by Laura Miller
Iva
I hear the doorbell ring, and my heart nearly jumps out of my chest. I could barely sleep last night. The boy who haunted my dreams for most of my life suddenly shows back up in my life, and sleeping—or dreaming—no longer seems necessary.
Another chime rings through the hallway. There’s glass on either side of the front door, but the glass is covered by a curtain. I pull the curtain back and see that it’s Berlin. Then I suck in a deep breath and pull open the door.
“Hi,” he says. He looks rested ... and happy.
“Hi.”
I notice his eyes roam down to my chest. “I remember when I was a Terrapin.”
I look down and see the big turtle stretched across my tee shirt. Above the turtle are the words: Franklin County High.
“Anyway, these are for you,” he says.
He holds out a bouquet of roses.
“Yellow roses,” he says, “like the ones from your house in ...”
“In Sweet Home,” I finish the sentence for him, remembering the flowers that lined the little iron fence.
I take the bouquet. I can’t say I’m surprised he remembered them. The Berlin Elliot I knew was nothing if not observant. But the fact that he thought to bring them to me makes my heart melt a little.
I breathe in their soft, flowery scent, and it instantly brings me home. I almost forget that there’s a part of me that still hates this man. Though, it’s funny how the years have somehow all but erased that hurt. It’s still there. It’s still there, as much as a knife would be if you just kept it festering in your flesh. But I think I also just kind of got used to it being there. And now, it’s more a part of me than I would like to admit. I hate him, but I also love him because the fact remains: I can’t unlove him.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Well, you’re welcome.” He bobs his head once. “Every time I see yellow roses, I think of you.”
I steadily inhale. There are a million questions in that one breath—a million questions that I’ll have to wait to get answered ... for now.
“You look the same,” he says, regaining my attention. “I mean, grown up, but the same.”
I drop my eyes to the old, hardwood floor at my feet. This moment is weird. I never imagined I would see him again, much less be standing in the same room with him—getting ready to spend an afternoon with him.
“Is that a good thing?” I ask, peeking back up.
He nods.
I smile and then open the door wider.
“You can come in. I just have to get my shoes from upstairs.”
He steps inside, and when I leave for the stairs, he makes his way to the kitchen. I stop and watch him. I’m a little taken aback by how comfortable he seems.
“Natalie or Susan here?” he asks.
“No, they’re both at work.”
He stops and looks back at me.
“What?” he asks. He must notice my curious look.
I shrug. “It’s just, you know my aunt on a first-name basis.”
A crooked grin slides up his face. “Yeah, I know your mom on a first-name basis, too.”
“Yeah,” I say, my focus dropping to the floor momentarily. “It’s just ...”
“I know,” he says, “I don’t know how we missed each other.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t either.”
His eyes stay in mine, until I purposefully drop my gaze, reminding myself that he’s the reason I haven’t seen him in seven years.
“I’ll just go get my shoes.” I point upstairs.
“Okay,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “I’ll just be down here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The way he says his last words makes me pause. They’re raw. They’re uncensored. And if I’m not mistaken, they’re not about him staying in the kitchen.
I start to turn, but then I stop. And I look back at him. He doesn’t notice me. I watch him pull out a can of soda from the refrigerator. For a moment, my mind is transported back to Sweet Home. I remember him doing that same thing at my house—when my daddy wasn’t home. And in that moment, from somewhere deep inside, I feel this pang of jealousy. Natalie has had this—him—for the last handful of years—and I haven’t.
Suddenly, I notice his eyes smiling at me from over his soda can.
I think I jump, but I’m not sure if I actually do. I am immediately embarrassed, though. I didn’t even realize I was staring ... or more so, that he had noticed.
I toss my attention to the carpet and smile, awkwardly. Meanwhile, he sets the can down and lets go of a wild grin. And with that, I turn and head up the stairs with the yellow roses still in hand.
I get my tennis shoes on and head back downstairs. But when I reach the bottom stair, I catch Berlin sitting at the kitchen table. His attention is somewhere beyond the glass sliding door. He doesn’t notice me, but I’m happy he doesn’t. It gives me some time to evaluate what I’m walking into.
He’s got a scar on his right cheek. It’s new. For a second, I wonder how it got there. He also has a scar on his arm—from his dirt bike accident. It happened when he was thirteen. He was going too fast, and he wanted to turn, but the bike didn’t. He flew off and landed in the emergency room. I guess they are a little dangerous, after all.
And I remember that hair. Although it’s much shorter now, I remember how I used to run my fingers through those wavy locks. He would rest his head in my lap and stare up at the stars, and I’d stare at him and dream of the life we were going to have together. And as my fingers weaved a thoughtful web, I just remember feeling this need to love and care for this boy for as long as I knew how. I had never felt that way before. And I just remember thinking that I could never love someone more than I loved him. And so far, I haven’t.
His eyes are still planted on something outside that door, while my gaze slowly grazes over his face. He has facial hair now. The boy I knew only pretended to shave. For a moment, I wonder how different his face would feel if I were to run my hand along his jaw—just like I used to.
