The Life We Almost Had

by Laura Miller

  I chew on the inside of my cheek, before I catch sight of the refrigerator. It’s a welcomed distraction.

  “Beer? Wine?” I ask, pulling on the door.

  “Oh ... Um, wine, I guess.”

  I grab the bottle of wine and find a glass in the cabinet.

  “I’m sorry, Berlin.”

  “No, it’s ... uh ...” I pour the wine and hand her the glass. “It’s not your fault. It’s just ... We finally stumble onto each other again, and now ...” I stop when I remember something. “Wait, you asked me to come with you.”

  Her eyes quickly find mine, and all of a sudden, her look turns shy. “Yeah.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  She smiles a sweet smile and lifts one shoulder. “Maybe the girl from Sweet Home kind of likes hanging out with the man from Channing, Kansas.”

  I can’t control my wild grin, and for several, perfect seconds, neither of us says another word.

  Iva Scott still likes me.

  I just watch her, staring back at me, and I try to soak up every, last piece of this exhilarating charge hanging in the air before reality smacks me in the chest again.

  “Come to Sweet Home with me tomorrow,” I say, breaking the silence.

  I can tell she’s trying to read my thoughts.

  “For old times’ sake,” I add.

  She pushes her hair back from her face. “It’s like, five hours from here, right?”

  “Yeah, we could go in a day and come back,” I say.

  My mood has shifted. I can think about tomorrow—if she’s in it. And for now, I just won’t think about the days after that.

  She’s thinking, probably calculating the risk—the fallout, everything that could go wrong, how many different pieces our hearts could end up in—if we drag this out. And as her teeth press into her bottom lip, my only thought is: I hope she calculates into the equation the regret we’d carry with us if we didn’t.

  “Have you been there recently?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Um, no. I drove through it once years ago, but I didn’t stop.”

  “Aren’t you curious to see what your house looks like, if that tree house is still there, if the ghost of McMarbles is still sitting in your bedroom window?”

  She laughs, and it fills the room with life again.

  “We could leave in the morning,” I say. “We could get there by noon, stay for a couple hours and be back by sunset. Give the place a proper goodbye. What do you say?”

  I watch her chest rise and then fall like a wave in the ocean. Then, finally, she nods her head. “Okay.”

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “Yeah,” she agrees.

  My heart nearly jumps out of my chest.

  “Okay,” I breathe out, grinning. “We can leave at six.”

  “Six?”

  “Yeah, what’s wrong with that? I was thinking five, at first.”

  “No, six is good. I just don’t think I know what six in the morning looks like.”

  “Well, dear, you’re about to find out.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  One Hundred

  Fifteen Years Old

  Iva

  “Hey,” I say, taking a seat on a stool in the corner of his garage. “You wanna go walk up the street and get some Clearly Canadian?”

  It’s the only nonalcoholic drink the store at the corner sells.

  “Okay,” he says, from under the Chevelle’s hood. “But why don’t we drive there?”

  He closes the big, metal hood, and it hits its base with a loud thud.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, let’s go for a drive. It’s only up the road.”

  “Wait. It’s fixed?”

  “Yep.” He proudly shows off his white teeth.

  I’m in the passenger’s seat before he can even get another word out. I’ve been waiting for this day for probably as long as he has. This car means freedom. In a little less than a year, Berlin and I will have the freedom to go anywhere in the world we want to go together.

  I watch him get in and turn the key. The engine rattles to a start, and this time, it doesn’t cut off. I look over at Berlin with wide eyes.

  “It’s going!” I shout.

  “Yep, it’s going.”

  We slowly back out of the garage and then onto the street.

  “Want to see how fast she’ll go first?” He looks over at me with a devilish grin on his cute face.

  I just smile, and he already knows that’s a yes.

  We cross the railroad tracks to the bottoms. Berlin is still only fifteen and neither of us needs another ride in a cop car, but over here—on the other side of the tracks—it’s a different world. The rules of the rest of the world don’t really apply on this side. This is where Berlin taught me how to drive his dirt bike and then his dad’s motorcycle. Over here is where I drive my daddy’s tractors and trucks from one field to the next. Over here, age doesn’t matter. In fact, the only thing that anyone ever asks over here is: Can you reach the pedals?

  I grab my seatbelt and grip the seats, as we quickly climb up the speedometer.

  This side of the tracks is purely river bottom. It’s flat, flat and more flat. And the roads are straight, straight and more straight.

  I watch the dial on the speedometer climb to fifty and then seventy and then to eighty and then eventually to ninety. I have nothing to reference our speed. There are no trees or houses down here, and all the fields look the same. But then, ninety comes. Ninety is when it starts feeling fast. I close my eyes before we get to a hundred. And I only open them when Berlin yells out the number.

  “One hundred!”

  He lets off the gas after that. And just as he does, a flash of something that looks an awful lot like my daddy’s white truck catches my eye.

  “Berlin!” I reach for his hand. “Did you see who that was?”

  “Who?”

  Before I can answer him, I look in the side mirror and see the truck making a U-turn in the road behind us.

