The Life We Almost Had

by Laura Miller

  I covertly peek back up at the mirror. I can just barely see Officer Brad’s face, but it looks as if he’s trying not to smile. Instantly, I let go of a thankful breath.

  “Is there any way we can stop at the IGA before it closes and just get a chocolate milk?” Berlin asks.

  Oh, gosh. I swallow down a laugh before it has a chance to escape out of my mouth.

  “Please,” Berlin goes on. “I mean, my dad’s already gonna have my hide.” Berlin glances over at me. “And her dad ...” He stops. “Who the hell knows what he’s gonna do to me? Hell, you’ll probably have to show up at my house tomorrow to clean up a murder scene.” He pauses to shake his head and look down at the old, blue carpet covering the floor. And for the first time, I see a different kind of worry in his eyes.

  “So,” he goes on, “can you just grant a poor kid’s last, dying wish? I just want to make her happy tonight. And if that chocolate milk is going to make her happy, well, then ...”

  “In and out,” Officer Brad says, sternly, surprising both of us.

  I look over at Berlin. There’s a smile on his face now. In fact, you’d never know he was in the back of a police car, just a few seconds removed from detailing his own murder.

  We pull out of the gas station, leaving the bike behind. And sure as his word, a minute later, Officer Brad is pulling right up to the IGA’s doors.

  “I’m timing you, son,” Officer Brad says, looking down at the watch on his wrist.

  Berlin jumps out of the police car, even before Officer Brad can get his last word out. And I watch as he dashes through the grocery store doors.

  It’s a few long, silent, awkward moments before Officer Brad starts talking again.

  “Your daddy’s right about that boy.”

  I meet his stare in the rearview mirror, and my heart breaks a little. I know my daddy doesn’t like Berlin, but I’m not exactly sure why that is. If he really knew him, like I knew him, I know he would like him, too. And anyway, it’s my fault we got in trouble tonight.

  I sigh, and my defeated gaze falls to my folded hands in my lap. I start to fidget with the end of my tee shirt when I hear his voice again.

  “He’s wrong about him, too.”

  I look back up and into the rearview mirror, and Officer Brad is wearing the most subtle smile. And gradually but surely, a smile finds my face, too. And not even a second later, Berlin opens the back door and rushes into the car, sliding across the back seat, stopping only when his hips touch mine.

  “Did I make it?” Berlin asks.

  “No,” Officer Brad growls, pulling away from the grocery store, not even bothering to look at his watch. His stern voice is back again. But then I look into that rearview mirror, and I swear I see him smile.

  Officer Brad keeps his eyes on the road, but I turn my attention to Berlin. He looks a little disappointed, but then he hands me the milk, and all the disappointment melts away.

  “I told you we’d get it,” he whispers in my ear.

  I take the milk and shake my head.

  I think I just fell a little more in love with this boy. And for the first time, someone has actually told me that it’s okay to do that.

  I think I just fell a little more in love with this night, too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Your Place

  Present

  Berlin

  “Hey,” she says, jumping into my truck.

  “Hi.”

  She seems happy. To be honest, I really didn’t know what to expect after our conversation last night. I do hope to finish that sometime soon.

  “Where are we going?” She looks over at me, as I pull off the curb.

  “I was thinking my place.”

  Her eyes are on me fast.

  “Your place?”

  There’s a curious surprise in her voice. It’s cute. I bow my head and smile to myself. “Yeah, I want to show you something.”

  “Like what you do for a living?”

  I look her way and nod.

  “Well, it’s about time, Mr. Elliot.”

  We drive for a few miles, and it’s not too long, and we’re already outside of town. Houses are scarce out this way. Actually, everything is scarce out this way. So, we talk about our days and Sweet Home and high school, until I pull off the highway and onto the county road. Channing is known for its covered bridges. We go over a little one with a red roof. She makes a comment about how much she likes them and how they’re kind of like art. But then I turn into the driveway, and all of a sudden, she stops mid-sentence and sits up in her seat.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  She glances over at me, and I give her a funny look.

  “I thought we were going to your place,” she says.

  The long driveway is lined with apple trees. I didn’t put them there, but it was one of the reasons I bought the house.

  “Well,” I say, “we were, but then I got to thinking: Maybe I should try my luck, see if these people are looking to unload a house on somebody today. You never know.”

  She looks over at me and gives me a quirky smile.

  I expected that.

  The apple trees stop at a clearing, and then you can see the house. Her eyes stay planted straight ahead.

  The house is newer. Apparently, there was an old farmhouse here before it burned down in the early 90s. The people who bought the property after the fire built this house. It’s more modern-looking than I’m used to. But I like it just fine. It’s a stone and stucco two-story, and they did a nice job on the landscaping. A set of brothers who grew up here and own the local landscaping business put in the trees and the flowers and the lighted stone walk. It’s nothing like Tom Stewart’s place; he’s got family money and owns the only bank in town. But it’s not really what you’d expect a twenty-two-year-old to have, either. Hell, sometimes I wake up and wonder whose house I wandered into the night before.

