Sweet Forty-Two

by Andrea Randall

  “Yeah, I know whatchyou’re sayin’,” I echoed the accent back as I sat across from her.

  She blushed deeply, looking up at me through noticeably tired eyes. “It’s like that when I’m tired. Fuck off.”

  “How has everything been, just, in general?” I watched her hands produce a fascinatingly flowy cursive penmanship as she marked boxes on her calendar and made lists of ideas for classes.

  “I can do an introductory class to start. Offer those on the next two Saturdays and Sundays and then schedule the grand opening for, like, three weeks from now?” She looked up hopefully, but frowned when she saw me studying her. “What?”

  I gave a half smile. “I asked how things were going, you know, with life. I only see you in here these days ... just checking in.”

  She sat back in the booth. “Things...” She looked around, just with her eyes, not turning her head. They seemed to glass over a bit.

  “Hey...” I reached across the table and held out my hand. “Would it help if I went first?”

  Georgia placed her always-warm hand in mine, and I took a deep breath as I wrapped my fingers around them. “I’m working on a final goodbye to Rae.”

  “What kind of goodbye?”

  “An answer to her letter.”

  Georgia looked confused. “Did she ... ask you something?”

  “Haven’t you read it?” I tilted my head to the side.

  “No.”

  “But when...” I trailed off, trying to recall why I’d assumed she’d read it.

  She pulled her hand from mine and ran it through her hair. She had thick roots growing in. The only reason I thought anything about it was because CJ said her hair used to be dark, and I’d spent an inordinate amount of time imagining her with dark hair.

  “The night Bo and Ember were here, they sat with you and read it, remember? It was clearly a very ... personal moment. I wasn’t going to intrude.”

  I reached into my back pocket, where I’d been keeping the card since I first read it. “Read it.”

  “It’s okay, Regan, I don’t ... need to.” She shook her hands and head at the same time.

  “I need you to, Georgia.” I slid the card across the table, eyeing the already wrinkling and fading edges.

  “Why do you need me to?” She didn’t reach for the letter.

  “You’ve been really open and honest with me, Georgia, and ... you were there for me, really there when I read the thing. I figured you should know where I’m coming from.” I tapped the envelope. “This is where I’m coming from.”

  Her look took on the pallor of guilt as she swaddled the letter after taking it from the envelope. She looked at me once before opening it. I nodded, reassuring her. She paled further as she read. Her eyes brightened at what I assumed were the cute and funny parts Rae had written. Then, it was like I was watching a flashback of myself when I came to the I love you portion of the event ... Georgia’s hand went to her mouth and she dropped the card, looking at me.

  “I’m so, so sorry.” She kept her hand hovering over her lips and she fled our booth, exiting the bakery door and taking deep breaths in the fresh air of the quiet Sunday morning.

  Carefully, I slid the card back into its envelope, tucked it in my back pocket, savoring the limited time it would reside there, and followed Georgia outside.

  “She loved you,” Georgia started as the door closed behind me. “She loved you, and never really said it, and you loved her and never said it, then she died and no one said it and, holy fuck, Regan.” She paced in circles.

  “I—”

  “And she died,” Georgia repeated, and as if she were just learning of Rae’s death for the first time, she started to cry.

  So did I.

  “She did.” I wiped under my eyes.

  “How are you standing here? How did you ... what ... shit and then we kissed.” She ran a knuckle under her eye.

  “I wanted to kiss you, Georgia. And, you wanted to kiss me ... judging by the way you, you know, kissed me.” I cracked a smile, not fully understanding her meltdown.

  She leaned against the building just as it started to drizzle. “I knew you’d been in love, Regan. You told me. Rewiring your insides and all that, but ... why would you want to risk it again?”

  “Risk what, love?”

  “Losing it,” she whispered as more tears fell.

  I shook my head, words jamming in my throat. Insecurity crashed into hope, fear rear-ended happiness. I walked over to Georgia and put my hands on her shoulders. “What if I don’t lose it?”

  I had to believe my words. Had to. There was no other way to take another breath. Ever.

  “What if you do?” She stared through me, like she was etching an imaginary future into my brain.

  I squeezed her shoulders, almost shouting over the fear that tried to drown the words as the rain fell harder around us. Crashing cymbals of water. “What if I do, Georgia? What if I do?”

  The wind picked up, directing the rain to slam in sheets against us. Georgia didn’t blink as she met my eyes, water covering every inch of her face.

  “I have to go.” She shimmied away from my hold and walked to her car, pulling away without another word.

  Thunder crashed as I watched the car pull away. I retraced my steps back into the bakery, locking the door behind me, and turning off the light in the seating area. I couldn’t shake the fear in Georgia’s eyes as she talked about Rae ... and love. Georgia was afraid to love. I was afraid that I’d never love again.

  Had been afraid, until that blinding swirl of exclamation points and question marks masquerading as Georgia Hall barged into my life. Or did I barge into hers? How the hell did we get here? Kissing in her kitchen, promising more kisses, then doing nothing about it?

  I didn’t know what all her fears were, though she was clearly afraid of them, as odd as it sounds. But she wasn’t a girl who could be pushed.

