Tumble

by Locke, Adriana

  “Nah, it was.”

  “It was,” I emphasize. “But I shouldn’t have said it like that. It makes me seem classless.”

  “Oh,” he says, his grin returning. “You’re sorry so you don’t feel like an ass. Not because it might’ve hurt my feelings?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So classy of you, Neely.”

  “The last time I talked to you, I was pretty convinced you didn’t have feelings.” I laugh. “So, pardon me.”

  He considers this as he plops a box of fruity cereal into his cart. “Okay. I can see where you’re coming from there, and I can’t argue it.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not saying you’re right. Don’t get excited.”

  “I was so close,” I say, feigning defeat.

  “Let’s not get crazy, babe.”

  His term of endearment has me stutter-stepping around the endcap. My shoulder hits a tower of potato chips, and the plastic rustles together, knocking one bag to the floor. I peek at him from the corner of my eye. He’s looking at me with a dose of caution.

  “Sorry.” He winces. “It just slipped out.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  Our gazes refuse to break, although he’s trying as hard as I am to look away. He finally bends to get the dropped chips as I fan my face to quell the blush in my cheeks.

  “I don’t think it’s crushed too bad,” he says, situating the bag on the rack.

  “Just give it to me.” I take it off the rack again and toss it in my cart. “I’ll have a guilty conscience otherwise.”

  He laughs freely but doesn’t comment. Instead, we continue down the aisle, going so slowly I could probably read every label as we pass. He points to little cakes shaped like stars with lime-green icing. Memories of those sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car when he picked me up for school make my chest ache so hard it steals my breath.

  “I haven’t had one of those in forever,” I say.

  “I get them sometimes.” He shrugs, the ridge of his shoulders flexing against the fabric of his shirt. “They’re smaller than I remembered, though. They’re half the size of my hand.” He holds his hand out to demonstrate.

  “What did you do to your thumb?” The nail is a gnarly shade of purple, and the end is almost double the size of his other fingers.

  “Hammer.” He makes a motion like he’s swinging a tool toward his thumb and makes a popping noise.

  “Guess you didn’t take after your father after all,” I goad.

  “That’s not nice.”

  “That’s true. How many times has he hit his finger? Never. Because he’s the best.”

  “You wound me.” He tries to pout but ends up laughing. “He’d like to see you, you know.”

  My eyes dart to the floor. Leaving and never checking in with Nick was unfair. He was so good to me, loved me, even, and I just left. It was easy to rationalize then. He had Dane and his decisions to deal with, and I told myself having anything to do with either of them would only complicate things. That the responsible thing to do was just stay away.

  That got harder as the years went on. I’d remember his birthday and want to send a card or see his favorite saltwater taffy and want to ship some his way.

  I should see him. I want to, even. But the idea of being hit in the face with a family that isn’t mine sends the lump in my throat rising.

  “Yeah, well,” I begin, clearing my throat. “I’m not sure I’ll have time.”

  He nods, his face falling. “I get it. How long did you say you’ll be around?”

  “A few days, most likely,” I say off the cuff. “Hopefully not longer than that.”

  I make a turn down the bread aisle, and he follows suit. I wonder how long he’s going to follow me. I also wonder how much I’m going to buy before I have the balls to walk away.

  “Why? You have something against this place?” he asks, his cart rolling to a stop. “Pretty sure Dogwood Lane is fond of you.”

  A swallow passes down his throat. I wait for his lopsided smile, but it doesn’t come. Instead, a guarded hesitation is written across his face like he’s afraid he’s the something.

  “I do have something against this place,” I say, the lump in my throat evident. You. “My heart is in New York.”

  His brows pull together, and I have to look away.

  Lurching my cart forward, the wheels spinning as fast as my heart, I push to the dairy case. I don’t look over my shoulder to see if he’s following because I don’t have to. His energy wallops me from behind.

  As I make the longest decision between almond and coconut milk in the history of dairy decisions, he stands behind me and waits.

  “If you aren’t going to be around long, Matt and Penn would love to see you,” he offers finally, breaking the silence. “And Dad. A lot of people, Neely.”

  The disappointment in his tone, the slight accusatory nature, like I don’t care for anyone anymore, pricks at my heart. “I’ve missed them, you know.”

  “They’d appreciate knowing that.” He starts to laugh. “Just word it carefully around Penn . . .”

  A giggle escapes my lips. “Is he still so ornery?”

  “Time hasn’t done Penn any favors in the growing-up department. Or Matt either, for that matter.”

  “Really? Neither have settled down? I figured Matt would have a wife and Penn . . . Well, I figured Penn would have ten kids.”

  “By ten women?” Dane chuckles.

  “I didn’t say that. But yeah,” I add, laughing.

  “Matt was almost married a few years ago to this chick he met at a bar in Nashville, but surprise, surprise. It didn’t work out. And Penn . . .”

  “Same Penn?”

  “Same Penn,” he admits. “Sleeping with anything that will move.”

  “That’s so gross.”

  He holds his hands out like he’s told him the same thing. “They’ll be at Mucker’s tomorrow night. I’m seeing them this morning if you want me to pass anything along.”

  I don’t know what to pass along because I don’t know them anymore. A “hello” seems pointless and a “call me sometime” ridiculous, and I just wish this weren’t so weird.

  Imagining their faces—Matt’s huge smile and Penn’s wisecracking grin—makes me want to tell Dane I’ll swing by and see them. But as soon as the words are on my tongue, I consider how awkward it might be, and I chicken out.

  My cart becomes super interesting as I flip my gaze to the random contents. The air between us moves as if on the precipice of something. Like it’s waiting for us to switch into the next phase of this conversation, one I can’t identify.

