by Karen Booth
Then there was the Rolling Stone story, which I spent hours a day touting to editors, to dig up new work so I could move forward. It meant thinking of him every time I talked about it. It meant looking at his face on the cover every time I sent someone a copy. It meant remembering what led up to it, which was everything that happened between us.
My dad was still staying with us and it’d been nearly a month. Every day, I’d drop several hints about how he must be missing his own bed. It wasn’t like he was being difficult. Since we’d had our talk, he’d been much better and as long as I pretended to like Jeremy, he was pleasant. I was simply ready for things to get back to normal—Sam and me.
Jeremy was another matter. My feelings for him were tepid at best. He was my chocolate Easter bunny—glossy and mouthwatering on the outside, the shell collapsing when I took a bite, and not even very good chocolate in the first place.
He came over every night unless he had his daughter, which wasn’t often. We did everything on a schedule and the night he forced the issue was the same. Dinner was at six, we watched a movie around seven, and he was all over me by nine-thirty, right after my dad went to bed.
“Your hair smells awesome,” he said. “New shampoo?” He flipped it to the side and kissed my neck, eager but without finesse. I stared at the ceiling to avoid the cloud of his cologne. His hands clamored under the back of my top and to the clasp of my bra. The instant that was undone, he moved to the front and moaned, loudly.
“Shhh. My dad will hear us,” I pleaded. I kissed him back to get him to shut up, never seeking any part of him other than his lips.
“Your dad’s dead asleep. I can already hear him snoring.” He began to lift up my top and I pushed it down.
“Don’t. Sam might come home.” I kept my eyes closed.
He returned to my neck, lapping at my skin. “Then let me take you upstairs and we can finally do this.” He reached under my top again. His hands were doughy for someone who was in such good shape.
I stopped kissing him. “I don’t feel like it. I’m tired.”
He rolled his eyes and released his grip on me. “Come on, Claire. I feel like a damn teenager. You never let me get past second base.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not ready.”
“You’re driving me crazy. I want you.” He took my hand and kissed the back of it. He circled his tongue, batting his dark eyelashes. “Let me take you upstairs and take off your clothes.” He flipped over my hand and pressed his lips to my palm. He licked it from the heel to the base of my fingers. “Let me make you feel good.”
I tried to contain it, but I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. It felt like a golden retriever was trying to get me into bed.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“Nothing,” I tittered. “I’m sorry.” I pursed my lips, forcing a serious expression on my face.
“This is ridiculous.” He dropped my hand. “Fucking British asshole. He breaks your heart and I get to pick up the pieces.”
I moved back and reached behind to re-hook my bra. “It’s not about Chris,” I lied. “I’m tired.”
“You know what? I didn’t want to have to say this, but somebody has to. What you had with the rock star wasn’t reality. It wasn’t real. You know what’s real? Me. I’m real. We could be real. But you have to let me in.”
My eyelids became heavy and thoughts raced in my head before crashing into each other. No, you’re wrong. Chris was real. He really did love me, at least for a while. I really loved him. I still love him, even though it’s killing me.
“I think you should leave,” I muttered.
“If you tell me to leave, I might not come back.”
“I know.”
Seconds later, car keys jingled and the door slammed.
****
The package that arrived in the mail the next day came as a complete surprise. When I saw the small box and the outline of unmistakable blue on the mailing label, my heart plunged to my stomach. Rosie waved from her front yard as the sky rumbled and threatened to open up and I waved back, distracted, praying that she wouldn’t want to come over and talk.
I paced in the kitchen while the box sat on the counter like a neatly packaged bomb. I was terrified to touch it, but I couldn’t leave it there or someone would get hurt.
I thought about forwarding it to him, unopened. That would’ve been a good way to call him an asshole. I could’ve written “You’re an asshole” on the outside of the box if I was worried it was too ambiguous. I considered putting it in a closet and waiting until I felt ready to look at it or stumbled across it when searching for extra towels.
I chose a third option: open it, look at it, feel sad, and send it back to him—the best of all worlds. I carefully cut through the clear packing tape, opened the flaps and the Tiffany blue teased me. The memory of the night he gave it to me flooded my brain. I tried to focus on what a lovely color it was rather than the fact that I had spent my entire existence as a girl wishing for a box in that particular shade.
I held in my tears, trying to be a brave soldier, like that would ever work. I lifted the lid and slowly removed the white cotton fluff and it took my breath away, like the first time. My hand covered my gaping mouth and it was too beautiful to not pick up, to hold one last time.
Its weight surprised me again, the cool, smooth links against my fingers. I felt my insides cave at the thought of what it all meant. The bracelet was mine. I could keep it. I could think of it as a piece of jewelry and nothing more. But that would mean giving up on what it had once symbolized and my heart wasn’t there yet. There was an excellent chance that it would never be there.
The charm flipped over when I moved it in my hand, and it caught my eye—the inscription was different, longer. I looked away before I read it, thinking that someone had made a mistake, they’d sent the wrong bracelet. When I turned back, I knew the shipping department at Tiffany & Co., New York, NY still had their act together. For Claire, with my undying love, Chris.
