by Laura Miller
I follow him through a great room with a vaulted ceiling. It leads into a dining area with a big, wooden table and an intricate light fixture that looks like art suspended in air. And on the back wall, there are two big, glass doors that lead outside.
And by now, it’s no surprise that the backyard is just the same as the rest of the house—beautiful. There’s a stone path, lined with purple flowers leading to a little fountain. And beyond that, there’s a big, in-ground pool and endless stripes of green grass.
“That’s where the swing set is going.” Berlin points to a grassy spot opposite the pool. There’s already lumber set out in piles.
I nod. “Okay.”
He smiles at me and then walks toward the lumber. I just follow him, noticing for the first time, the covered patio and large, stone fireplace on the other side of the fountain. Padded outdoor furniture is arranged in a circle, and there’s even a television mounted above the fireplace.
Not many places in the small towns I’ve been to look like this one. I’m kind of in awe, really. But mostly, I just want to know how—how they can afford all this.
Before I know it, I’m at the pile of wood, and I take a second to redo my hair into a messy bun.
“You really are beautiful,” he says, gaining my attention.
My eyes flicker up to his.
“I kind of feel as if I’m dreaming,” he adds.
All of a sudden, I have this crazy, strong desire to be in his arms. I loved this boy. And now, this boy whom I once loved with all my heart has turned into an attractive, beautiful-hearted man. And I’m at a loss for what to do about it.
I softly clear my throat and pick up a drill.
“So,” I say, trying to shift the mood, “swing set.”
He eyes me suspiciously for a second, but then he nods. “Swing set,” he repeats.
“Have you ever built one of these?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
I laugh.
“I was hoping you had,” he says.
His eyes rest in mine for several more seconds.
“It can’t be that hard,” I say.
I step back and look at the pile of wood.
“I printed off some instructions.” He pulls out a folded up piece of paper from his back pocket.
I try not to laugh. “Well, that’s a start.”
I walk over to him, as he unfolds the paper.
Our arms are nearly touching, while I look over his shoulder at the instructions. I can almost feel his breaths pressing into my skin. And suddenly, a chill runs up my spine.
With that, I leave him and pick up a board. And I can tell he studies me as I do it.
“Do you have screws?” I ask, trying not to look as flustered as I am. I can’t feel this way about Berlin Elliot anymore. I can’t. And I won’t.
“Yeah.” He gestures toward a little bucket near the fence line.
I walk toward the bucket.
“So, what’s next ... with you? What’s the job?” he asks, laying a board on top of another board.
Out of habit, I run my tongue along my crooked tooth at the base of my mouth. I do it when I’m nervous. “I’ll be working for this painter.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing some screws. “He’s really good. He does amazing work, and in the art world, he’s pretty well-known.” I set the board down and pick up the instructions and study them some more. “I can’t even believe I have the opportunity. I mean, I’ll be working on the side, too, probably at a coffee shop or something like that, but it’s really an opportunity of a lifetime—to work with him. I couldn’t pass it up.”
“That’s really cool.”
He sounds sincere.
“Iva Scott, the famous artist,” he sings.
I breathe out an easy smile.
“So, what are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks.
I look up from the paper, but before I can answer, he starts screwing two boards together.
When he’s done, he plants his eyes on me.
“Are you asking me out again?” I ask.
He shrugs, and I smile a little wider.
“Um, well,” I say, my smile fading, “I should probably spend some time with Natalie. That’s why I’m here, after all.”
He looks a little hurt by my comment.
“You were just a bonus,” I add.
His face glows with a soft grin. And then he lifts up a longer board.
I quickly realize he’ll need me to hold it if he’s planning on screwing it to the other ones. So, I do.
“Did you know that it’s Isaac’s birthday tomorrow?” he asks.
“Uh, no,” I say.
He drives a screw into the end of the board, and then he goes to the other side.
“And he usually spends his birthday with Natalie,” he adds.
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well ...” He gives me a quick glance before securing the long board in place. “You could always surprise her and tell her you found something else to do, so she can go hang out with him.”
I lower the board to the ground and just stare back at him with a word hanging on my lips. I don’t know what the word is exactly, so it never actually does leave my lips.
“It’s just a thought, anyway,” he adds, with a little half-smile.
“And what if I were to say that I did, in fact, have something else to do, what exactly would that something else be?”
“Well,” he says. “It could be anything you want. As long as it’s with me.”
“With you?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “Who else do you trust in this town?”
I laugh and drive a screw into another set of boards. “Well, I’m not all too certain I trust you, either.”
He stops what he’s doing and cocks his head.
“Well, I know it was a while ago, but once upon a time, you did trust me with your heart.”
My gaze goes directly to his. All of a sudden, everything seems a little more serious.
“Tell her it’s okay to go out with Isaac, that you’ve got other plans,” he says, setting the drill down.
I feel my stare floating back toward the boards that are now starting to resemble a swing set.