  “Shit!” Berlin says, eyeing the rearview mirror. “Shit!” He pounds his palm on the steering wheel.

  We slow down, until we come to a stop on the highway. Nobody is worried about blocking the road. There are never any cars down here anyway.

  Daddy pulls up right behind us and gets out of his truck. He looks pissed. But I’m so frozen in my own skin that I don’t even think to move. I wish we could just drive—drive until it’s just me and Berlin, drive our way out of this. But I know, no matter how far or fast we go, we’ll never be able to outrun my daddy.

  I watch Daddy swiftly walk through the tall weeds on the side of the road. The weeds almost look offended as they bend and then quickly snap back in the wake of his big work boots. But in the end, those weeds do nothing to slow him down. And before I know it, he’s opening my door.

  “Get out,” he says to me, in a stern voice.

  I briefly glance up at Berlin. He looks pale—as if he’s just seen a ghost.

  I wish I could stay right here with him.

  “Out,” Daddy says again.

  With that, I slide off the vinyl seat and out of the car.

  “Get in the truck,” he barks. His words are short and to the point.

  I slowly make my way back to his truck, dragging my feet in the weeds. And when I finally get there, I climb onto the seat. And then I watch the scene unfold in front of me. I’m scared for Berlin, but I feel powerless to help him.

  Daddy slams the door of the Chevelle and then says something to Berlin through the open window, but I can’t hear what it is he says.

  It’s less than a minute, and Daddy’s back in the truck. And the whole way home, he doesn’t say a word. The silence is terrifying. And I’m scared when he does eventually start talking that he’s going to say I can’t see Berlin anymore.

  Maybe we should have just kept driving.

  I let go of an inward sigh. I’d find a way to see Berlin, though. Even if Daddy did say I couldn’t, I
still would. I can’t even count anymore how many times I’ve been forbidden from seeing him. We find a way, though. Love always does. I love that boy with all my heart. And someday, I’m going to marry him. And Daddy’s just going to have to learn to love him, too, because in the end, there’s nothing he can do to make me stop loving him.

  We get home, and Daddy still hasn’t said a word to me. I almost wish he would just say something and get it over with. Each silent second that passes makes everything I touch feel more and more like shattered glass.

  I carefully slide out of the truck, and I head into the house and straight up to my room. Still, Daddy hasn’t said a word, so I don’t, either.

  Berlin’s light is already on. I turn on my light and wait for him to notice.

  Within a few seconds, he’s at the window, holding a Clearly Canadian and staring back at me with a question written on his face.

  I lift my shoulders and then let them fall, and I don’t know why, but a smile takes over me. And as if it’s contagious, he smiles, too.

  Then he holds up a piece of paper that reads: I’m sorry.

  I go to my desk and scribble down the words: She got to 100!

  He holds up another page: She did!

  He flips it around: I thought he was going to kill me.

  I write quickly: What did he say?

  He gets another piece of paper and writes something new: Stay away from my daughter.

  I breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s not like he hasn’t said that before.

  I look across the way and notice another message: You guys really have 8 guns?

  Oh, God. I mouth the words.

  He cocks his head, as if he’s still waiting for my response.

  I bite my bottom lip. And then hesitantly, I hold up nine fingers.

  What? He mouths.

  I grit my teeth together and slowly nod.

  Shit, I see him mouth.

  I go to my desk and then jot down a sentence onto my sketch paper: You wanna come over?

  He bends down and uses his knee to write something else: Are you trying to kill me?

  I smile. And eventually, he does, too.

  Six months ago, I convinced my parents I needed a fire escape, in case there was a fire in the kitchen and I couldn’t get out. I had never thought about a fire or having to jump out my window because of one, but when I came up with the idea for Berlin to use the ladder, it got me thinking. So, by the time I actually had to present it to my parents, I honestly was terrified that I was going to die a violent, fiery death alongside my shelf of My Little Ponies and Cherished Teddies. So in the end, it was an Oscar-worthy performance—only it really wasn’t a performance at all. Either way, I got the ladder. And I got more time with Berlin, too.

  He holds up a piece of paper with only one word written on it, this time: Midnight.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Stay Broken

  Present

  Iva

  “Iva, you’ve been spending a lot of time with Berlin the last couple days.”

  I look over at Natalie. She’s painting her nails for the second time tonight.

  “What?” I ask.

  She glances up at me.

  “You and Berlin.”

  I sit back against the headboard of the spare bed—the bed I’ve been sleeping in all week. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m leaving the country soon, and we really haven’t spent that much time together, have we?”

  “What?” she says, giving me a strange look. “No, come on, please. The minute you told me that you found the boy from Sweet Home, I knew I wasn’t going to see hide nor hair of you for the rest of the week. I could care less about that. Because you know why?”

  I smile at her. “Why?”

  “Because now, I’ve got an excuse to go to New Zealand. And I’m gonna be there—a lot.” She wags the brush from the polish at me. “You just better get a big bed, so I have somewhere to sleep when I get there.”

  “Okay,” I promise. “I will.”

  Her eyes quickly find mine. “But seriously, you and Berlin?”

