Beauty and the Mustache

by Penny Reid

  “Hey, Ashley, what’s this?” Sandra strolled into the already crowded kitchen and picked up the package I’d left on the counter.

  I pulled several wine glasses from the cabinet. “Oh, I don’t know. It just came.”

  “Can I open it?” She asked. “You know how I love to open other people’s mail—so annoying that it’s a felony.”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  She began ripping into the package while I filled the goblets with plum wine.

  “I need some advice,” Janie announced. She was leaning against the kitchen table, her arms folded, her pretty face marred by a pensive frown.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” Elizabeth squeezed into the kitchen and grabbed the bowls from the counter to set the table.

  “I don’t know what to get Quinn for Christmas.”

  “You—in a bow.” Nico said this deadpan. “Maybe forget the bow.”

  “No—I mean, I have it narrowed down to two things. I need help deciding between the two.”

  “What are they?” Sandra asked as she pulled a rectangular bundle wrapped in newspaper from the envelope. “Why don’t you make him something?”

  “Well, I already crocheted him that hat and scarf. So, that’s done.”

  “And it’s black and very dark gray, so you know he’ll love it.” Elizabeth said this with some sarcasm. We had a running joke that Quinn was actually Batman.

  Janie nodded, both because she agreed and because she got the joke. “But the other two things are a little complicated. I can either fly his parents out for Christmas, or I think I can get his sister to come.”

  “But not both.” Kat stated this, her voice warm with sympathy and understanding.

  Janie sighed. “His parents would be fine with seeing his sister, but I think Shelly wouldn’t come if his parents were there. She still has…issues.”

  I listened to the conversation with interest because it mirrored my situation. I wanted to see my brothers for Christmas, but I didn’t want to face Drew. Whether I liked it or not, my brothers considered him a part of the family. Actually, he was a part of the family—especially after all he’d done for us, for my mother, for me.

  Hearing Janie struggle with the situation made me realize how selfish I’d been about the whole thing. I didn’t want my brothers to choose between us. I wasn’t that person. My momma raised me to be better. I would just have to find a way to need nothing from Drew like he needed nothing from me.

  I cleared my throat, prepared to tell Janie that she should invite both of them—Quinn’s sister Shelly and his parents—but then Sandra gasped.

  I was mid pour, so I gave her a cursory glance. “What is it?”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth’s startled exclamation came next.

  At this, I set the bottle down and crossed to where Sandra held the contents of the envelope, but Elizabeth was blocking my view.

  “What is it?” I asked again, insinuating myself between them so I could see what the fuss was about.

  Then I saw it.

  “Oh….” I exhaled, my eyes moving over the object in Sandra’s hands.

  It was Drew’s leather notebook; the one he carried around in his pocket, always seemed to be writing in, and was never without. I immediately recognized the Norse symbols on the front. But it was singed; the cover was burnt as were several of the pages. The edges were black and brittle, but—other than the scarred cover—it was mostly intact.

  Sandra held it out to me, her eyes wide. “Drew sent this to you?”

  I shook my head, not taking the notebook. “I—I don’t know.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wanted to be irritated or ambivalent, but I wasn’t.

  Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. “Is he okay? Why is this burnt?” Picking up the envelope and giving it a closer inspection, she added, “The postmark is from Franklin, North Carolina. Did he move there?”

  I shrugged, lifting my hands palms up, my eyes glued to the notebook. “I don’t know. I have no idea. I haven’t talked to him since Momma’s funeral.”

  The last words I’d said to him were I’m not your problem anymore.

  I couldn’t get over Drew until I started disliking him. I wasn’t going to be able to forgive and forget. This wasn’t going to be one of those relationships where we could be friends. He’d cut too deep with his good intentions, not to mention our brief interludes of perfect physical chemistry.

  Anger was essential because otherwise I was just tremendously sad. Bitterness and anger provided harvestable energy, something on which to focus, something through which to work. Sadness simply left me adrift.

  But now, dread gripped my chest as I studied the book; my stomach coiled into a knot at the sight of the charred cover. This book had been in a fire.

  I rubbed my fingers over my chest because my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my ribs. Without accepting the notebook, I rushed out of the kitchen and ran to my cell phone. I hesitated for a minute then decided to call Jethro just in case Drew was alive and well and I was overreacting.

  His phone went straight to voicemail. I called twice more. Both times it went straight to voicemail.

  Then I called Drew. His went straight to voicemail.

  Then I called Billy. He picked up on the third ring.

  “Hey, Ash. What’s up?” I knew he was still at work because I could hear the telltale sounds of saws in the background.

  “Billy! I tried calling Jethro and Drew. Neither of them picked up. Are they…is everything okay?”

  “Uh, yeah, as far as I know. They’re in North Carolina on that Appalachian trekf or two weeks. Jethro will be back Friday. They turn off their phones because there’s no service where they are, but they have the satellite phone with them for emergencies. It’s probably off to save battery life.”

  North Carolina.