“I’ll show you something that will remind you of home—Sweet Home,” he adds.
Then slowly, he walks over to me and takes the drill from my hand and sets it down. Then he takes my hands in his. I let him do it. I can’t not ... let him do it. And immediately, my eyes go to our interwoven fingers.
I don’t move. I just stand there, while a flood of memories fill up my head. I’m miles away from home, but suddenly, I feel as if I’m there. And after a few moments like that, he gently lets go of my hands and then wraps his arms around me.
I breathe him in. I’ve missed this—this feeling of being in his arms. He’s more filled out and a little taller and stronger, but being in his arms feels the same—just the same as it did seven years ago. And for that moment, he’s mine again.
We stay like that for a long time. I don’t think either one of us wants to be the first to move. I think we’ve waited far too long for this reunion. And I’m almost afraid that if I let him go, he and this dream will dissolve into the afternoon sun.
“Berlin.”
We both hear the voice coming from the back door at the same time, and instantly, I pull away from his arms.
A woman stops just outside the door. I recognize her immediately. She’s the same girl I remember idolizing when I was younger. Her hair is a little blonder, and she’s a little thinner. But other than that, she’s the same girl. Miss America. But now, she looks surprised, and I don’t blame her. I’m sure it’s like seeing a ghost.
“Iva,” she says, looking straight at me.
“Hi, Elin.”
Her mouth is cocked open, and I can tell there’s a question on her lips.
I peek up at Berlin, and he just smiles at me.
<
br /> “Well, how does it look?” Berlin asks, gesturing toward the swing set and breaking the silence.
Elin rocks back on her heels. “It, um, looks great,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and letting go of a wide smile.
After that, we all just kind of stare at each other, until Elin uncrosses her arms and then points back toward the inside of the house.
“Um, I’ll just be inside,” she says. “It looks really good,” she adds, one more time, before rushing off.
When she’s gone, I catch Berlin’s fiery gaze. I’m happy he still has the same, brown, wild-boy eyes I once fell in love with.
“I think she was a little surprised to see me,” I say.
Berlin starts to nod. “But did she look more surprised than I looked yesterday?”
I laugh. “No,” I confirm, “I think you’ve got her beat.”
He bows his head briefly but then finds my eyes again. “I’ve missed you.”
My focus rushes to the grass at our feet. I contemplate saying those three little words back to him. I want to. I want to so badly, but I also don’t want to complicate this.
I take a step back toward the swing set.
He notices my hesitation. I can feel him carefully studying me.
“You don’t have to say it,” he says.
And with those words, my heart breaks for him. He knows. He knows I missed him, too. He doesn’t need to know the woman I am now to know the girl still inside of me missed him more than words can say. But even so, he deserves to hear me say it. I just don’t have the courage.
“I’m just happy you’re here,” he says. “And that your daddy raised a woman who feels at home with a drill in her hand.” He lets his eyes trail off to the swing set. “It does look pretty good,” he adds.
I follow his lead to the boards and let a handful of silent moments pass between us before I hear the sound of my own voice.
“I’ve missed you, too, you know,” I say, keeping my stare glued to the unfinished swing set.
He doesn’t say anything, and after a while, I find my eyes settling in his.
“I know, Iva Scott,” he says, nodding and smiling faintly. “I know.”
Chapter Ten
It’s the Long Hair
Thirteen Years Old
Iva
“Here’s the hammer. What do you need it for anyway? You got some Frankensteins you need to build?”
He looks at me as if I’m one letter away from loony. “My mom is hanging pictures, and she can’t find ours.”
I stick my banana Popsicle into my mouth, suck on it for a few seconds and then pop it back out, when my eye catches on something covered in the garage.
“What’s under that big tarp anyway?”
His gaze follows mine to the garage, and then just like that, it’s back on me. “You mean that big, gray one?”
“Yeahhh.” I almost say it as if it’s a question. He’s got this wild look in his eyes, all of a sudden, and I don’t know what to think of it.
“That’s where we keep the bodies.”
I accidently swallow a piece of my Popsicle, and it makes me cough. “What?”
“Yeah, you wanna see?”
He takes my hand before I can protest and leads me toward the big tarp. I drag my feet, but he’s stronger than I am, and in the end, it does no good.
“Look,” he says.
He takes a corner of the gray tarp with both hands and pulls with what looks as if it’s all his might. I know there aren’t any bodies. But what if there are? I force my hands to my face and cover my eyes, as banana Popsicle juice runs down my arm.
Meanwhile, Berlin laughs hysterically. “You believed me.”
“I did not.” I open my eyes to a cherry-red car—an old one—like the kind I’ve seen in the old car magazines my grandpa has in his attic.
“It’s mine,” he says, proudly.
I look at him. I know this car isn’t his. He can’t even drive.
“Well, it will be mine, when I get my license—that’s what Dad says,” he clarifies, before I even have a chance to question him. “He says if I can fix it, I can have it.”
