by Nan Lowe
I stood and took a step toward the door. “I’m going to…” I used my thumb to motion over my shoulder, and I turned and left him sitting there.
It was raining again, and by the time I made it back to my building, I was soaked. Oliver caught my arm before I could reach for the door.
“Don’t!” I shook him off and whirled to face him. “You don’t get to do that anymore!”
He held both hands up in front of him in surrender. “Whoa. I’m sorry! I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
“Yes, you did. You had to know that rehashing this shit would hurt me. You knew, and you didn’t care.”
“That’s not true!”
I laughed long and loud. “What do you know about truth?”
He lowered his hands and took a small step in my direction. “I know that I still think about you. I remember how pretty and peaceful you were that day in the cemetery. It’s been six fucking years since I’ve seen you in person, and I still wake up and hate myself in the middle of the goddamn night every time I dream about you.” He inched closer. “I love you, and I let you believe I didn’t, and I hate myself for that.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m me.” The tips of his fingers touched my cheek.
The dark circles beneath his eyes were more pronounced than they’d been in high school, and his eyes were tired. He was a complete stranger in Oliver’s skin, saying everything I’d once wanted to hear. His lips moved against the skin of my temple and down my face to my mouth. He was the sweet boy again, the one who’d kissed me softly under a canopy of oak leaves so many years before.
Something ignited then. It was long enough to get upstairs and into my apartment with him pawing at my shirt in the elevator and tossing it on the floor next to my bed in my room. His body was different. His abs were more toned, but his arms were less firm than I remembered. He scowled when I handed him a condom, but he didn’t argue.
He tried harder than he ever had as a teen, but something had shifted. I kissed him harder and used my teeth and nails to try to fan the initial flame. He’d always been good at fucking, and that night was no different. He pulled my leg up over the crook of his elbow and closed his eyes. I had to close mine, too, but only because I couldn’t stand to look at him.
When it was over, I grabbed a t-shirt from my closet and shimmied into my underwear as he took care of business in the bathroom. We passed as he was walking out and I was going in, and I couldn’t think of any words to say to him. It was cowardly, but I stayed in there, with the door locked, for almost half an hour. I probably would’ve stayed in there all night, but someone knocked on my apartment door.
I threw open the door of the bathroom at the same time Oliver stepped into the hall. “Go,” I said, pointing to my room behind him. He took a step back, and I walked to the door. Familiar hazel eyes stared back through the peephole.
“Hang on!” I called out over my shoulder as I power-walked down the hall and back to the bathroom.
My ugly, pale blue robe covered the evidence, and I tried to comb my hair with my fingers on my way back to the door. Several deep breaths helped me center the panic that was churning in my chest when I opened it and spoke.
“Wade.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Wade…” I take a step forward, and he turns, though it’s not in time to hide the hurt in his eyes and all over his face.
Everything I love is slipping through my fingers, and there’s no way to stop it. I finished us before we even really started.
He’ll leave, and I’ll die.
I’ll feel like it, anyway.
I try again. “Wade, please.”
His back is nice, but I’ve never had to stare at it this long before. It’s unnerving. His body is tense, and his head is tilted forward.
“Four years,” he says, still and calm. “And Jesus… That’s why…” I can’t say anything. There’s nothing. My world implodes quietly as he pieces things together. “He was in your fucking apartment.”
“I’m sorry.”
He flinches, almost leaping away, when my hand grazes his back. He turns, eyes flashing. “Don’t.”
“Please…”
His eyes water, something I’ve never seen before, and I know nothing will ever hurt more than this, than hurting him. “Four years,” he says again. “And you never said a word.” He points to the book on the bed. “The crying? What? You miss that fucker?”
“No.”
“But you’ll cry over him. It’s been ten years, and you’re still letting him do it.”
He walks out of our room, but I stand frozen. The scrape of Wade’s keys on the counter helps motivate me, and I catch him at the door with his jacket in hand.
“Don’t do this,” I say.
“I have an interview.” He looks at his watch. “And you have to get to the airport. I already called Uber for you.” He turns the knob and steps out into the hall.
“I love you.”
His step falters, and he turns to face me. Using those words against him when I’ve never had the nerve to give them freely before is a low blow, but if I never see him again, I want him to know it’s him I love.
And when I least deserve it, he does what Oliver never could and says, “I love you, too.” He puts his palm on the back of my neck and hugs me close enough to kiss the side of my head.
Then he’s gone, through the stairwell door at the end of the hall and out of sight. An insane need to follow him surges momentarily, but my gut knows better.
He’ll come back.
No, he won’t.
I have to force myself to change clothes and brush my teeth. All the while, our unmade bed taunts me with memories from last night. Knowing it might not be mine to carry much longer, the ring on my finger feels heavier.
I make the mistake of turning on my phone during the ride to the airport. It pings every few minutes with Facebook alerts. The lines at the airport are predictably long, and despite Christmas music pouring through the building over loud speakers, there’s no spirit or joy in the air. There’s a lot of pushing and cursing instead.