Chapter Forty-Five
The photos and magnets went everywhere. It was the strangest feeling—my legs had never given out from under me before, but the tonnage that accompanied the inscription was too much for my body to bear. I sagged against the pebbly white surface of the fridge and swept it clean on the way down, landing in a messy heap on the kitchen floor.
Clutching the bracelet, my head between shaking knees, I wept for what felt like the one-millionth time. No wonder I was so tired. My misery was about more than losing him; I missed the parts of me that he took with him, everything I’d never get back. Things like the tiny new sliver of me that was capable of being carefree. That was something that only he’d been able to cultivate. That would be missed.
My shoulders twitched, forward and back, as I struggled with the air and my lips buckled. It was hard to fathom a moment in time, years from now, when I would be okay with all of it, able to accept that sometimes things don’t work out.
The sound of the doorknob sent me into a panic. I scrambled to my knees, picking up photos, old grocery lists, and magnets from the places Sam and I had been together. She and Dad were deep in conversation with arms full of rustling brown grocery bags.
The scene was far too chaotic for me to hide. The boxes and packaging littered the kitchen counter, I’d only managed to put up a handful of the things from the front of the fridge, and then there was me—a sniffling, blubbering disaster.
Sam rushed to me, nearly throwing her bags to the floor, but Dad stood back, frozen.
“Oh my God, Mom. Are you okay?” She grabbed paper towels and handed them to me, to sop up the tears. She pulled me into a hug and I dropped my forehead against her shoulder and clung to her—the person in the world I loved most, who also loved me back. “Mom, it’s okay. We’re here. Take a deep breath.” She gave me another minute. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
My dad moved closer, but he still kept his distance. My shoulders calmed and my heartbeat returned to its static r
hythm until I lifted my head and looked at Sam, her head tilting to the side in pity.
“Um, my bracelet came today, from Tiffany.” I sniffled. “Chris had, he, he changed the inscription on the charm.”
Sam pried it from my grasp. She read it and looked back at my dad. “Grandpa, here. You should see this.”
He was hesitant to take it. I was thinking his reaction to all of this was only half normal. The other half was something else. He flipped over the charm and looked away. Tears swelled when he turned back.
“Jellybean, I may have made a mistake.” He trembled.
My focus narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
He didn’t answer at first. He folded his hands in front of him as if he was standing before the judge, and a heavy sigh left his lips. “Christopher and I had some problems while he was here. We, uh, we got into several heated talks.” He swallowed. “I want to say in my defense, that I was only doing what I thought was best for you. I couldn’t watch you make the same mistakes you always make, especially after the accident. You choose these men. Why are they always musicians?”
“Dad. They aren’t always musicians.”
“Well, you know the type. It’s painful to watch. It was so obvious it wasn’t going to work. Just like every other guy you’ve dated.” The room was dead quiet other than his voice. “When he left to go home, I told him that I wanted him to stay away from you, to cut things off completely. If he really loved you, he would stay away and let you have a normal life.”
My brain began to churn this revelation and how it played into everything that happened.
“Grandpa, that totally sucks. Mom loves Chris. I love Chris.” She started to tear up and I felt her shake. “How could you do this? Can’t you see how miserable she is?” Sam held me, by the shoulders. “Mom, say something. Tell him how miserable you are.”
“I don’t even know what to say.” I held the mascara smeared paper towels in my iron grip.
“I’m sorry, Ladybug. I was trying to protect you.”
“From what? I love him.” My whole body quaked. “I thought you wanted me to fall in love and be happy and give Sam a father figure. I thought you didn’t want me to turn into a cat lady. Why would you do this?” I felt my face become hotter with every word. “What kind of person does this to their own daughter?”
His eyes were huge, his mouth agape.
“Mom?” Sam cleared her throat and wiped the tears away from her cheek. “Don’t get mad, but this is kind of the same thing you and Chris did to me with Jean-Luc.” I watched her as she spoke and it was all a frame or two behind. I saw the expression in her eyes, the one my mom always had when she knew she was right. “I mean, you should still be totally mad at Grandpa, but I think I get why he did it.”
“I also—” Now he wouldn’t look at me, his eyes darting around the room. “I happened to overhear you two talking about your long-distance situation and well, I need you nearby and I don’t want to miss out on my last year with Sam before she goes off to college.”
“Dad, the only way you could’ve heard that was if you were listening at my bedroom door.”
“The heat register in the hallway was stuck and I was trying to fix it.”
I rolled my eyes and threw my hands up in the air. “Oh, my God. Dad, you’re so full of it. You have to stop with the snooping.”
“I really am sorry. Is there any way I can make it up to you? Do you want me to put up the shelves we talked about in the laundry room?”
“No, I don’t want you to put up shelves in the laundry room. I want you to start making it up to me by staying here with Sam.”
Her eyes lit up.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
Sam clapped her hands silently and smiled at me. “She’s going to LA, Grandpa.”
“But, your birthday,” he said.
“That’s the last thing I care about right now.”
“I see.” He seemed both resigned and annoyed.
Upstairs, I packed by throwing anything clean in the suitcase. There was a soft knock and my dad peered around the door, pushing it open.