I walk around the front of the car. The terrified part of me quickly melts into awe. I don’t know a thirteen-year-old who already has a car. “This is pretty cool.” I open the door and sit in the driver’s seat. “What kind is it?” I ask, licking the banana juice off my hand.
“It’s a 1972 Chevelle. It was my dad’s first car.”
I run my fingers over the steering wheel and then over the knobs to the radio. “Can I ride in it?”
He walks closer to me. “Sure. After I get it to run, you’ll be my first passenger.” He stops at the open door and leans against its frame.
“You promise?” I ask.
“As sure as the sky is blue.”
“Hey.”
I hear his voice, then I jump up and throw the Seventeen magazine down onto the bed.
“Berlin! How did you get in here?”
“I walked through the door.”
I shoot him a straight face.
“I knocked,” he says, chuckling. “The door was open. I brought the hammer back. It’s on that desk in the hall downstairs.” He points toward the stairs.
“Oh,” I say, running my fingers through my hair. I’m sure it’s matted to my head from lying down.
“Where’s your folks?”
“Oh, um, some city meeting or something.”
I watch him. He hesitates, then takes a step into my room and starts scanning the walls. He’s never been in my room. My parents have never let him. And I’ve always felt okay with that because it made me feel safe—safe to display my set of My Little Ponies proudly on the shelf in the corner, safe to throw my bra on the cedar chest at the end of my bed, safe to pin my drawings to the wall.
“Did you do all these?” he asks, his eyes now scanning the sketches.
I panic. I don’t know what to say. Do I tell him I did them? Or do I lie and say I bought them? Seconds draw out, and eventually, his attention moves to me. Where would I buy these? That’s ridiculous.
“Yeah.” I can barely hear my own word. “I did.”
“These are good.”
Most of them are of the ocean, which I’ve never been to. I’ve seen it in pictures and in photos, so mostly, it’s what I imagine it looks like. Others are drawings of people—mostly my momma and daddy and Angel and Angel’s momma and daddy.
“She looks better in your drawing,” he says.
I look up at the one his eyes are planted on.
It’s of his sister.
My heart sinks. He must think I’m a creep now. I panic even more when I think about the picture I drew of him, but then I breathe a sigh of relief, remembering it’s still safely tucked away in my sketch pad.
“I didn’t know you could do this,” he whispers to himself. “I’ve never known anyone who could do this.”
He genuinely looks as if he’s in awe, and it makes me smile. No one’s ever seen my drawings or paintings—no one except my parents.
“I want to be a famous artist,” I say. His words have given me a new air of confidence.
He smiles back at me. “It would be cool to know someone famous.”
The room is quiet, as he stops at each drawing and stares into it for a little while. I’m so nervous. I wish I could read his thoughts.
“What do you want to be?” I ask him.
“Hmm?” he hums, before taking a seat in my desk chair. I see him notice the bra on the chest. And I see that his eyes get stuck on it. It doesn’t help that it’s hot pink.
I quickly jump off the bed, grab the bra and throw it into the hamper.
Berlin just chuckles and drops his gaze. “Pink’s my new favorite color.”
I look at him with scolding eyes. “Tell me your dream, Berlin Elliot,” I say, plopping back onto the bed.
He smiles and then gradually lets it fade. “I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. �
��I just like cars and motorcycles and going fast—that’s really all I like.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s something like that out there that you could do.”
He nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Our conversation grows quiet. I watch him, trying to imagine what he’s thinking, as his eyes travel up to the ceiling.
“Sometimes, our greatest dreams are born under the stars—when they are all we have to light our path,” he says.
I just stare at him with a puzzled look on my face, and eventually, his gaze levels off and comes to rest in mine. His words sound pretty, but I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“My grandpa always says that.” He shrugs. “He has this thing about stars.”
I look up at the sporadically placed neon stars on my ceiling. Some are plain. Some have stripes. I thought the stripes made them more unique. But before I can get another thought out, I hear the screen door downstairs open, and immediately, I go into panic mode again.
“You have to leave,” I say, in a hurried whisper.
He sits up. “Where am I supposed to go?”
I look to the window.
“Iva Scott, don’t go thinking I’m gonna jump out that window. Do you know how far down that is?”
I suck in a sharp breath, taking a second to think. “Okay, just stay in here, until I give you the clear, and then you can run out downstairs.”
He nods. “Yeah, that sounds better.”
I hurry toward my bedroom door.
“Wait!” he says, stopping me.
“What?”
“What’s the sign?”
“What sign?”
“How will I know to go downstairs?” he asks.
“Oh, um ... I’ll uh ... turn on the blender.”
He pauses and makes a funny face. “O-kay.”
I turn toward the door again, but before I leave, I swivel back around. “And no touching anything ... or snooping.”
He puts two fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
I shoot him a baffled look. “I think that only works if you’re a Boy Scout,” I whisper.
“Okay, fine, Elliot’s honor, then.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can’t trust that, either.”