It takes an hour to check my bag and get through the hurdles at the security checkpoint. After that, I wander through the terminal to my gate without even stopping for coffee. A kind gate agent walks over to me when I’m the last one left in the lobby area after everyone else has boarded.
“Final call to New Orleans,” she says, pushing her gray-blonde hair behind her ear. “Are you on this flight?”
I nod and stand. The jetway’s deserted, and the flight attendant’s already preparing the cabin when I pass her on my way to find a seat. The last row is empty, so I take the window seat and pull the blind closed. Then I store my carry-on in the overhead bin after taking out the book Wade bought me in Savannah.
It sits in my lap, and I just stare at the headstones and full moon on the cover. My thumb pushes the band on my finger back and forth over my skin. Wade’s interview should be happening now, but I try not to think about it and how I may have ruined that, too. I don’t cry, though, or allow myself that relief. Instead, I choke quietly on panic and regret, declining the soft drink and snack the flight attendant offers mid–flight.
I’m still staring at the book in my lap, not seeing anything but Wade’s face, when the last person exits the cabin after the plane lands. I get my stuff and walk slowly down the aisle to the exit.
“Enjoy your stay in New Orleans,” the captain says from his post outside the cockpit. “Happy holidays.”
“You, too,” I manage.
Louis Armstrong pours through the loud speakers as I make my way to baggage claim. I stand in the center of the room and stare at the different luggage carousels. Out of nowhere, strong arms envelope me from behind. My brother’s scent surrounds me, and I turn quickly to tuck my face against his neck.
He holds me for a long moment before he releases me and takes a step back. The smile fades, his lips part, and his eyes scan my face. “Wha
t happened?”
Unless I want to have a meltdown in front of my family during the happiest days of my brother’s life, I have to get it together. Van doesn’t deserve for me to fuck up his world, too.
“I overslept!” I try to laugh it off. “Didn’t even have a chance to shower.”
His nose wrinkles playfully. “Ew.” The belt next to us roars to life, and my suitcase is one of the first out. Van watches me reach out to catch it.
“Where’s Corey?” I ask.
“He had to go home for work. He’ll be back Thursday, and he’s bringing his parents.”
“Ronnie will be here tomorrow, right?”
He nods and motions to the exit once I’ve retracted the handle of my bag. We walk out together, and he makes small talk about his in-laws choosing a hotel on Bourbon instead of one near my parents’ house in Uptown. It makes me think of Patricia and how excited she seemed about coming to New Orleans.
I take my phone out of my purse as we walk and check for any missed texts or calls, but there aren’t any.
Van’s white Cabriolet convertible is parked in one of the farthest spots. The top’s down, so instead of fooling with the trunk, I put my luggage in the back seat. Once Van turns out of the lot and my hair begins to whip in the wind, I wrap it around my fist and hold on for the ride.
We pass palm trees decorated with multi-colored twinkle lights, Christmas-themed yard inflatables, and nativity scenes in all shapes and sizes.
“So? How did he propose?” Van asks.
I try not to think about my insecurity and the way it pushed Wade to ask. “We were in bed.”
“Enough said.” He holds up a hand. “As pretty as he is, I don’t really want to think about that. The ring’s amazing. I love it.”
“I do, too.” My thumb rubs over it as reminder. It’s there, it’s real, and for now, it’s still mine.
“The social media announcement surprised me.”
“I got carried away.”
“I’m happy you’re happy,” he says. “Wade’s the real deal, Vi. He loves you like crazy.”
I look down at my hands in my lap and nod. “What about you?” I ask. “How’s married life?”
He laughs, and I’m surprised at the deep timbre of his voice. In some corners of my mind, he’s still seventeen, like the day I left him here in New Orleans.
“I love being married,” he says. Happiness is all over him. It’s in his eyes, his smile, and the way he’s melted into the gray leather seat. He’s completely at ease.
“Kids?” I ask.
“No, not us,” he says, laughing. “I’m perfectly happy to be Uncle Van, and Corey feels the same way. We want to travel and stay focused on our careers. At the risk of sounding like an asshole, we don’t really want to change our life to revolve around a child. You?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“What about Wade?” he asks.
“We’ve mentioned it hypothetically a few times. He’s not opposed, but we’ve never really talked specifics.” He turns onto St. Charles, and I take a deep breath. Nothing else smells like New Orleans—dirty and delicious at the same time.
My breath catches when my childhood home comes into view on Dufossat Street. Ivy hugs the porch columns, and the scents of oleander and wisteria wash over me. It takes a moment for my body to register we’ve stopped and parked. Mom’s car is in the garage, and she meets us at the door, arms outstretched to fold me into a warm hug.
“How was your flight?” she asks.
“Good.”
“Come in, come in. I want to show you the house!”
Every room is decorated minimally but beautifully. Holly and ivy line every mantle, and the regular curtains have been removed throughout the ground floor and replaced with flowing, sheer-white window treatments. The tree’s larger in person than in the pictures. It’s fuller and prettier, too.
Miss Verity’s waiting for us in the family room, sitting in a wheelchair with an old blanket covering her lap and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her face is thinner, and the veins on her hands are more pronounced than I remembered. She looks… small, fragile.
