by Laura Miller
I look at him, but he keeps his stare straight ahead. And as we make a path to that little shed, a strange feeling pours over me, reminding me that we lost a lot of time. There’s a part of me that feels as if I can still predict his thoughts, but then the other part of me is just staring at this man wondering what else I don’t know.
We eventually stop in front of the shed, and he takes a small key from his keychain. And with that key, he opens the padlock and slides away the door.
“Uh-uh,” I say, once I get a good look at the massive motorcycle in front of me. “There is no way I’m driving that.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. First of all, this isn’t a that. This is a Harley. Second of all, why on God’s green earth wouldn’t you want to drive a Harley?”
“I’ll break it. Berlin, I haven’t touched a motorcycle ...”
He clears his throat. And all of a sudden, he’s giving me this look as if I should choose my words a little more wisely. I start again.
“I haven’t touched a Harley in my life.”
“That’s better.” He smiles, approvingly.
“But come on,” he says. “If you know how to drive a bike, you know how to drive a Harley. Let’s go.”
“Don’t I need a special license?”
He pushes his lips to one side. “Nah.”
I laugh. “That’s comforting.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a little better at sweet-talking than I used to be.”
I smile at him. Then, I look up to the low-hanging ceiling of the little shed and curse my stars.
“Come on.” He hops on the bike and straddles the back portion of the seat, while patting the spot in front of him. “Take me for a ride, Miss Scott.”
I stare into his eyes, and all I can think of is being fifteen and riding on the back of his bike, trying to chase the sun and get home before Momma and Daddy realized I was gone. Then I feel my chest expand with a breath, and shortly after, I force out a protesting sigh. But he just smiles back at me.
“Fine,” I say, climbing on. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He laughs and hands me a helmet. I put it on and start the bike just like he taught me to do on his daddy’s motorcycle so many years ago. I’m absolutely shocked I still remember. And as I ease off the clutch, we jump forward, but it’s not as bad as I pictured it could be. I don’t run into the side of the shed. I don’t run us into the barn or a tree. I stay on the little graveled path, and then I ease us onto the county road. I go slow at first, but then as it comes back to me, I go a little faster, and a little faster. I had forgotten how fun this is.
“See, once you learn, you never forget,” I hear him yell over the engine. “And once you get a taste of it, you always want more.”
He leans in behind me and gently squeezes my thigh. His touch sends a shiver through my body.
That always worked on me.
“You hungry?” he asks.
I nod my head, and the big helmet nods with it.
“Let’s go into town first,” he yells, pointing to the right.
I nod again and lean to the right before feeling the smooth pavement under the wheels, as we leave the gravel road.
I follow Berlin’s directions and pull into a parking spot right in front of a little diner with red awnings shading its big, front windows.
“How was that?” he asks, taking off his helmet.
“Not so bad,” I say, after I’ve got mine off, too.
“Not so bad,” he repeats. “I know you liked that. You always hide your cards.”
“What?”
“You hide your cards. You’ve always done it.”
“I ... don’t hi ...”
Our eyes meet, and it makes me stop.
“Like that very first day,” he says, “that day I sat next to you on the bus. You acted like you didn’t like me sitting there.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t like you sitting there.”
He keeps his eyes in mine. He’s got a knowing, little grin on his face. I would hate to say he was right, so I don’t. Instead, I push past him and walk to the door of the restaurant. He follows close behind.
We sit down in a corner booth, and a girl, maybe a little younger than us, comes to our table wearing a black apron. The girl looks like someone, and Berlin seems to know her well. She smiles at Berlin and takes a long look at me.
“You look different, Berlin,” she says, eyeing him again.
He runs his hand along his jaw line. “Must be the shadow,” he says, winking at me.
The girl narrows her stare at him. Then without saying another word, she flips up a page from her little pad and takes our orders.
“Mary, you still got those banana milkshakes?” Berlin asks her.
The girl nods. “Yep.”
“Good, we’ll take two of those, too.”
“All right,” she says, spinning around. She heads back toward the kitchen, just as my eyes find Berlin’s.
“Banana shakes?”
“Yeah, your favorite flavor, right?”
I just smile at him.
“You know her?” I ask, gesturing toward the girl, now taking an order at another table.
He bobs his head once. “Isaac’s sister.”
“Oh,” I say. “That makes sense. They look a lot alike.”
“Yeah,” he says, chuckling, “they do.”
“So, why did you leave Sweet Home?” he asks.
I sit back in the padded seat. “That last flood. Daddy called it quits after that—farming in the river bottoms, anyway.”
He nods, as if he might have suspected that.
“We bought some land far away from the river and never looked back.”
He takes a drink from his glass. Meanwhile, I plant one elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand.
“I still can’t believe you came back—just like we planned,” I say.
He methodically sets down the glass. “Yeah, but the thing is, I hadn’t planned you wouldn’t be there.”
Without even thinking, I let go of a sigh. “Yeah, me neither.”
I watch him fidget with the straw in his water.
“And you came even though my daddy said not to call anymore.”