  As I entered my apartment and pulled out my violin and composition notebook, I took a deep breath and reasoned that to love Georgia was to be patient. Let her come to me.

  I was loving her.

  As I drew my pencil across the lines of the notebook, sculpting the last goodbye to Rae, I didn’t feel apologetic about that. Loving. Rae would want me to love again. Hell, love would want me to love again.

  I was falling slowly.

  And I didn’t want there to be a bottom, because what greater feeling in the world is there than to actually be falling into love?

  Georgia

  My windshield wipers whipped too quickly back and forth across the glass as I sped down the highway. The thumping of the rubber took me out of my head, making me listen to something other than my excruciating heart.

  I was running away.

  Regan loved Rae, she loved him, then every worst thing in the world happened and he showed up at my doorstep. I invited him there, yes, I’m aware of that minute fucking detail, but there he was. War-torn? No. Faithful. A disciple of all things pure.

  I’d been afraid that maybe if he was kissing me it was a rebound thing, but Rae had passed away almost a year ago—9 months, I think—and Regan didn’t even like me when we first met. At least it hadn’t seemed that way.

  I slipped. I knew better. I shouldn’t have ever rented him that apartment, but since there was nothing I could do about that by the time I realized what was happening, I should have kept him at a firm arm’s length. Instead I’d had my arms around him exactly one too many times.

  I couldn’t tell him I didn’t want his help anymore with the bakery. He seemed so happy when he was in the kitchen, and it was a constant reminder of why I loved being there in the first place. And, opening the bakery was something I was genuine in wanting. He was the only person who would let me go at my pace.

  Then there was that fucking letter.

  I shouldn’t have read it. I wish he hadn’t shown me. I knew all of it, but to see it outside of the folklore of Rae: former girlfriend was overwhelming. It wasn’t her wor
ds or her character that so cheerfully bubbled through the ink that got to me. It was that she so certainly laid everything bare for him. I know they never said those words together, but reading her note and hearing stories from him, I knew they were a real couple. The kind that talked about things and then worked through them.

  That was nothing I could ever live up to, even if I wanted to. I wanted to, but didn’t want to want to.

  I pulled into my mother’s driveway right when my mind started somersaulting down a hill. The rain hadn’t been this heavy in as long as I can remember, and I knocked louder than necessary just to be able to hear the sound.

  My mom came to the door looking better than she had in days. Her recovery time between shock treatments was getting better, easier to manage. She was looking more like herself than I’d seen her in years, which was good since I was a total mess and needed her like I hadn’t needed her in just as long.

  “What’s wrong?” she shrieked and pulled me in out of the rain.

  The door shut behind me as I buried my face into her shoulder.

  “I’m in big trouble, Mom.”

  In that moment I was thankful for gravity, because there was nothing else holding me to the Earth as every piece of strength I thought I had seeped from my eyes and onto my mother’s freshly pressed blouse.

  “That’s quite a story.” My mom brought me a fresh cup of hot chocolate as I finished telling her the Regan and Rae love story, and the Regan and Georgia tragedy in the making.

  I looked into the swirling mini marshmallows, my eyes swollen with tears.

  “What are you afraid of, Georgia?”

  “Hurting him,” I answered before I could craft something witty.

  “I don’t understand. From what you’ve told me, you two have an easy relationship. You’re friends, you each have your own interests but are interested in each other’s, respectively. What’s the holdup?”

  I took a deep breath; it tripped over lingering tears, but satisfied me just the same. “The women in our family don’t really get happy endings, Mom. Grampa killed himself and with him, took Gram’s chance at one, and you...”

  “You don’t think I’ll get a happy ending?” Her eyes pinched at the edges, clearly hurt.

  “I meant you and dad. He was a drunk and then you had...”

  “Georgia, your father and I—”

  “Had alcoholism and schizophrenia as supporting characters in your love story. How romantic. Regan doesn’t seem to have any discernible mental illness, so I won’t be robbed of a happy ending like Gram, but given my genetic inheritance—”

  “You’re not still hung up on that, are you?” My mother rolled her head back in exasperation.

  “Caught up on my chances of getting schizophrenia? Yeah, I’m hung up on statistics.”

  “Georgia, you were more likely to get killed on the drive over here. Especially knowing how fast you drive.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  “So, let me get this straight. Regan is helping you open the bakery, and has been supporting you every step of the way for the last few weeks, and you’re pushing him away because you’re afraid you might, at some point, get a mental illness that’s treatable?”

  “Don’t patronize me. He doesn’t deserve a love that has to be medicated.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to be cheated out of it, and it doesn’t sound like he wants to be cheated out of it the way you talk about him.”

  I sat forward, my face growing hot. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, Georgia. Always.”

  I sat back in a huff, crossing my arms. “You weren’t on my side when you took off and left me to be raised by an alcoholic father and his pack of misfits at Dunes.”

  My mother turned her face from me, gripping the edge of her chair as my words cut through her.

  “Mom,” I started, “I’m sorry...”