She smiles at me from across the room. “Well, come here and hug my neck. Don’t make me wait.”
I drop my stuff in the middle of the floor and take the biggest steps possible to get to her. I lean over to put my arms around her, and when her fingers caress the back of my head, the façade tumbles. Tears fall. I try to hide them, but I’ve never really been able to hide anything from Miss Verity.
“It’s all right, sugar. I’m all right.” Her voice, at least, is still strong. Her grip is, too, despite how different she looks from the way she did this time last year. Her fingers settle on the ring on my left hand, and she pulls me in for a closer look. “Beautiful,” she says. “He chose well.” She’s talking about me as well as the ring, and as good as I’ve been to Wade in the time we’ve been together, I’ve been less than honest. Her praise is hard to swallow. She raises a shaky hand to wipe the tears from my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should’ve come sooner.”
“Shush.” She shakes her head. “You have responsibilities of your own now. You can’t come running home because of a silly, little spill. You’ve got a new job at a new school, and you’re engaged. Don’t you worry about me, sugar. Are you hungry?”
My stomach turns at the thought of food. “No, ma’am, but I am tired.”
Her head tilts as she studies me. After a moment, she nods. “Of course. You must’ve been up at dawn. Why don’t you go up and nap until dinner? The next few days are going to be hectic, and you’re going to need your rest.”
“Okay.” I feel terrible leaving her, but I need to be alone for a while.
Mom follows me up the stairs to my old room. It’s been painted blue, and the walls make me feel like there should be a sailboat model on the dresser instead of a vase full of freshly cut flowers and sprigs of crape jasmine. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
“Give me your dress. I’ll steam it before Friday,” Mom says from behind me.
“I brought two,” I say. “Just in case.”
She watches me open my suitcase and take out the dresses. The green’s her favorite, of course. “This one’s lovely.” She holds it out to inspect it. “I like the black one, too, but this one… It’s seasonal, formal, and a tad vintage. It’s perfect for the reception.”
I sit on the bed next to my open suitcase and agree. “I thought so, too.”
She stops and picks up my hand, rubbing her finger over the platinum band of my ring. “I can’t believe you’re getting married. When will Wade be here?” She looks up, expecting an answer, and her smile morphs into concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what’s wrong?” She releases my hand to rest the backs of her fingers against my forehead. “Are you coming down with something?”
I shrug, stare at the ground, and lie like old times. “Maybe.”
“Why don’t you rest for a while? We can talk later when you’re feeling better.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder to guide me to my old bed. “I’m so happy you’re here. We’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” If she hears the thickness in my voice, she ignores it. I’m too tired to argue, so I lie back and close my eyes. To keep my thoughts in line, I imagine a black screen with numbers counting down backward from a hundred and drift off somewhere in the seventies.
Dreams of Wade’s warm arms and hurt eyes flicker away, and visions of a cold and unaffected Oliver replace them. Van’s on the edge of my bed, saying my name, when my eyes open again.
“Come on,” he says. “I have plans for us tonight, but Dad’s home and wants to see your face before we leave.”
Disoriented, I blink, look around, and try not to seem disappointed about being here in my old room. Waking up in my own bed a week ago would’ve been too much to ask.
“Plans?” I sit u
p and scratch my head. The scent of Miss Verity’s gumbo is heavy in the air.
“Yes, plans.” He stands and walks to the door. “Come down when you’re ready.”
A trip to the bathroom confirms my suspicions. With tangled hair and swollen, dark circles under my eyes from my breakdown earlier, I look like Hell warmed over. Splashing warm water on my face helps the nap hangover, and a little makeup makes me feel almost human.
Dad’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs, with more gray facial hair than last year. His wire-rimmed glasses sit on his head as he stands with his hands in his pockets. “There you are,” he says, smiling.
“Hey, Dad.”
We share an awkward, one-armed half-hug before making our way to the kitchen. Miss Verity’s in her chair at the table, and it’s my mother who’s serving soup and fried cornbread in ceramic bowls with handles like teacups.
“It tastes better than I remember,” I say after burning my tongue multiple times.
“I’ve been making double batches twice a week since Thanksgiving. There are several jars for you out in the freezer.” She turns her head to meet my brother’s stare. “Don’t look at me like that. There are some with your name on them, too.”
He leans sideways in his chair to kiss her cheek. “You don’t know how much I miss your gumbo,” he says.
“You don’t know how much I miss having y’all here to eat it.” She picks up her spoon, glances around the table, and nods. “This is nice. Plus, the little ones will be here tomorrow.”
My dad asks about my semester and Atlanta, but he waits until he’s cleared his plate to bring up the ring on my hand. “Congratulations,” he says, waving at the diamond with his fork.
“Thanks.”
“When’s he coming?”
I smile and repeat the same words I’ve been saying for days. “He’s scheduled to work the next few days. He was able to trade all of them but Christmas Eve. No one wants to trade that day.”
“He’ll be here Christmas Day?” Dad asks.
I’m not sure how to answer the question, so I dodge it by asking about his work and mom’s. Van rescues me as soon as we’re done eating by telling them we have plans. They wave us off and tell us to call if we’re going to be late.