  I watch Iva. She’s taking in the world outside her window, not saying a word. I’d pay to know what she’s thinking right now.

  I park in front of the three-car garage, and then I get out, walk to her side and open her door.

  She silently steps out of the truck. I can tell she’s suspicious, even as she tries to hide it. But I don’t blame her. The wild, long-haired boy, who was always dressed in black because it hid the grease stains best, doesn’t really belong in a house like this. Hell, the man who bought it doesn’t either.

  We take the stone path to the front door, and I gesture for her to go inside. She does, but it’s not before she hesitates, giving me a long, questioning look.

  I just smile and follow after her. And once I’m inside, I set the keys on the entry table and take off my jacket and throw that on a chair.

  Then I notice her eyes travel around the room. They start at the vaulted ceiling in the entryway, and then they move to the staircase that spirals up to the second floor. And finally, they land on that ridiculously big, glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Elin picked it out. Actually, she picked out about everything in this whole place, except for that old grandfather clock in the hall. That was the same grandfather clock that sat in Grandma’s living room for nearly fifty years. It was her most favorite possession. People say that if there were ever a house fire, they’d take their birth certificates or photos or something like that with them. Well, I’d probably leave all that stuff behind, just so I could get that clock out of here.

  “Do you want something to drink?” I ask, walking into the kitchen.

  She doesn’t answer. I wait for a good, few seconds, and then I make my way back into the dining room.

  “Iva?”

  “I’m in here.”

  I follow her voice to the den.

  “Berlin, what are these?” She must sense I’m in the room because she never takes her eyes off the wall.

  “This is you,” she says, pointing at a framed photograph.

  I stare at the photo on the wall.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodd
ing.

  “This says NASCAR.” She turns back and looks at me.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Berlin, this is a little more than working your way up.”

  I shrug. I don’t know what else to do.

  “This is more like you’ve made it,” she says. She looks at the frame and then back at me. “Berlin, this is NASCAR.”

  I nod, and she laughs to herself. “You’re famous. Like, legitimately, you-have-your-own-Wikipedia-page famous.”

  Her eyes study me with this certain kind of sparkle. I recognize it. I’ve seen it before, like on the day I taught her how to ride my old dirt bike or when she took that first ride in the Chevelle or like the first time I kissed her in that old tree house.

  “Well, this explains the house.”

  Her eyes find mine.

  “It’s beautiful, by the way,” she adds.

  I nod once. “Thanks.”

  She looks at me then, as if she wants to say something else.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Elin’s house?” she says.

  I nod, and I can see the understanding slowly washing over her.

  “It was a birthday present,” I add.

  “Oh.” An easy smile races across her pretty face. But I can tell she’s still got another question in her.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  She pushes her lips to one side before giving me a shy look. It’s cute.

  “Your grandparents’ farm?” she asks.

  I nod again. “Christmas present to my dad.”

  Her entrancing stare stays locked in mine for several, long heartbeats.

  “Not bad gifts,” she says.

  I shake my head. “They didn’t complain.”

  She laughs softly to herself. “But how did this all happen?” Her eyes are back on the pictures on the wall.

  I take a second and lean against the doorframe. “Well, with the dirt track, I guess. And then it just kind of evolved from there.” I stop and shrug. “My uncle was always interested in it. He never did it, but he knew some people, and he got me started in it.”

  She moves down the wall, pausing for a few moments at a time to examine each photo. Elin framed them all for me and hung them on the wall, just last summer.

  “You were so young,” she says.

  I nod. “Yeah, it all went fast—no pun intended.”

  She peeks back at me and gives me a silly smile. “Why haven’t you mentioned this?”

  I shrug again, but really, I didn’t tell her because I wanted to surprise her. I wanted to see that sparkle in her eyes.

  I watch her, not even trying to hide my grin. I can’t honestly tell you if I got more pleasure in winning those races or watching her look at these photos.

  After carefully inspecting each one, she goes to the trophies next, pausing to look at every one of those, too. Then, when she’s done with that, she finds a cushioned chair across the room and makes herself comfortable.

  I follow suit and sit down in the desk chair and lean back.

  “How? And when? And ... How? Start from the beginning.”

  “Well,” I say, taking off my cap and tossing it onto the desk, “I picked it up in high school, and it just sort of stuck.” I run my fingers through my hair to break up my hat head. “I got a late start. Most kids start racing when they’re seven or eight, but cars and speed always came kind of natural to me.”

  I meet her eyes, and she smiles and nods her head.

  “But it wasn’t until I placed pretty decent in the Busch Series that I got noticed,” I say. “And the next thing I knew, I was a full-time driver and rubbing elbows with Carl Edwards. If you would have told me four years ago, I’d be there, doing that, I would have told you that you were batshit crazy.”

  She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, at first. “I just ... I just can’t wrap my head around all this.”

  Her eyes don’t leave mine for a long while, but then, eventually, I watch her gaze travel back to the photos on the wall.

  “My dad ...,” she says, her words trailing off. “He’s never gonna believe this.”

