by Laura Miller
It’s messed up, I know.
But it is the story of Berlin and I.
So close. Nearly. Almost.
We almost were.
After the day he re-signed his contract, I heard from him one more time. It was on his birthday, and I was working. I could hardly make out his words on the voicemail. He was somewhere with loud music and loud voices. And his own voice was cracking. The only thing I could make out were the words: I love you.
And even though I secretly tucked those words away in my heart for safekeeping, I knew they carried no weight. Nothing had changed. I was here. And he was still there. And I never heard from him again.
And maybe we got it all wrong. Hell, we probably did. But that’s where it gets tricky. It’s not easy going back. It’s not easy rewinding time. I mean, maybe when you’re younger, it’s easier. But the more life you live, the harder it is to say: Let’s just start over again. Let’s forget the past and all the hurts, and let’s set aside our lives and just ... love each other.
God knows I wanted to do just that so many times in the last two years. But again, the more time that passes, the less sense that makes.
Berlin and I made our choices.
We chose our paths.
And we hurt each other along the way.
But the wounds do heal.
They don’t heal completely. I can still see them—in the blues in my eyes—every time I look in the mirror. And some days, I can feel them, too. But they do heal enough to breathe again. They heal enough, I suppose.
I clear my throat and sit back in my chair, just staring at the computer’s screen. I’m wondering all the usual things, I guess. I’m wondering how he’s doing. I’m wondering if he ever thinks of me. I’m wondering if he still believes we made the right decisions.
And then, in a rush, I type his name into the search box. And I stop. And I stare at that name. I stare at the name that was almost mine. And I take a deep breath in, and then I quickly force it out. And without another thought, I hit enter.
The first thing that comes up is an article about a bed and breakfast. I think the article doesn’t have anything to do with him, until I see his name under the title. I click on the link. It’s a feature written in a paper from back home that talks about the new draw in the little town of Sweet Home: The Lighthouse Inn.
There are two photos. My eyes roam over the images of a couple of newly renovated, turn-of-the-20th-century homes.
I recognize both.
I read further down the page, and eventually, I get to the part about the owner. It says they were recently purchased by a local celebrity—the NASCAR driver by the name of Berlin Elliot.
I sit back in my chair and just stare at his name.
He bought them.
He literally brought life back to Sweet Home.
I study the photos. Everything looks the same—just the same as we had left it the first time, even down to those navy curtains hanging in his bedroom window and those yellow roses lining that old iron fence in my front yard.
I feel a small smile tug at my lips. I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing. And yet, I’m not surprised at all.
After a few more moments of just staring at those two, little houses, I hit the back button. And immediately, I see the old photos of Berlin and I at the track on several race days. I stop and look at each one; I can’t help myself. And I know I probably shouldn’t, but I still love these photos. I love how happy we looked, how happy we were.
I scroll down the page, and I come to another photo. It’s one of him ... with his arm around a tall brunette in front of a banner on some red carpet somewhere.
I had seen her before with him—in photos, of course, on the internet. But what I see next makes me fall back into my chair.
NASCAR star Berlin Elliot engaged.
Engaged?
At once, my body goes numb. The thought of him loving someone else is suddenly unimaginable. I thought I had prepared myself for this. But I don’t feel prepared at all.
Tears overwhelm my eyes, so much so, that I can’t even clearly make out his photo any longer.
Why is this such a shock? Why is this so hard? I’ve moved on. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he did, too.
I bring my fingers to my lips to try and hold in the pain. I’ve done this before. I’ve let him go twice before. And it broke my heart in half each time. Though each time, the two halves somehow fused back together. This time, however, I fear they won’t.
Tonight, it’s real to me. Out of all the days in these last two years since I left that little town in Kansas, tonight is the night it really feels true.
I’ve lost my first love—the love of my life.
Tonight, I lost him.
And it hurts like hell.
For two weeks, I only saw the world in black and white. And I cried. I cried out loud by myself in the kitchen. I cried secretly behind the bathroom door. I cried for me. I cried for the little girl and the little boy who loved with everything they had in a little town that nobody cared about but them. I cried because I felt as if no one else would cry for them.
But then, I stopped crying.
I stopped crying because I ran out of tears. And when my eyes cleared, I slowly started to see things in color again. And for the first time in a long time, I saw the brilliant man I’m marrying. I saw a man who loves me. And I felt how much I adore him. He’s patient and kind. And most of all, he dreams his dreams on my side of the hemisphere. And in spite of everything, I’m happy to be here with him. If I had to choose all over again, I would be tempted to choose Channing, Kansas and the man who lives there, and I’m not altogether sure I wouldn’t. But I love this man from Denver, Colorado, who I met in a little coffee house on the shore of Christchurch, New Zealand. This life suits me, and I’ve grown to like it.