The thought is almost too much. I clear my throat to get his attention ... or to regain my own—I’m not sure.
He turns, and instantly, I feel the weight of his stare.
“I’m ready,” I say.
His eyes linger on me for longer than they should, but then before I can say anything else, he’s up and on his feet. “All right, then.”
He takes his soda with him, and when he gets to the front door, he opens it and gestures toward the porch.
“You look the same, too,” I say, making my way through the door’s frame.
“What?” He pulls the door closed behind us.
“You look the same,” I say, turning back. “I mean, not exactly the same, but the minute I saw you, I knew it was you. You look how I pictured you would look.”
His curious eyes cut to mine. “You’ve pictured me?”
I shake my head, as if to scold him.
“Do you picture me a lot?” he asks.
I’ve probably thought about him more than I’d like to admit in the last seven years. But I won’t tell him that. Instead, I just give him a look that says he’s pressing his luck.
He playfully grabs at his heart, and it makes me laugh.
“When I was younger,” I say, “I would always imagine what both of us would look like when we were all grown up. ... You never did that?”
“Umm,” he hums, as if he’s thinking about it.
“You mean you never once wondered what I would look like all grown up?” I interject.
He stops on the sidewalk and looks up into the pale blue sky before leveling his eyes on me. “No.”
“No?”
“Nope. I think I just thought you’d always look like you. ... And you do. You look like Iva Sophia Scott, age twenty-two and a half. Beautiful, as always.”
I try not to blush. Meanwhile, he walks past me and opens the passenger-side door to his truck.
I don’t even attempt any words after th
at, as I climb in and wait for him to get in, too. And when he does, he turns the ignition, and an old country song comes over the radio. As fate would have it, it’s a song we used to always sing together. He looks up at me and smiles. It’s enough to know he remembers, too.
But after that, he turns the music down and starts driving.
“What ever happened to the Chevelle?” I ask.
“I’ve still got her. But I only take her out on special occasions now. No sense in puttin’ the miles on her.”
I think about the cherry-red car for a second and how much fun we had in it. And for some reason, I get a tiny bit sad thinking about not ever having the chance to ride in it again.
“I did drive by your house, you know,” he says. His voice is sober now, and suddenly, he has my full attention.
“What?”
He nods. “Your house in Sweet Home.”
“You drove all the way back to Sweet Home just to drive by my house?”
He shakes his head. “No, I drove all the way back to Sweet Home ... just to see you.”
I look down at the floor. “Everybody eventually leaves Sweet Home.”
“Where did you go?”
“Chandler,” I say.
He nods once more.
“When?” I ask.
“What?”
“When did you drive back there?”
“The day I got my license. That was the plan, right?”
I swallow down the lump growing in my throat, and I force my attention outside the window. “You stopped calling. I didn’t realize there was still a plan.”
The cab of the truck grows eerily quiet then, but I don’t dare tear my stare away from that window.
“Iva?”
I don’t want to look at him.
“Iva?” This time, my name comes even softer off his lips. And this time, I feel my eyes slowly gravitating toward him.
“You know why I stopped calling, right?”
I don’t say a word, but I keep my eyes on him.
“Did you think I just stopped calling?” he asks.
I let several moments tick away in silence, while I gather up the courage to ask him the question I’ve been wanting to ask him for seven years now.
“Why?” I ask. “Why did I never hear from you again?”
His glance cuts to me, and then he breathes out a heavy sigh and returns his stare to the road ahead of us.
What had I missed? Why would he think I would know?
All of a sudden, there’s a pained expression on his face. “Your dad answered the phone one night.”
My heart drops in my chest.
“He told me to stop calling you.”
“What?” My word comes out sounding a little broken and a little angry, and probably because it is.
He nods. “It was a Tuesday—a couple months after I had left.”
I laugh once, not because it’s funny, but because I can’t believe that was the reason we lost touch. I stare at the road past the windshield. Little yellow line after little yellow line keeps disappearing under the truck.
“But I guess,” he says, “looking back, I understand why he did it. I wasn’t really the type any daddy would want his fifteen-year-old daughter hanging around.”
I push back the tears threatening to fall. I had hated him—this man now sitting beside me—for so long. I had both loved him ... and hated him ... for so long.
His words tear at my heart. I had no idea Daddy had done that. I could have suspected something like that, but for some reason, I never did—not in the least bit. And I was so hurt that he stopped calling and answering my phone calls that one day, I just turned that part of me off. I stopped waiting for him. And every time I found myself thinking about him, I told myself he wasn’t worth it. And as it turns out, I ended up telling myself that he wasn’t worth it every day since the day he left.
“So, he told you to stop, and that was it?” I ask.
His eyes land on me, before he shifts his concentration back to the road.
“You never cared about what he did or didn’t like before that,” I say. “Why did that stop you?”
