I’d like to talk to you, if you’ll let me. I promise it won’t take long.”
“Since when do you make promises?” I asked without moving.
“Five minutes, Violet. Please give me five minutes. I’ll get on my plane to New Orleans tomorrow, and you won’t ever have to see me again.”
Hundreds of things ran through my mind in an instant.
Questions.
Memories.
An entirely different life.
I didn’t want him in my space, so I turned around and waved at the coffee shop down the block. He smiled, but it wasn’t the cocky one I remembered. It almost looked like relief, but that wasn’t his style.
We walked next to each other with at least a foot between us, and he opened the door for me but stood behind it to keep his distance. A booth felt too intimate, so I took a seat on one of the stools at the counter. I knew it was a mistake the moment he sat down next to me. A table between us would’ve been better. Two states between us would’ve been ideal.
My favorite server, Dale, was working that evening, and he walked over to us almost immediately. “Soup?” he asked, knowing it was my norm for that time of year.
“No, thanks,” I replied. “Just coffee. I won’t be here long enough for soup.”
Dale looked from me to Oliver.
“Coffee,” Oliver said. He waited until Dale had walked away to speak again. “Since I seem to have a time limit, I guess I should start talking.” It earned him my undivided attention for the first time that day and the coldest glare I could muster. “Right.” His hands clapped his thighs, and he rubbed the indigo denim several times with his palms. “I hurt a lot of people, and I know—or, at least, I think—I probably hurt you the worst.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, nodding and watching Dale approach with our mugs. “Rehab again?”
“No.” Ignoring the creamer and packets of sweetener, he lifted the cup to his mouth. After Dale walked away, he continued. “I’ve been clean for over a year.”
The pride in his voice killed the spiteful words that had been on th
e tip of my tongue. “That’s good,” I said.
“Are you a professor, yet?” he asked.
“No, not yet. I’ve been going to school nonstop, year-round, since I started, and I still have two more years. I’ve taught a few classes, though.”
“That’s great,” he said. “Really great. Have you ever thought of coming home when you’re done?”
My spoon banged against the inside of my cup as I stirred in sugar. “I am home.”
I saw his hand move out of the corner of my eye, and I flinched a moment before it landed on mine. “Okay. I didn’t mean… I just… Fuck. I was trying to make conversation. That’s it.”
“What do you want?” There was a time and a place for manners, but my nerves were shot, and all I wanted was to be anywhere but next to Oliver.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I want you to know that I’m sorry.”
It was a different tune than “apologies don’t mean shit.”
I sucked down my coffee as quickly as possible, trying to end the unexpected meeting. He fidgeted with the salt and pepper shakers, moving them to the edge of the counter. He looked much older than the twenty-five years he’d have under his belt the following month.
“You’re sorry,” I repeated.
He nodded and finally looked up at me. “I am.”
“Fine.”
“‘Fine’?”
“I’m fine. I haven’t thought about any of that for years. It’s nice that you’re sorry, but it’s not necessary.” I stood then and reached for my purse. “Thank you for the coffee.”
He opened his wallet to take out cash, and the image of a little boy with hair the color of dirty straw stared back from behind a plastic photo insert.
“Who’s that?” I heard myself ask.
A wide, face-splitting smile I’d never seen curved Oliver’s lips in happiness. He lifted the wallet to give me a closer look at a tiny version of the man sitting next to me. “This is my son, Gabriel.”
Until that moment, I’d thought Oliver was done breaking my heart, but memories are relentless.
“I’m no one’s fucking daddy.”
Only he was. Someone was good enough. The smiling baby in the picture was good enough. It was me that wasn’t, and that reminder hurt as much as the initial lesson had.