  “They’re together?”

  “Yep. Why?”

  “When is the last time you spoke to either of them?’

  “Uh, this morning. Hey, are you still coming for Christmas? Jethro said not to count you in this year.”

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief, the tension in my chest easing.

  “Yes.” I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Yes, of course I’m coming for Christmas. I said I’d be there. I’ll be there.”

  For Billy, his response sounded almost chipper. “Oh. Good. Cletus is making moonshine eggnog.”

  “Ugh, that sounds gross.” I laughed, my head hitting the wall as I closed my eyes. My brain was still coming down from its skyscraper of worry.

  “Listen, I’ll talk to you later. I have to get back to work. Did you want me to tell Jethro something?”

  “No. It’s nothing. They get back Friday?”

  “Jethro gets back Friday, yes.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I glanced at the phone screen after hanging up, absorbing the information Billy had just related. I became aware of a presence at my elbow and glanced to my right. Everyone was hovering around me. Their expressions tense.

  “So? Everything okay?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes. Jethro and Dr. Ruin…Drew…are doing some trek in North Carolina. Their phones are off. Billy just talked to Jethro yesterday.”

  “The envelope was sent before yesterday.” Elizabeth held it up like it was evidence. “Whatever fire burned the book happened before yesterday, so Jethro and Drew must be fine.”

  “If either were injured, Billy would know.”

  Sandra held the notebook out to me. “Ashley, I think he must’ve sent this to you for a reason.”

  I glanced at the burnt book then met her green eyes, wide with earnest concern. I gathered a deep breath before responding.

  “I don’t….” I shook my head. “I don’t know how to feel about that.”

  “Why don’t you start by looking at it?” She held it out to me.

  I didn’t take it. The deep breath I’d taken felt insufficient, so I crossed to the couch and sat down.

  F
ield notes. That’s what Drew said was in the book.

  Sandra followed and sat on the coffee table facing me. She took my right hand in one of hers and placed the book in it.

  “He sent this to you. You don’t have to read it, but it belongs to you now. You have to take it.”

  I nodded, holding but not looking at the book. I wasn’t ready to speak, not yet; I didn’t know my own thoughts. Sandra seemed to sense this because she stood abruptly and walked back to the kitchen.

  “Where are Marie and Fiona?” I heard Elizabeth ask, and the subject was officially changed. My friends left me alone with Drew’s burnt notebook.

  I listened to their discussion from the other room, the sounds they made gathering around my table to eat. I loved their noises, their laughter. It felt like home, comfort, contentment, safety.

  My emotions were a stampede of conflict as I looked at the notebook in my hands. I brushed my fingers over the brittle, charred leather.

  It was covered in ash.

  CHAPTER 26

  “If you read someone else’s diary, you get what you deserve.”

  ―David Sedaris

  It was 6:14 a.m. and I was awake.

  In fact, I hadn’t gone to sleep.

  After my knitting group left, I paced the apartment, cleaning, straightening, turning the TV on, turning the TV off, trying to read The Brothers Karamazov and failing, though to be fair, I was only reading The Brothers Karamazov because I’m a bit of a masochist.

  I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn’t.

  The notebook rested on the desk in my bedroom. It looked angry. Its presence felt like a rabid raccoon perched at the edge of the wilderness, ready to lunge forward and attack me until I succumbed to madness.

  I realized in the wee morning hours that ignoring the notebook was futile.

  Therefore, around 2:30 a.m., I surrendered to madness and opened it to a random page near the front. On the page was a poem.

  For Ashley—

  I expect man,

  You are woman

  Resplendent

  Resilient

  Refined

  I turn

  Before you see

  The way

  You affect me

  It was lovely, simple, and sad. The next one I recognized, and it made me sigh, thinking back to the day I’d first heard it.

  For Ashley—

  Fire burns blue and hot.

  Its fair light blinds me not.

  Smell of smoke is satisfying, tastes nourishing to my tongue.

  I think fire ageless, never old, and yet no longer young.

  Morning coals are cool; daylight leaves me blind.

  I love the fire most because of what it leaves behind

  Then, I read another one, then another. Soon, an hour had passed and I was still reading. Some of the passages were poems; some were letters. I skipped over the ones that weren’t addressed to me and was astonished to find that toward the center of the book all the poems and letters started with my name.

  Ashley Austen Winston,

  You don’t know how deeply you cut when your intentions carry no knives.

  Ash,

  When you cried, I learned what helplessness tastes like. Because all I could do was swallow.

  Ash,

  I want to give you a book so I can watch you read it. Your lips move. I watch them as I watch you. I want you to speak to me. I want your lips to move for me.

  - Drew

  For Ashley—

  You are my Sugar

  Sweet to taste, sweet to see

  Cravings last until

  Your body surrounds, comforts, and ignites

  Your skin velvet, your hair silk

  Your tongue honey

  Ash,

  Your sheets, still a white pile on the table, know that envy keeps me from washing them. You left an impression, deep creases where you lay your head, where they cradled your body. It was only three days, but they memorized your scent, they carry it even in their stillness.