  “No,” she sniffed, “you have a right to be upset with me. I was doing what I thought was best for you at the time. Treatment wasn’t like it is now, and I didn’t know how long I’d be functional, or where the disease would go. Your father had never once been violent, but, if we can remember back two months, you’ve had bruises from me. Sure, your dad pissed away most of his money, but not before keeping food on the table and buying the building you live in now. There were no good answers there, honey. No right answers. I just tried to make you as strong as possible before I left.”

  “Because you knew I’d end up taking care of myself.”

  She didn’t answer. She just sighed and looked down. I hadn’t intended on showing up and blaming my mother for my life, so I stood and made my way for the door.

  “Why are you leaving?” My mom followed me, staying a measured three steps behind me.

  I turned as my hand touched the knob. “You know, Alice didn’t even get one. A happy ending. She just ... woke up, and everything was the boring old goddamned way it had been before.”

  I pulled the door open and stepped onto the top stair. The rain had stopped, finally, leaving everything gasping for breath after the onslaught.

  “There was no ending,” my mom called after me as I walked into the rain-soaked air.

  “What?” I turned around.

  “There was no real ending to Alice in Wonderland, Georgia. Go ahead. Read the books, watch the movie again if you don’t believe me.” She gave a challenging smile.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Write one.”

  “How?” I grinned, feeling a riddle coming on. I’d learned from the best.

  She smiled back the same knowing smile. “By writing it and living it, by living it and writing it. You have to do both, and in both orders at once. Make it. Mix it together. There’s no timer, though, so you’re out of luck there. Just use your nose.”

  “Things can get burned that way,” I mused.

  She shook her head and as she closed the door, she said, “Not if you breathe deeply.”

  Just like that the Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar swirled away into a cloud of smoke and butterflies and I was left with the most challenging and simplest riddle of my life.

  Love.

  Him.

  Love him.

  Regan

  With any other girl, it would have been maddening, the way Georgia went back to work with me Monday in the bakery like nothing had happened the day before. We hadn’t texted or really seen much of each other, which was normal, but how we’d left things on Sunday was far from normal.

  Well, far from normal with anyone else. With Georgia, the out of place, slightly off-kilter way of things was normal. True North on her compass seemed to be somewhere between “N” and a little left of there.

  In truth, I’d been so focused on my project for Rae that I didn’t let myself wallow in the “whys” and “what ifs” with Georgia. She was a straight shooter, and I trusted that she’d shoot when she was ready.

  “Guess what?” she asked as she lined wicker baskets with cloth napkins.

  I pulled two tins of muffins from the oven and put another two in. “What?”

  “I set up a website for the bakery and posted information about the baking class, called all of the contacts I’ve made from the local businesses and the farmers’ markets, and today alone I got ten people signed up.” Her smile was contagious as she took the warm muffins and put them in the baskets, closing the cloth napkins around them to keep them warm.

  “Really? Georgia, that’s huge!” I crossed over to the large sink and started cleaning up the dishes.

  “Uh-huh. I’m going to start the first class this weekend. Just a one-day introduction class. After that, I’ll run another weekend, and the weekend after that I’ll have the grand opening. Is that crazy?” She put her hands on her hips and took a few quick breaths.

  “No.” I shut off the water, dried my hands, and walked over to her. “It’s not crazy at all. You’ve got this. What’s the permit status?”

  “I have my inspection Wednesday,
and everything else will be good to go.” She shrugged, leaving her shoulders by her ears as her face shifted to disappointment. “Shiiiiit,” she sighed.

  “What?”

  “I ... have this ... fucking appointment ... thing on Wednesday and it’s like around the time the health inspector is going to be here.” For a second it looked like she was going to cry. Like a child who was about to question the reality of Santa Claus, but didn’t really want to know the answer.

  I reached up and touched her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, G. I can be here for the inspection if that’s okay with them.”

  She looked relieved and, in a flash, smacked me. “Don’t call me G.”

  “What? I thought your friends could call you that. Did I miss something?”

  She scrunched up her nose. “It just ... sounds funny coming from you. And, I don’t kiss my friends ... or people who call me G. Those are one and the same, you see?”

  I playfully growled and shook her a little. “The riddles! When do they end?”

  “Look around you.” She laughed and spun around the kitchen and into the seating area. “Never! This is the world according to Georgia, brought to you by the Mad Hatter.” She twirled again, one smooth circle with her arms out and chin lifted to the ceiling.

  “Can I call you Alice, then?”

  Her chin dropped, lips formed a thin line, and she crooked a wicked eyebrow. “Not if you expect me to answer.”

  “Why not?”

  The air around us shifted. Imperceptible to passers by, for certain, but I was afraid to look down, thinking the floor would suddenly be missing. Georgia’s shoulders and breasts rose and fell quicker as color went from her cheeks to the scooped neckline of her grey t-shirt.

  “Because,” she started with nervous breath, “because ... Alice was a lonely girl. With no prince.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah? What, then, are you?”

  “Who.”

  “What?”

  “Who, then, am I, you mean.” Her voice was shaky.

  I nodded. “Who are you?”

  She took two steps toward me and grabbed the ends of my index fingertips. “I’m not a lonely girl anymore.”