In the end, Berlin and I just lost too much time, I think. In the end, there was just too much time to make up. And I think I’ll always wonder what might have been. But then, that’s life, I guess. It ends how it intended to end. It’s only the in between part that seems unwritten, at times. That’s the part we get to make our own. It’s that little part in between—in between the beginning and the end—where we get to go off-road for a little while and scribble down our own adventures. That’s the part where we get to make our own mistakes—where we get to drive too fast and love too hard. It’s the part that, later, we might begin to think it was all just a dream, if it weren’t for the scratches and scars on our hearts, whispering to our souls that it was real.
It was all real.
And Berlin and I made the most of it. We made the most of our in between. And I’ll forever hold onto that—my happiest ... and saddest memories.
Chapter Twenty-Four
You Have a Tattoo
Present
Berlin
I see a guy who looks a little lost in this big, old barn full of people. He keeps alternating glances between the floor and the crowd.
We’re celebrating Isaac and Natalie’s engagement tonight. Nearly the whole town is here. And I vaguely remember Isaac telling me he had a friend he used to work with coming into town.
I take one more swig of my beer. Then, I set the bottle down and walk toward the guy.
“Hey, man, you must be Isaac’s friend.”
“Um, well, I ...”
“Come on,” I say, gesturing toward the door, “I’ve got something to show you.” I briefly glance back at him. “He said you were into classics.”
I walk swiftly to the shed, and he follows close behind. Then when I get to the door, I push it open and go to the front of the Chevelle.
“It’s a ’72 SS 454, but you probably guessed that already,” I say.
“I, um ...,” he stutters.
“Adam.”
I hear her voice, and for a second, I’m stunned into silence.
“Hey, babe,” I hear the guy beside me say.
I slowly close the hood of the Chevelle.
And we just stand there, staring at each other. I don’t think either of us knows what to do.
God, she’s beautiful.
“Um,” the man beside me mouths. He looks as if he doesn’t know what to do, either. But then again, I’m hardly paying attention to him anymore. “I’m just going to go find Natalie and Isaac,” he says. “You want a drink?” he asks Iva.
This is the first time I really look at him. He’s tall and dark. He looks ... smart and successful. He looks like the type of guy I always thought she should be with, all the while I was thanking the good Lord that she had picked me.
I notice Iva shake her head, and then the guy gives me a not-so-subtle once-over. I can tell he rethinks leaving her alone in here with me.
“I’ll just meet you back in the barn,” Iva says, smiling at the guy.
He takes the cue and then reluctantly disappears.
“I was looking for you,” she says. Her eyes are on me now. “They said you were here.”
I refit my cap over my head. “Well, you found me.”
I watch her pink lips slowly edge up her face. “Hi.”
I bob my head. “Hi.”
Soundless seconds dance between us, before her gaze slips to the floor.
“I didn’t know you were back in the States,” I say.
Gradually, her eyes level off. “I’m not. ... Well, I’m not for long. Just for tonight.”
I nod. “So, it must be pretty nice there.”
“I like it.” She looks almost starry-eyed as she says the words, and I know she’s made the right choice, even though just the thought sends a blunt knife straight through my chest.
“And, uh ... You,” I start, only to lose my words. “You ... met him there, I’m guessing?”
She rakes her fingers through her hair. It’s longer than it was the last time I saw her.
“I did,” she says. “That’s, um ... Adam.”
She gestures toward the barn, and I catch, for the first time, the ring on her finger. It’s not the one I gave her. A lump forms in the back of my throat, and I try my best to swallow it down.
“Is he, uh ... your ...”
I know she notices me struggling.
“Fiancé,” she softly says, looking down again at the little shed’s floor.
I suck in a sharp breath. Then I lean up against the Chevelle to steady myself a little better.
“We came to see Natalie and Isaac. I haven’t seen either of them since they got engaged.” Her gaze falters momentarily. “But I wanted to stop by and say hi to you, too.”
I lower my head, as the quiet takes over.
“Well, they finally did it,” I say. “They finally made it official.”
A beautiful smile lights up her face. “They did.”
And with that, I get stuck in her eyes. “I’m glad you did—stop and say hi, that is,” I say.
There’s an awkward pause.
“Well, how have you been?” she asks.
I hear her words, but her eyes tell a different story. That’s not quite the question she wanted to ask.
I answer it, all the same.
“Uh, good. I’ve been good.”
I’m pretty sure that’s a lie, but I don’t even really know what I’m saying. I’m on autopilot, still trying to find my bearings.
“Good,” she says. Her facial expressions are delicate, cautious.
“Are you, um, getting marr-ied?” she asks, glancing at my left hand.
It’s hard for her to get the word out. I understand.
“No, I, uh ... I know there are rumors, but ... No, we’re just ... seeing each other, for now, I guess.”
I try to clear my throat because it feels as if something is stuck in it. Meanwhile, she distracts me with her voice again.
“I see you’re still driving. And doing well.”
“Yeah,” I say, sounding surprised. For a moment, I’m shocked that she knows anything about me anymore.