“Well, to be honest, it didn’t,” he says. “I called you three more times after that. And each time, he answered. And the last time, he threatened to get a restraining order if he ever caught me talking to you again. And that scared me a little because I thought if that happened then I would for sure never have a shot at seeing you again. So, I did what he told me to do. And that hurt like hell.” He looks over at me and finds my eyes. “Iva, it hurt like hell.”
I have to tell myself to breathe.
“But the day I got my license,” he goes on, “I was there, at your house. The only problem, of course, was that you weren’t.”
All my focus dashes to the window and to the world rushing past us. He’s driving too fast, but then again, what’s new?
I’m at a loss for words. And all that hate ... All that hate I had stored up for him—it has nowhere to go now. For seven years, it ran through my veins. For seven, long years, it coursed through my blood, giving me a reason to move on from that little boy I used to love.
But now, I feel all that hate leaving my body, dripping from my fingertips. And with it, I feel this strong urge to press it back into my skin, just so I’ll still have a reason not to love him.
“I just don’t understand why he didn’t like you so much,” I say.
He takes his eyes off the road. “I think it was my cool, teenage swagger and my sexy, long hair.”
I try to laugh, but it hurts too much.
It’s quiet again after that, and all I can hear is the soft hum of another old country song pouring out of the speakers.
I don’t hate Daddy.
And I no longer hate Berlin.
Now, I just blame myself.
Maybe there was something I could have done to change my daddy’s opinion of him. I could have tried harder. I was just so busy being with Berlin that I didn’t think to try.
I look over at him. His focus has returned to the road. I study the way his jaw moves with every thought—the way it always did. He’s like riding a bike for the first time in years. It feels weird and a little awkward, but it all comes back. Gradually, I’m remembering him—piece by piece.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” I say.
His eyes wander back to mine. “No, it wasn’t your fault. Time just got in the way of us, I guess.”
His last comment strikes a cord in me, somewhere deep inside. I inhale sharply and then force my attention out the window again.
“I cried for three days straight,” I say.
I don’t look his way, but I can tell he looks at me.
“When you didn’t call, I cried for three days,” I say.
“But then that fourth day ... you didn’t,” he says.
My eyes slowly drift back to him.
“And then you went to high school,” he goes on. “And you probably had a good, respectable high school boyfriend with a good haircut and a nice Carhartt jacket. And your daddy liked him. And then you went to college, and you did well, I’m assuming because I know you and because, well, you’re about to graduate.” He pauses. “And I’m assuming that now you’re probably involved with a guy who has promised you that he can give you a safe, suitable life.”
He stops, and I feel my forehead fill with little wrinkles. He’s wearing a challenging stare now that juggles both me and the road.
“Does a suitable life not sit well with you?” he asks.
I clear my throat and sit back in my seat, while I force my eyes straight ahead.
“I didn’t think so,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.
“It wouldn’t with me, either,” he adds.
I look over at him, and the first thing I notice is that daring smile hanging off his lips. I don’t know what to think of it. I let it go, though, and I turn my focus to the window and to the grassy breaks in the row of little white farmhouses, instead.
“So, you do have a boyfriend then?” he asks. There’s a hint of hesitation in his voice, but he hides it well.
“If I did, I don’t think he’d take too kindly to you showing up with roses ... or whisking me away to some place out in the middle of nowhere.” I never thought to ask where we’re going or even what he has planned for us today.
He studies me before letting go of a mischievous grin.
“Channing, Kansas is not the middle of nowhere, Miss Scott.”
“No?”
“No,” he confirms. “The middle of Nowhere is actually in southwest Oklahoma.”
“What?” I’m suddenly intrigued with his babbling.
“Nowhere, Oklahoma. You’ve never heard of it?”
I can’t even hide my amusement. “How do you even know that?”
“Well, when you not only live in Channing, Kansas, but you’re also from a string of little towns just like Channing, Kansas, you learn you’ve gotta have a comeback for the inevitable small-town joke.”
A laugh unexpectedly falls from my lips.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” he says, glancing over at me.
Before I can say anything, he’s spinning the wheel and making a U-turn in the middle of the highway. I can smell the chemical scent of burnt rubber hanging in the air.
“Let’s take the bike, instead. You can drive.”
I grip the oh-shit handle and study his face. And after only a few seconds, I know that he’s serious. “Berlin, no.” I shake my head. “I can’t drive it. It’s been years. The last one I drove was your daddy’s.”
“Nooo,” he says, forcing his hand to his heart. “Say it isn’t so.”
He takes another sharp turn, and I grip the handle harder. I had almost forgotten what it’s like to ride with Berlin Elliot.
He opens my door, and I slide out of his truck. We’re at the same barn we were at last night. But this time, I notice there’s a small shed off to the side.
“I didn’t know your grandparents had a farm,” I say, eyeing the big, red barn.
“They didn’t—not when I knew you, anyway,” he says. “They bought it back a couple years ago. Like I said, my dad grew up here. It means a lot to him.” He runs his fingers over his hair. “It was a little bit of an ordeal. The guy who owned it was dead set on keeping it.” He pauses for a moment—long enough for me to take notice. “But everybody’s got a price.”
