by Laura Miller
My heart will always long for him.
Tears slide down my cheeks.
I look into his brown eyes, and I run my fingers through his long hair. He doesn’t fit in here; he never has. He doesn’t know anything about farming or small-town norms. He doesn’t know you don’t wear black everywhere you go. He doesn’t know you don’t encourage Miss Blanch’s weird tendencies. Just last week, he bought a new leash for her stuffed cat she parades around town. He said he had noticed that the old one was only hanging together by a thread. He doesn’t care if you’re the fire chief’s son or a waitress at Victor’s. He treats everyone the same. And we could be flying a hundred miles an hour down a long stretch of highway or lying perfectly still, looking up at the stars, and he’s content, either way. I think I love that about him best. It doesn’t matter where we are or who we’re with or what we’re doing, he lives his life all the same—his own way—all in.
“We have to stay together,” he whispers against my mouth, his breaths leaving a welcomed heat on my lips. “Iva, I’ll never move on from this—this thing we have. I’ll never get over you. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to do it.” There’s a broken piece to his voice, and it makes my heart ache even more for all the time we’re going to miss.
“Is that a promise, Mr. Elliot?”
I try to wear a brave face, even though my heart is breaking.
He looks into my eyes, and then I feel his lips press a desperate kiss onto my forehead. “That’s a promise. I’ll never get over you, Miss Iva Scott,” he says, his voice gravelly. “As sure as the sky is blue, I’ll never get over you.”
Chapter Nineteen
You’re Home
Present
Iva
I tiptoe down the last few steps to the front door of Natalie’s parents’ house. They know I’m leaving with Berlin today; I just don’t want to wake anybody up at this ridiculous hour.
I carefully open the door, and then as quietly as I can, I slip through it. Berlin texted me a minute ago, letting me know that he was outside. It’s dark out, and the air is a little cool. I pull my jacket closed and sleepily make my way down the sidewalk and to his truck.
The seat feels warm as I crawl onto it.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
I look at him through tiny slits in my tired eyes. “No talking until after the sun comes up.”
He laughs. “Whatever you say, beautiful.”
I smile at that. I know I don’t look beautiful. My hair is twisted up into a knot on the top of my head. I think I put mascara on, but I’m not sure, and that’s all the further I got in the make-up department. And there’s probably still sleep in my eyes.
Berlin keeps his word and doesn’t speak the whole time the sun is slowly creeping up the horizon. Instead, we listen to the soft melodies pouring from the radio, while pinks and oranges light up the sky. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sun rise. I’ve forgotten how pretty and peaceful it is. It’s calm and quiet and untouched by the day.
“When you drove through it last, what was it like?” He breaks the long silence and my thoughts with his husky, morning voice.
I lift my head from my bent knee and look over at him. He’s focused on the road on the other side of the windshield. I wait to answer him until after I study his face. He’s dark, despite the fact that we’re a long way from last summer. And he has a five-o’clock shadow now. It makes him look older, more experienced in this thing we call life. And I realize, for the first time, that he’s got it—life—more figured out than I do. I’m still finding myself. And he’s already found.
“Empty,” I eventually say.
He chuckles. “It was empty when we were there.”
I nod. “True.”
“Did you go by the house?”
I shake my head before I answer. “No.”
He nods, and I rest both my bare feet on the seat and hug my knees. “Are you excited to see it?”
He cocks his head to the side before he speaks—almost as if he’s unsure of what he’s about to say.
“Yeah, I am. But I’m afraid it’s going to look so different that I won’t recognize it anymore.”
I lay my cheek on my knee again. “You’ll recognize it. No matter how much it changes, it stays the same. I mean, some things aren’t there anymore, but it’s as if your memory just fills in the holes.”
“What things are gone?”
I take a breath and think about it. “Um ... Victor’s Café; the store at the corner; the bleachers at the baseball diamond in the park; most of the baseball diamond; and that little shed we used to hide in when we got caught in the rain on the other side of the tracks. Remember?”
He nods. “I remember.”
“Well, it’s gone.” I shrug. “But I still see it.”
He bobs his head again—as if in thought.
“We have a lot of good memories all over that little town,” he says.
I turn my face, so that my other cheek is now resting on my bent knee and I’m looking out the window. “Yeah, we do.”
Little does he know, I’ve had all those memories playing on repeat since the day he left.
The drive all but flies by, and four and a half hours in, we stop at a little grocery store in a town along the way to get sandwiches, popcorn and Gatorade.
“Do you ever get scared inside the car?” I ask, offering him some popcorn, once we’re back on the road.
“Inside my race car?” he asks, taking a handful of the popped corn.
“Yeah,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Nah, you get used to it. Bad crashes really aren’t that common, and the cars are a lot safer than they used to be.”
“Have you? Ever crashed?” I almost can’t get the words out.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning at me. “But they’ve never been that bad.”
I try to scold him with my eyes. “You can’t smile about that. And you can’t get into anymore crashes.”
He laughs. “For you, I’ll try not to.”