  Were they too gentle? Was their touch too light? Do you remember how it felt when they held you? Or did you never commit it to memory?

  Was I too gentle? Was my touch too light? Do you remember how it felt when I held you? Or did you never commit it to memory?

  - Drew

  Ashley,

  I caught a bear today in the new trap. We’re taking it a hundred miles north. That’s a hundred miles closer to where you are. I’ve decided units and measurements of distance are bullshit. With you there are only two distances that matter:

  Here.

  Not here.

  You are not here.

  - Drew

  Dear Ashley,

  I’ve been reading your e. e. cummings. I hear your voice in my head when I read his words, and it’s a peculiar kind of torture. I can’t seem to stop doing it. I love your voice, even when it’s a peculiar kind of torture. I miss you in a way that causes words to fail me. They are as inadequate and empty as I am.

  I wonder, did you like your body when you were with my body? Do you carry my heart with you (in your heart)? He speaks of carving out places, but I didn’t feel like I was given a choice. I removed nothing. I made no room for you.

  Yet you arrived. I saw you. You spoke. That was it. I gave up nothing, but I lost everything.

  - Drew

  Sugar,

  Tonight the silence sounds like a scream. If you were here, we could chase it away with our whispers.

  - Drew

  Ash,

  I walked to our field today.

  It was cold and the flowers are gone.

  All color is absent.

  Did you take them away when you left?

  Why would you do that?

  - Drew

  For Ashley—

  Your indifference feels like the end

  Of a life without meaning

  A life without being

  Must eventually stop

  Else the being

  Loses its life

  For Ashley—

  If I told you I love you now

  How many seconds would it take

  How long would you allow

  All that I am to break

  I turn away

  Before you can see

  How badly I need you to stay

  With me

  And so I passed the next several hours sitting at my desk poring over Drew’s field notes, reading them over and over. At first I tried to keep an emotional distance from the words, from his thoughts, from the depth of emotions he’d hidden so masterfully during our time together.

  He might not have been good at playing make-believe, pretending, or lying, but he was damn good at hiding.

  I cried a few times, smudging the skin under my eyes with soot from my fingers. The chair grew uncomfortable; I ignored the pain, strangely feeling like it was deserved.

  In the end my soul was moved. There really was no other way to describe it. Reading Drew’s thoughts was like being catapulted into the heavens against my will. He loved me, or so he’d written. He needed me, but he’d never said it. Never out loud.

  I reflected on our time together, seeing things more clearly through this new lens of enlightenment, and—though he never said the words— realized that he’d shown me in a million different ways. With every look, embrace, and desperate need to shoulder my burdens, he was telling me that he loved me.

  I flipped back to some of my favorites, the ones that made me feel like I might faint with overwhelming swoony joy. But as I re-read the passages, a balloon of doubt subtly worked its way into my consciousness, and tied to it were so many questions.

  Why had he hidden himself from me? Why push me away? Why not fight for me? He wasn’t a coward. He was the bravest man I knew. And why send it to me now? With no explanation, no letter, no nothing. And why in tarnation did it look like he’d tried to burn it?

  Restlessness seized me. I needed to talk to him. I needed to see him, but I knew that wasn’t p
ossible. Seeing his words in black and white, ink on a page, written in his hand, made them feel real to me; maybe more real than if he’d said them out loud.

  Spurred by this thought, I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and began to write him a letter.

  My Drew,

  I love you. I love you desperately. I don’t have your way with words. If I could, I would write you poetry. Instead, you’ll have to settle for my haphazard thoughts and explanations for my behavior.

  I am so sorry that I’ve been blind, that I didn’t understand the extent of your feelings. I didn’t see you clearly, and that’s my fault.

  When we were together, when we met, I admit that I was in a fog. I was blind to everything but my own grief and mourning my mother before her death. During those six weeks, I was focused on making every moment with her count. She was my mother and I loved her, I do love her, and I couldn’t see beyond my own heartache and sorrow.

  That’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.

  Regardless, I feel like I’m one of those stupid, enviable romance novel heroines. The ones that have been hit with a vanilla ninny stick, devoid of personality and blind to the gift before them. I was doomed to wander in ignorance until the last thirty pages of the book.

  Part of me is actively rooting against my own happy ending because the fictional hero deserves better than a girl who is blind to his love and devotion.

  But this isn’t a novel. I suck at interior design. I don’t always use the tissue seat covers when they’re available in public restrooms (sometimes I’m in a rush or I’m feeling lazy); but I always wash my hands.

  I wake up with morning breath and frequently make poor fashion choices. I read too much, I eat too many cookies, and I have a yarn problem (meaning, I own more yarn than I could possibly knit into finished objects; there is NO WAY I’ll use it all before I die, yet I’m still buying more yarn. I probably need an intervention). I also own only one pot.

  I feel it’s important that you know these things about me because I am flawed.