“He said not to call. He never said anything about not stopping by.”
A wide smile crawls across his face.
“What would have been different if I had been there?” I ask.
He lifts his shoulders and then lets them fall. “Maybe everything.”
Those two words take the air right out of my lungs. And I let the next several moments just fall silently to the old table’s hard surface between us.
“I hated you for a long time,” I say.
He takes a breath and then nods. “I believe that. And I’m sorry. I should have done more. I wish I would have.”
“No,” I say. “You were just a kid. And if my daddy would have threatened me that way, I would have done the same. I just thought ...”
“That I stopped calling because I wanted to?” he finishes.
I timidly lift one shoulder.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Iva, if you only knew.”
My eyes find an anchor in his. There’s a lot being left unsaid between our stares, but then again, there’s also a lifetime of words being silently uttered, all at the same time. But they’re all jumbled up, and I can’t tell one from the other. And after a little while, I’m forced to give up.
I drop my gaze. “So, can you tell me what you do now?” I ask, sitting back again.
He pushes his glass more to the center of the table and sits back in the booth. “I drive.”
“You drive?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Okay. Like ... a bus? Like a tractor trailer?”
“No, like, uh ...” He stops, as if he’s thinking. “You know what? I’ll just show you.”
I give him a puzzled look.
“So mysterious,” I sing.
He lowers his head and laug
hs to himself. “So, what about you? Tell me about school.”
“Um, well, I graduate in May with a degree in fine arts.”
“And you still paint ... and draw?”
I nod. “I do.”
Isaac’s sister stops at the table and places our burgers, fries and milkshakes in front of us. We thank her, and Berlin talks to her about Isaac for a minute. The way they talk, it’s almost as if Berlin is her older brother. I’ve never seen him this way. It warms my heart a little.
“How’s your sister?” I ask, when the girl leaves. I know I hadn’t finished telling him about me, but I was anxious to change the subject.
“Elin’s good. Married. ... Was married. She’s now divorced and has two kids.”
I nod. It’s hard to picture Elin married with kids. It’s even harder to picture her divorced. I think I always had this story made up in my mind about her. In my head, she was always going to be a model and live in New York City and never marry but have hundreds of men who liked her. Miss America.
“Her kids are great,” he goes on, tearing me out of my own thoughts. “One’s four, and one’s five. They can be little shit-stirrers sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade ‘em for a lighthouse in the woods.”
I give him a knowing look. Back in Sweet Home, there was an eccentric old man who built a lighthouse in the only wooded area there was, south of town. Everyone called him Mr. Keeper. He mostly kept to himself, except for one day out of the year when he’d come into town and he’d pass out handwritten flyers about the history of lighthouses. People didn’t understand him, but after a while, he just kind of morphed into the town’s woodwork. And soon, he was as ordinary as the mailman. The only other person in town that could have matched Mr. Keeper was Claire Blanch. She used to walk a stuffed cat named Juniper on a leash down Market Street. I always thought she and Mr. Keeper would have made a good couple. I don’t think that ever happened, though.
“But,” I say, “the real question is: Would you trade ‘em for a stuffed cat named Juniper?”
Berlin laughs out loud. “Iva Scott, I do believe your small town is coming out.”
I smile to myself and take a sip of my milkshake. I’m happy he remembers. Then again, who could forget Miss Blanch and Juniper? Though, I do have to admit, it’s a little weird hearing him talk about kids. That wild boy from Sweet Home actually did grow up. For a second, I mourn the loss of that crazy teenager, who was going to rule the world behind the wheel of his cherry-red Chevelle.
“Hey, do you still have McMarbles?” he asks.
I swallow down the ice cream and look up at him.
“McMarbles?”
“Yeah.”
“Berlin, McMarbles would be, like, twenty-five years old.”
He shrugs his shoulders and gives me a sad look.
I shake my head. “McMarbles passed away during my senior year of high school.”
“Oh,” he sighs. He seems sincerely broken up about it.
“But in his last breath, he wanted me to tell you that he loved you and that he still loved your leather jacket.”
He laughs. “That cat did love me. And he loved that jacket. What can I say? He had good taste.”
I sit back and cross my arms over my chest.
“What?” he asks.
“He had a taste for something, but it wasn’t your jacket.”
“What? No. No,” he repeats, moving his head back and forth. “I would never ... do that.”
I keep my eyes on him.
“No, I only put catnip in the pocket one time.”
I nod once, but I’m careful to keep a serious face.
“Okay, maybe twice.”
I clear my throat.
“It was only because you loved that damn cat so much. And I thought if McMarbles liked me, then you would like me, too.”
My hand goes to my mouth to try and cover my smile.
“I was right, though. You liked me because McMarbles liked me. Right?”
“Well,” I say, “it didn’t hurt.”
“But McMarbles wasn’t the only reason you liked me.”
“No?”
“Nah, not even close.”
“Was it the fast car and the dirt bike?” I ask.
“Yeah, that, and my awesome collection of ...”