  “What?” I say, feigning shock. “I could have sworn he thought I was gonna make something of myself.”

  Her attention immediately falls back on me, and she laughs. “Yeah, especially after that night Officer Brad brought us both home.”

  I lower my head and laugh, too.

  “I can just see them,” she says, closing her eyes, “those blue lights reflecting off your leather jacket.”

  I watch her smile break across her sweet face.

  “Isn’t it funny,” she says, “that when you close your eyes, sometimes you can see something from so long ago, just as if you’re there, looking at it?”

  Her lips lift a little more, but her eyes remain closed.

  I fold my hands behind my head. “What else do you see?”

  She breathes in, keeping her eyes closed. “I see your room: your bed on one side; your desk in the corner; that shelf full of model cars; the window. And when I look out of it, I see those yellow curtains draping over my window, blowing in the breeze.”

  “Iva, why are you in my room?”

  She opens her eyes, and they seem to stumble upon me—slowly, gradually, like raindrops sliding down the glass. “I’m in your room a lot,” she says. “It’s just always there, on the back of my eyelids. I don’t even know why.”

  “Iva,” I say and then pause for whatever reason, “I didn’t finish what I was saying last night.”

  Her smile fades a little. “Berlin, you don’t have to.”

  I cock my head a little to the side. “No, I do.”

  She sits back in the chair and rests her hands in her lap. She looks nervous. It makes me nervous. And for a split second, I wonder what she’s thinking.

  “I was saying ...” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “I was saying: I don’t love you like that boy from Sweet Home loved you anymore.”

  “I heard that,” she sings, softly, her eyes now glued to that hardwood floor.

  “Iva.”

  I wait for her gaze to slowly make its way back up to mine. And when it does, I go on.

  “I love you, as the man from Channing, Kansas.” I sit up and rub the back of my neck, as an anxious breath flows past my lips. “And I know this is all too late and maybe the wrong timing. I mean, I don’t even know what your plans are after school. I don’t even know how you feel about all this ... But ... At least you know where I stand. At least now, you know. Nothin’s changed. I still love you, Iva.”

  I watch her chest rise. And then I watch it fall, while time ticks out its slow and steady waltz on that old grandfather clock in the hall.

  “Berlin ...” She cautiously shakes her head. “It’s only been a week.”

  I study her face; I try to read her expression. I just want to know if she feels the same way I do.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I had one week with you just now. But the truth is, I’ve had roughly ...” I pause to add up the time. “I’ve had roughly 150 weeks with you.” I bring my fist to my mouth. “And that’s 149 weeks and 6 more days than I needed to know that you were something I was never gonna forget.”

  She breathes in. I breathe out. And then her stare turns down to the hardwood again, as she fidgets with the hole in her jeans.

  “Berlin, I’m moving to New Zealand next month.”

  My eyes find hers.

  “You’re what?”

  I sit up even more in my chair.

  “That’s where the painter lives. He’s a friend of a professor. And he’s really good. I’m going to work for him.”

  Now, my eyes are on the floor. And suddenly, I’m at a loss for words.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner,” she says.

  I nod, but I think it’s purely out of habit. The truth is, I have no idea what I’m nodding to. I press my hand to my chest. I don’t feel well, all of a sudden.

  “There aren’t any good painters
... in the United States?” I ask.

  There’s a break before she speaks. “There are. It’s just ... he’s one of the best. And he’s offered me a job.”

  I slowly bob my head. And then I clear my throat. “You thirsty? You want a beer, some wine or something?”

  I think I just need to get out of the room for a second. These walls are closing in on me.

  She swipes her eye with the back of her hand. “Okay,” she whispers.

  I get up and leave the room. She doesn’t follow me. I’m glad.

  When I get into the kitchen, I rest both hands on the edge of the countertop, and I hover over it, breathing in, breathing out, trying to hold it together. I can’t lose her again.

  After a moment, I hear her footsteps, and I stand up and turn around.

  “Maybe you could come.” Her words are barely over a whisper. She’s stopped in the doorway, leaning up against the frame.

  I meet her beautiful, blue-gray eyes. They’re full of so much. I never understood them. I knew I never would. They would always be a mystery, and I welcomed that.

  “I have a contract.” I can hardly get the words out.

  Instantly, her gaze turns down, and I can almost see the hurt weave down her face.

  “Oh,” she says.

  “It’s two years,” I add.

  She looks back up at me, but she doesn’t say a word. She just nods and lets her eyes wander to a place outside the window above the sink.

  I force out a breath. I never expected to find her again. But I did. And she’s even more than I remember. So, how am I supposed to just let her walk away? The thought sounds impossible.

  “This life has never been on our side, has it?” she asks, rescuing me from my thoughts.

  I shake my head, and despite myself, I smile. “No. No, it hasn’t.”

  “This week was fun,” she says, but I can hear the sadness in her voice.

  I nod, but I can’t get the words out to agree with her.

  “How long are you there—in New Zealand?”

  Her attention strays to the window again. “I don’t know,” she says, lifting her shoulders. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”