I lower my head and smile to myself, before another question pops into my mind. I swear I’ve learned more about NASCAR in the last four hours than I ever thought I’d know.
“Does it get hot inside the car?”
“Yes. But you get used to that, too.”
“What if you have to go to the bathroom?” I ask.
“You go.”
“What?”
“Thankfully,” he says, “I’ve never had to.” He dips his head. “But some have, and they just go. And then they pour water on themselves before they get out of the car to hide it.”
“No!”
He nods. “It’s true.”
“That is ... truly ... enlightening,” I say. “Thank you for that.”
He smiles wide. “You’re welcome.”
I look over at him. His eyes are on the road. He is pretty cute. Actually, he’s really cute. Most of the time, I think I just see him as the boy I grew up with, and every once in a while I get these flashes of the man he is now, and it literally almost takes my breath away.
“What about your number?” I ask. “Do you get to pick it?”
“Nope. Owner does.”
“Hmm,” I hum.
“And the whole paint job is just a few big stickers—even the headlights and taillights,” he adds.
“The lights on the car? They’re stickers?”
“Yeah, completely fake. All an illusion.”
“What?”
He just nods.
“I feel as if my whole life’s a lie,” I say.
Berlin chuckles and switches his driving hand, before turning off the highway.
“We’re not just drivers; we’re magicians, too.” He winks at me, and it makes me laugh.
And it’s not long after that, and we’re passing the sign that reads: Welcome to Sweet Home, You can hang your hat, you’re home.
My eyes go from those words to the little city limit sign that reads: Population: 137. On
ly, the 137 is partially scratched out, and it’s been replaced with a new number: 102.
We hit a pothole, and the little bit of purple Gatorade that’s left in the bottles in the center console sloshes around. I look at the clock in the dash. It’s almost noon, on a Wednesday. But I’m not sure you could guess it by just looking. There’s no one around. There are no cars. The buildings are empty and boarded up. I strain my eyes to get a good look inside the post office as we drive by. I think it might still be in operation. And if that’s the case, it might be the only place still open on this whole street.
Another turn, and just like that, we’re home again. Berlin stops along the curb in front of my old house. I peer out the window. It looks like home. It looks unloved, but it looks like home. Big pieces of plywood cover some of the windows, and weeds are just starting to grow up again in the cracks in the sidewalk after a cold winter. There’s a little no trespassing sign on the old iron fence that has always wrapped around the front yard. And gone are my momma’s yellow roses.
I look over at Berlin, and he’s looking at his house across the street.
“Well, there she is,” he says.
His house has boards in the windows, too. But he doesn’t seem too upset about it. I can tell he’s just happy to be here.
He opens his door and steps out of the truck. I follow his lead.
“Looks the same,” he says, leaning against the truck.
I glance over at him and then up at his house. “Well, besides the boards and the weeds and the broken windows,” I say.
“Yeah, besides all that,” he says.
We stand there, just looking at his house. And I replay in my mind the time it was Angel’s. And I remember that bird cage in the hallway and that big wooden table in the dining room. And then I think about when it was Berlin’s house, and all of a sudden, I breathe in the smell of toast.
“Let’s go inside.” He pulls on my hand.
“Wait. What?” I ask, tugging back.
“Yeah, yours first.”
He leads me to the front gate of my house.
“Berlin, we can’t go in there. It’s somebody else’s, and it’s probably not safe, anyway.”
“We’ll be careful. And no one will care.”
I look up at the house, and instantly, an overwhelming sense of nostalgia and curiosity takes over my body. I want to see those rooms again.
“Okay, fine, but let’s do it fast,” I say.
Berlin looks back at me with a smirk. “That’s the only way I know how to do most things, my love.”
I roll my eyes at him and let him lead me through the wrought iron gate and then up to the wooden porch and weathered front door.
The door’s lock has already been broken once. And now, the door is simply sealed by a piece of two-by-four nailed to both the frame and the door. Berlin easily pries the board from the door and pushes it open.
As the old hinges scream back to life, the first thing I notice is the faded wood floors. They have taken on a kind of ghostly look now—mostly from the dust. There’s dust everywhere—on the wood baseboards, on the banister leading upstairs, on light fixtures still hanging from the ceiling. And with the dust, there are cobwebs dancing along the walls and crisscrossing in the corners.
For a good minute, we both just stand there, taking it all in. It looks familiar, but just like its outside, it also feels eerily untouchable. I’m afraid to disturb the little holes in the walls or to step on the creaky floorboards, and not only because I think it might be unsafe, but mostly because I’m afraid to feel this house’s pain. I’m afraid to feel its lifeless soul touching me back.
But in the end, it is home. It’s unloved and uncared for, but it’s home.
I step toward what was the dining room. The table is gone. I close my eyes, and I imagine my momma and daddy and me sitting around our pork chops, talking about our days. I hear the laughter, and I hear Daddy going on about the weather. And I even see the scolding look from Momma to clear my plate.