“We do have internet in New Zealand,” she says, catching me off guard.
“Yeah.” I lower my head and laugh to myself. “I see.”
After a second, I look up, and I just so happen to meet her sweeping gaze. “And you, the famous painter.”
She studies me, curiously.
“We have internet, too,” I say.
Instantly, her eyes go to her shoes. “It’s a work in progress,” she says. “But I’ve been fortunate, so far. Sinclair has a lot of connections.”
“That’s good,” I say. “That’s really good.”
There’s a moment of silence, where all I can hear is the echo of my heart pounding in my chest, as the sounds from the party ever fade into the background.
“I also saw you brought life back to Sweet Home.”
I look at her. Her eyes are glassy, all of a sudden.
“Somebody had to,” I say.
She slowly nods. She doesn’t have to tell me she approves of what I did. I can see it on her face.
And then she takes a breath.
“Well,” she says, “I probably should get going. I just wanted to make sure I saw you.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to do.
“Iva, I’m sorry.” I just blurt it out. “I’m sorry about the contract ...”
She stops me. “I understand.”
I let go of a sigh. I hate that she understands. She shouldn’t. What I did is unforgivable. The day just came to sign it, and I panicked. I didn’t know what else I’d do, if I didn’t race. Hell, I feared I wouldn’t even know who I was anymore.
“I do,” she assures me. “I do understand.”
Her lips turn up ever so slightly, but she doesn’t move. Neither of us does. And I know this is just me and her, trying to do something we were never really good at doing—saying goodbye.
Finally, she starts to turn but then stops and slowly pivots back around.
“You have a tattoo ... on your arm,” she says, pointing to her own forearm but looking at mine.
I look down at my arm. The tattoo is covered by my shirt sleeve.
“I saw it,” she quickly explains, “a while ago, in a photo ... online.”
I look at her and smile. I don’t even try to hide the fact that I like that she’s been stalking me. In turn, she just shakes her head in that playful, scolding way of hers.
I roll up my sleeve, so that we both can see the word saudade in swirling, cursive letters on my forearm.
“What does it mean?” she asks.
I take a long look at the word. “It’s a longing for something that cannot be ... and the love that remains.”
She stares at it for a few moments, and then her eyes lock in mine. There’s a sober look on her face. And I know that she knows. I know that she knows it’s for her.
She nods once, and then I watch her start to leave for the second time.
“Iva?”
She turns back. And I try to ask her the question with my eyes that I don’t have the courage to ask her with my voice.
Do you long for me?
She answers with a soft smile. “I brought back a few of my favorite pieces from my collection,” she says. “I left them on your porch. They’re yours to keep.”
She leaves her gaze in mine for longer than she should.
“When I lived in Sweet Home,” she says, letting her eyes trail off to a spot in the corner of the shed, “I painted the ocean. When I got to the ocean, I painted Sweet Home.”
Her eyes finally stumble back on mine, but only for a brief moment. And then she turns. And this time, she slips through the door and disappears.
I practically treat the back roads as a racetrack trying to get home as fast as I can. After hearing that Iva’s life’s work was just sitting on my front porch, all the people and the glow from the barn suddenly lost its charm.
I pull up to my house, and immediately, I see several large boxes on the porch. I hurry out of my truck and jog up
the steps.
It takes me a minute to get all the boxes inside. There are four—total. Four large, slender cardboard boxes lean up against the den wall in front of me now.
I take a seat in my desk chair and just stare at them for a good minute. I’ve waited a long time to see this Sweet Home girl’s famous works of art. Whatever she’s done, I know it’s a part of her, and that means a great deal to me. So, I’m a little nervous to even touch them.
Finally, though, I take a deep breath and stand up.
Each box has a number on it. Carefully, with a pocket knife, I cut the cardboard of the box labeled 1 and gently pull out the first frame and hold it up in front of me.
It’s a black and white drawing of a little house on an empty street. It’s my house in Sweet Home—the way you’d see it, if you were looking at it through a window—her window across the street. I examine the picture. Even though the drawing is in black and white, it’s summer there; I can tell. Every detail, even down to those little, red anthills in the cracks on the sidewalk, is there. I run my fingers over the drawing, without touching it, remembering the life we shared there. Then, I catch some words in the bottom right corner of the drawing, just above her signature, and I read over them: When I Close My Eyes.
I look into the drawing a little bit longer. There’s something in me that aches to be inside this frame. Suddenly, I want to be the little boy staring back at that little girl again. I want this day—that she’s captured on this page. I want this day back.
I don’t know how long I’m lost in the drawing, when I finally find the courage to carefully set the frame down. And then I go to the next box, labeled 2. I’m gentle with the knife and the tape. I don’t want to damage anything inside the cardboard.
After a few, tedious moments, I get the second box open, and I slide out the frame inside. It’s another black and white drawing. But this time, it’s of a tree house in a big oak. And in the right corner of the drawing is the word: Kiss.