“Oh, my gosh,” I say, cutting him off. “Your Troll dolls.” I shake my head. “Why did we like those ugly things so much?”
“I literally have no idea,” he says, his voice breaking into laughter.
“But they weren’t yours,” I say.
“Yeah, but Elin didn’t miss ‘em.”
My stare instantly shoots from my fries to him. “You’re drunk. I remember that day like it was yesterday.”
It looks as if he’s thinking, and then he erupts into more laughter. And I know he remembers.
“She stomped all over the house looking for them,” I say. “And there we were, hiding with all those stupid dolls in the back of your closet.”
“She never did find those damn things,” he says.
“What? Where are they?”
“Still in a shoe box in the back of my closet.”
I give him a knowing look.
“Okay, fine, they’re in four shoe boxes in the back of my closet.”
“I can’t, Berlin.”
“She doesn’t even miss ‘em,” he says. “Now, anyway,” he corrects.
I only stop laughing when Isaac’s sister comes back to give us the check.
“I know what it is,” the girl says, eyeing up Berlin. “I know what that new look on you is all about.”
Berlin takes a long look at me, and then he rests his eyes back on the girl. “Okay, Mary. Go ahead. What is it?”
She takes the pen she’s holding and starts chewing on the cap. “You’ve got that same look that I get when I finally find something that I’ve lost.”
Berlin’s eyes don’t leave the girl for nearly three, breathless seconds. But then, he smiles, and his gaze gradually falls back on me.
“I think you just might be right about that, Mary,” he says.
Mary smiles and sets the check on the table, before disappearing into the kitchen again. Meanwhile, Berlin keeps his lustful stare on me. It’s heavy—his eyes in mine. But then again, it’s also freeing ... and strange and wonderful. I missed him. I think I missed him more than I allowed myself to believe.
“You ready to blow this Popsicle stand, Miss Scott?”
He slides a bill into the check folder.
“Yeah,” I say, collecting myself again. I grab my helmet and scoot out of the seat. Then, I make my way to the door.
“Thanks,” I say, once we get outside, “for lunch.”
Berlin looks down at the asphalt under our feet. “Iva, I owe you a little more than just lunch.”
I get lost then in the honey-colored dream in his eyes before a car horn thrusts me back to reality.
“Here,” I say, “it was fun going down memory lane, but you should take these before my luck runs out.” I throw him the keys.
“You sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure.”
He gets on the bike and sticks the key into the ignition.
“Where are we going now?” I ask.
He looks up. “How do you feel about building a swing set?”
I nod and glance down at the ground before finding his eyes again. “I could do that.”
I watch, then, as a happy smile slowly fights its way to his chiseled face. “Good.”
I hop on the bike behind him after that and make myself comfortable.
“I should probably warn you to hang on tight,” he says. “I drive a little faster than you do.”
“Berlin, please don’t kill us.”
“Baby, have I ever killed us?”
I roll my eyes and pull on my helmet. “Don’t call me baby.”
“All right, beautiful.”
I roll my eyes for a second time, even though I know he can’t see them. And a second late
r, we rocket launch into the street.
I throw my arms around his waist, so I don’t die. I can’t say he didn’t do that on purpose. In fact, I’m pretty certain he did. But I also can’t say that I hate it ... or the way his muscles feel against my arms. Suddenly, I’m a teenager again, and it’s just me and him, and nothing else in the world matters.
I rest my head briefly against his back. And at the same time, I push away all the thoughts that remind me that, now, everything’s just a little more complicated than it was when we were fifteen.
We pull up to a house a couple miles outside of town. It’s off a gravel road and at the end of a long, white-rock driveway.
The bike comes to a stop, and I pull off my helmet. He was right about the fast part, but I should have expected that. Berlin’s only gear is fast.
“Berlin, whose house is this?”
“Elin’s,” he says, taking off his helmet.
I look at the house. It’s breathtakingly beautiful—two stories, big wraparound porch, modern, but it still has a farmhouse feel.
“What does she do?” The question just falls out of my mouth. And I only half regret it.
“Preschool teacher,” he says, knocking the kickstand into place.
I keep my eyes on the house, as my brow wrinkles. “What does her ex-husband do?”
I can tell he laughs a little.
“He manages the mechanic shop in town.”
My head automatically tilts a little more to the side. Something’s not adding up.
I slowly swing my leg over the bike, still keeping one eye trained on the big house in front of us.
“You okay?” he asks. There’s a sincerity in his voice, but somehow, I can tell he’s amused.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay.” He nods once. “Well, let’s go inside.”
We leave our helmets with the bike, and I follow him to the front porch.
“Elin’s at work,” he says, opening the door. “Kids are at their dad’s.”
I walk inside. The inside is just as beautiful as the outside. Me seven years ago wouldn’t even hesitate asking Berlin the question I so desperately want to ask him: How on earth do a teacher and a manager of a mechanic shop afford a house like this? But the me today hasn’t seen this Berlin in seven years, and the question just doesn’t seem right.