  “We’re just catching up.” I try to sound happy, but I know it comes out sounding anything but happy.

  She gives me an unsatisfied flick of her eyes before going back to her nails.

  “What was wrong with the purple anyway?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  She gazes down at her fingers. “It was too girl-next-door-trying-to-have-a-punk-rock-attitude.”

  “O-kay ...,” I say, with a raised eyebrow.

  She goes back to her paint job.

  “Natalie, why didn’t you tell me Berlin was a NASCAR driver?”

  I watch the features on her face scrunch up, as if she just tasted a lemon. “You said you knew.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I never said that.”

  “Yeah, when I said he was risky, you said that you didn’t qualify driving fast as risky, or something like that.”

  “No, I ... I just knew he liked driving fast. I didn’t know he did it for a living.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugs her shoulders. “He’s kind of a local celebrity around here, I guess.”

  I wait to see if she’s joking. I don’t think she is.

  “Natalie, he’s kind of a national celebrity.”

  “Meh,” she says, waving her hand in the air, “if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  She’s onto her toes now.

  I laugh and slide my feet closer to me, so that my knees are bent. “So, he’s been doing this since high school. How have you never mentioned that you know somebody who races cars ... not even once?”

  Her lips turn down at their ends. It looks as if she’s really thinking hard about it. “I don’t know. I kind of just found out about it myself. I mean, he wasn’t really a big deal until just recently. Until then, I thought it was more of a hobby, to be honest. And anyway, I don’t even really know what NASCAR is. I mean, yeah, I know it’s got cars and that they drive in circles, maybe; I don’t know. But I’m sure as hell not going to randomly go up to you and say: Hey, this guy you don’t know—or I thought you didn’t know—drives a car, and he drives it fast.”

  I stare at her, even though she never glances up at me once. I’m half amused and half dumbfounded.

  “But just out of curiosity, why did you never think to introduce me to him?” I ask. “I was always trying to set you up with people—before, of course, I knew the extent of the Isaac situation.”

  “The Isaac situation,” she repeats, with a certain kind of pleasure in her voice.

  “I don’t know,” she says next, looking up at the ceiling for a brief second. “I thought you’d want some artsy type of guy, who went to Juilliard and spoke at least two languages or something. And I love Berlin like a brother; don’t get me wrong. But he just didn’t seem like your type.”

  I chew on her words for a minute. “Is that why you never tried to set me up with anyone?” I ask.

  She smiles through her puckered face. “It’s really hard to find a guy who speaks proper English around here, much less a whole other language altogether.” She pauses and sits up tall in her chair. “But I guess I was wrong. Apparently, you like the rough and fast ones.”

  I playfully roll my eyes at her and go back to my sketch pad. I’m drawing the lighthouse that Berlin and I saw a couple days ago. I do that, until something else tugs at my curiosity.

  I let the pencil go idle, and I look over at Natalie. “So, why doesn’t he have a girlfriend? I mean, he’s attractive and successful. How is he not taken?”

  She clears her throat, and at the same time, tightens the nail polish bottle with just the pads of her fingers.

  “Let’s just say,” she says, locking her eyes on me, “I’m lookin’ at the reason now.”

  “Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “I’m not buying it. It’s been seven years, Nat.”

  “Look, Iva, what’s there to buy? It is what it is. I mean, guys are different than girls. They’re not survivors, like we are.
” She sets the polish onto the desk beside her. “Our hearts break, and we pick them up, glue ‘em back together and march onward. Guys’ hearts break, and they just stay broken—until we put ‘em back together.”

  She looks at me; she has this new, serious air about her now.

  “But can’t someone else put him back together?” I ask.

  “Not like you can,” she says.

  I sit there, soaking up her words. I don’t want to believe she’s right. Everything would be a whole lot easier if she were wrong.

  “When did you get so romantic anyway?” I ask her.

  “Oh, come on. I’d throw this pillow at you right now if it wouldn’t mess up my beautiful, sassy-but-not-too-sassy-red nails.”

  I laugh and reposition the sketch pad on my knees.

  “He’ll be all right,” I say to Natalie ... to myself.

  “Yeah,” she says. She seems to study me. I go back to drawing, trying not to let her stare affect me.

  “You told him, didn’t you?”

  With that, I set the pencil down.

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t look her way, but I hear her breathe in and then loudly exhale.

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “What could he say? I’m leaving. He’s staying. My life is there. His is here.” I shrug, trying not to look as sad as I feel.

  After a few moments of silence, she walks across the room and sits down on the bed beside me.

  “Do you really like him?”

  I gnaw on my bottom lip, out of habit, I think. “Seven years ago, I couldn’t even bring myself to picture my life without him. And nearly every day since the day he left Sweet Home, I prayed for this—just to have one, last chance to see him again. I thought that if I saw him just one more time, I’d be okay.” I pause to gather my thoughts. “And now, I’ve gotten my second chance, and it’s about to end, and I don’t think I’m going to be okay. I don’t think I want it to end.”

  “Even after he broke your heart?”

  I stretch out my legs and cross them in front of me. “It was my daddy.”