“I can’t talk to you right now. I’m packing.” I stormed into my bathroom and grabbed toothpaste and shampoo, stuffing them into my toiletry bag.
“Ladybug, I can’t let you go until we talk.”
“I really don’t feel like dealing with this. We can talk when I get back.”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “We have to talk. Now.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. My dad was the guy who avoided confrontation at all costs. “I understand why you did what you did, okay? I’m still furious with you.” I turned to him.
“I know.” His voice cracked and I could see the pain in his eyes. “But, I didn’t say everything. There’s something else.” He took a deep breath. “When I watched you in that hospital bed, well, I’m not afraid to admit it, I panicked. I saw your mother. I was so thankful when you woke up and the doctors said you’d be fine. But then Christopher was there and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you to him.”
I shut my eyes. “Dad, it’s not like you would’ve lost me to him. I’m always going to be your daughter.”
“I know that, Jellybean. But sometimes I feel like you and Sam are all I have left on this earth. Your sister keeps her distance because I drive her crazy. I know I drive you crazy too, but you find a way to put up with it. Don’t think that I don’t know the sacrifice you made by coming to North Carolina to be closer to me. Your sister wasn’t willing to do that.” His voice began to waver again. “That’s the sort of thing your mother would’ve done.”
I swallowed, his words working into me. I’d always thought of myself as a disappointment because I’d screwed up so many times in my life. I got pregnant in college and never got married, but I had managed to give him a granddaughter he loved more than anything. I was cranky with him most of the time, but he still wanted to visit, he didn’t want me to go. He loved me. He just wasn’t very good at showing it. I loved him too and I wasn’t doing much better.
“Thank you, Daddy. That means a lot.”
He stepped closer and wiped a tear from my cheek. “So you really love him?”
I blew out a breath. “More than you can imagine.”
He gave me a hug and held on to me. “I just want you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Chapter Forty-Six
With the exception of my high school locker combination, I’ve always had an awesome memory for numbers—phone numbers, prices, and hopefully, security codes.
“5-3-7-2-6,” I mumbled to myself and closed my eyes when I pushed the pound key. The gate creaked when it started to roll across the driveway. My heart hammered against my chest. This is crazy.
It felt as though I stood there forever after I rang the bell and I worried about what Chris was doing or with who he might be as I kicked a stray pebble from the entryway. I rang the bell a second time and it occurred to me that anyone who got to the front door had to know the number for the gate. If the system worked the way it was supposed to, Chris didn’t have to contend with Girl Scouts. Maybe he wouldn’t answer the door at all. Maybe he’d just call the police.
I began re-thinking my plan, but then I heard the door latch and my heart resumed its frantic pace, forcing adrenaline through my veins. The door opened and we both stood there, staring at each other. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, throbbing in my ears. He looked surprised to see me, but I was in shock. Chris had shaved off his incredible head of hair.
I scanned his face and settled on the green, flat and dead. I felt as if my legs could collapse and each breath came with a piercing sensation through my chest. He stepped aside and held the door open, without a word.
“Thanks.” I parked my suitcase right inside the entry, now worried that it looked like I’d presumed where I might be staying for the night.
My horror at the sight of his naked head was pushed aside by a new image, much like the path
of destruction left by a tornado. There was a heap of mail on the foyer table, magazines and bills spilling onto the floor. Rows of books were splayed out on the white shag below empty shelves. Someone had apparently taken their hand and relocated them in several fell swoops. Dust bunnies congregated on the concrete floor, the throw pillows were everywhere, and there were a dozen or more empty beer bottles on the coffee table.
He’d taken down all of his favorite pieces of art and propped them against the wall, facing away. The room was depressing and dark, the massive windows hidden behind heavy black curtains. I never even knew he had curtains.
“This is a surprise. What are you doing here?” His voice was weak and gloomy.
“You didn’t return my phone calls and I needed to talk to you.”
He looked down again, at the filthy floor, and crossed his arms across his stomach, pointy elbows jutting. “I forgot to charge my cell phone. Don’t take it personally.” He made eye contact and it felt as though someone with big fat hands was choking me. “I would’ve called you back eventually.”
He was a shadow of the man I knew, ghastly with somber half-moons under his eyes and a greenish-gray cast to all of him. His cheekbones, normally the crowning touch of his ideal face, were so pronounced that it looked as if they might rub holes through his skin. I desperately missed his hair and his scraggly attempt at a beard was no substitute.
I was beyond uncomfortable, my mind racing and fighting to make sense of it all. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. I wanted to jump into his arms and fix everything. Instead, it felt as though he didn’t want me anywhere near him.
“I don’t want to intrude.” I choked at the thought.
“No. It’s fine. Can I get you something?”
“Um.” I swallowed. “Water?”
He shuffled off to the kitchen and I followed.
The sink held a dozen dirty glasses but no plates or silverware and there was no sign that anyone had cooked recently.
“Did you have a party?” I asked, feeling muzzy headed.
He handed me a bottle of water and I saw that except for many beers, there was nothing but a dried-up orange in the fridge. “No.”