I walk to the banister that leads upstairs. It’s still the same banister, even though the paint is all but chipped away. I rest my hand on it. It moves ever so slightly under the weight. Years ago, it was fully capable of holding my backpack and all its books. But I wouldn’t expect it to do that today.
Berlin follows close behind me. I can tell he’s watching me. I like that he’s giving me these few moments to get lost in this place one more time.
A warm breeze filters through the broken window, and I breathe in the smell of roses. I know it’s not real because there are no roses. But for a good, few seconds, there were.
Berlin takes my hand, and suddenly, something about being here and feeling his touch makes me sad. I loved that boy that lived across the street so much. And I wished for him back for so long.
And now he is.
And I’m leaving.
He smiles at me—one of those not-so-rare smiles that makes my heart beat just a little faster.
The breeze dies down, and for the first time, I notice the musty smell of dust, mixed with stale air. And everywhere I look, there are only browns and tans and grays. But yet, I imagine blue curtains and red chairs and light yellow walls.
We walk into the living room. It’s quiet and empty now. But somewhere in the background, I hear the weatherman on the TV talking to my daddy about rain. And then I hear Daddy talking back to him, telling him to bring the storm a day later. And everywhere I look I swear I see one of my momma’s treasures—like that plant that hung from the ceiling in the den or that big, ugly flower vase that sat in the hall. And what once seemed odd and useless are now, suddenly, my most favorite things in all the world.
Berlin steps lightly on the floor. I know he’s making sure it’s not going to cave in on us.
I let go of his hand and start up the stairs.
“Iva, I’m not sure we should go upstairs.”
I step on the first step. It seems all right. So, I step on the second, and then the third.
“I think it’s fine,” I say.
Berlin doesn’t stop me, as I slowly make my way up the stairs. Instead, he walks right beside me.
We get to the top of the steps, and I turn to the first room.
I test the floor. It seems okay, too, so I go in. And the first thing I do is stand in front of that window. And I stare out of it and at the window across the street. And after a moment, Berlin comes and stands next to me.
“So, this is where it all began,” he says.
“Once upon a time,” I say, spinning around to look back at the empty spot in the corner, where I—and sometimes we—used to sleep.
“It looks so much bigger in here without the furniture,” I say.
I run my fingers along the wallpaper border, until it curls up at its end and stops. It’s my same wallpaper—blue and white waves—just like the ocean. Then I look up and notice the neon stars still stuck on the ceiling. Some even still have their blue stripes. And finally, under the second window, I notice the rope fire escape ladder. We both see it at the same time. And I watch as Berlin reaches into his dark jeans and pulls out his pocket knife.
I don’t say anything. I know what he’s about to do. And I know he probably shouldn’t, but I also know that it probably doesn’t matter one bit to anybody whether that old rope is here or not. ... But it matters to us.
He takes the rope in one hand, and with the other hand, he starts cutting through the dusty, braided nylon with the knife.
I watch him, until the rope is free from the windowpane. Neither of us says a word about it.
After my room, I explore the rest of the house—the kitchen, the bathroom, the den—where my daddy would analyze endless farm magazines and almanacs. And finally, I find myself back at the front door, and I just stand there and stare at everything inside the house that I can fit into my line of sight. I want to remember it all—every doorway, every window, every scuff in the floor. I don’t want to forget a thing.
“I think I l
ike it more now than I did the last time I was here,” I say.
Berlin chuckles. “Isn’t that how it always goes?”
I smile at him. Then I stand there, just silently memorizing. And Berlin lets me do it, without saying a word.
“Okay,” I finally say.
“You ready?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
We walk back outside. And with the rope ladder still in his hand, Berlin picks up the two-by-four, lines up the nail holes and shoves it back against the door. It stays, as if we had never touched it at all. And then we make our way down the old porch steps.
I watch Berlin toss the ladder onto the truck bed, and then together, we walk across the street.
His front door is locked, and immediately, my shoulders slump a little. I want him to be able to relive his life here, just like I was able to.
We stand there for a moment.
“Maybe the back is open,” I offer.
“Wait,” he says, reaching into his pocket.
He pulls out his ring of keys.
“You don’t.”
“I do,” he says.
He locates a gold key from his keychain and sticks it into the lock. The key turns, and the door clicks open.
“I can’t believe you still carry that key around.”
“It came in handy, didn’t it?” he says, grinning back at me.
“Well, we’re just lucky nobody changes locks around here,” I say.
We both step inside, and the wood boards of the floor creak below our feet.
“Hey, you know what?” he says, stopping me.
“What?”
“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever used that key.”
I catch his giddy expression, and I just laugh. “I believe that.” Locked doors in Sweet Home were like spots on a tiger.
I watch him walk to the center of the dining room, the first room in the house, and stop. He looks around. His eyes travel from the floor to the walls to the ceiling and then back to the floor again.
“It looks different without carpet,” he says, turning back toward me.
I smile and survey the empty walls with the wallpaper hanging on for dear life and the cobwebs in the corners and the dust as thick as a slice of bread sitting on the windowsills. “It’s the carpet that makes it different?”