  “Let them know I asked about them,” I say finally.

  Dane seems disappointed. “Will do.”

  I realize how much time I’ve spent walking the aisles for no reason, and if it were any other man standing with me, I’d pray to God he’d ask for my number. He is insanely attractive and remembers details about me and smells so good I want to attach myself to his chest and just breathe him in.

  But it’s not. It’s Dane. And with all the comfortableness that comes with being around him, so do hope and worries and assumptions, and I find myself hating I ever turned around to see him today. Even more, I hate that I came home at all, because now I can’t just hate him. Now things are messy.

  A part of me will never forgive him for what he did. I may have found the pieces of my broken heart, but they’ll never fit together the way they did before that Saturday morning when he destroyed it.

  We can’t be friends. I can’t be a part of his life. I can’t have that time of my life thrown in my face every time I see him or think about him.

  The longer I stay here and chitchat with him, however harmless it may seem, the harder it’s going to make forgetting him again. Because that’s how our story ends. With goodbye.

  I feel his gaze on my cheek, and when I look up, he’s trying to see right through me. The greens swim with the yellows in his irises
, and I could lose myself there so easily. So I look away.

  “Neely . . .”

  “I need to go,” I say, giving him the best smile I can. “Good to see you again.”

  His exhale is hasty. He reaches for my cart but stops himself short.

  My hand trembles against the red plastic cart handle, my palm sliding off and dropping to my side. I hate how his eyes make me want to reach out to him. I loathe that I will now remember this feeling tonight as I’m lying in bed and attempting to sleep. Wishing things could be different. Regretting that they can’t, that I wasn’t quite enough, and that he didn’t even want to fight for me. For us.

  He didn’t even try.

  “Want to meet up for drinks or something?” he asks, playing with a slice along the thigh of his jeans. “Just to catch up.”

  I pause, ignoring the burning sensation over the bridge of my nose and gathering myself before answering. “What do we have to talk about, Dane?”

  He searches my face before speaking again.

  “We don’t have anything to talk about,” he admits. “It’s just been a hell of a long time since I’ve seen you, and I’d like to know how you are. Who you are.”

  It would be so easy to succumb to this. A bigger part of me than I want to admit wants to. His arms are the only ones I’ve ever felt safe in. His stories the only ones I’ve ever wanted to hear over and over. His scent is the one I think I smell on random streets in the city and find myself stopping, even now, to see where it’s coming from.

  But as I feel myself break, I remind myself I’m not eighteen anymore, and he doesn’t deserve to know me. And I don’t want to know him and all that his life entails.

  “I’m just somebody you used to know that’s home visiting her mom.”

  He scowls, unamused by my response. “It’s that simple, huh?”

  No. “Yeah. It’s that simple.” My heart drops to my sneakers, panic filling the void. I need air. I need space. I need a lobotomy for even talking to him. “It was good to see you. Take care, all right?”

  We exchange a tentative smile, one that neither of us truly believes.

  With a nod his direction, I flip my cart in a one-eighty and finally head to the cashier. He doesn’t follow.

  By the time I pull the oddball items I don’t need from my cart and place them on the conveyor, the knot in my stomach has grown. I can’t even remember why I came to the grocery store to start with.

  My subconscious seems to be scanning the area on high alert for Dane’s presence. I chastise myself again as I swipe my credit card.

  It’s that simple.

  Yeah, right.

  It’s never that simple.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NEELY

  There you are!”

  Aerial’s dark ponytail swishes as she propels herself across the gym. If the bright overhead halogens weren’t enough to light up the room, her smile would do it.

  Banners from competitions hang on the opposite wall, stretching the expanse of the room. They’re visual proof of the excellent teaching staff. The other walls display motivational quotes, pictures of students in their glory, and a rack of trophies in all shapes and sizes. Couple all that with the faint smell of sweat and bleach, and it’s like coming home.

  “Get over here and give me a hug,” Aerial insists, coming at me with arms wide open.

  “How are you?” I ask as she pulls me in.

  “I was at Mucker’s last night and heard you were in town.” She releases me but holds my hands in between us as she steps back. “I was going to swing by your mama’s tonight and rail at you for not coming to see me.”

  “I’ve just needed a couple of days to myself,” I say, curling my nose. It’s a simple gesture, an automatic one, but it gives enough away for Aerial to pick up on it.

  “Things not so hot in New York?” When I don’t reply, just slump my shoulders for her benefit, she drops my hands. “Does this mean you’re home for good?”

  She starts along the edge of the mats toward her office, motioning me to follow. A few younger girls are stretching on the far side of the gym and wave in my direction. I lift my hand and move it back and forth, earning a giggle from the group.

  There’s a lightness in my steps as I follow Aerial. I’ve padded across these mats more times than I’ve ever walked anything in my life. They’ve caught my tears, heard my cheers, listened to my frustrations, and absorbed my perspiration. No matter what was happening in my life, what I was worried about or scared of, the gym was my sanctuary.

  Aerial’s office is a small, purple space that fits her to a T. She sits at her desk, and I slide into a chair across from her.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asks.

  “What? New York or the show?” I tilt my head toward a folder with SUMMER SHOW stamped across the front. “I heard you’re in the throes of the best one ever.”

  “It’s going to be great,” she says, eyes twinkling. “The backdrops are overboard and totally too much in the best way. We somehow roped a band from Nashville to play after the final performance on Saturday, and someone from the mayor’s office—Trudy, you won’t remember her, she got here after you left—helped with the carnival. It’s going to be incredible.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “So . . .” She sits back in her chair. “Any chance my star student could hang around and help out with it this year?”

  My laugh dances through the room. “I don’t think I’ll be around for the actual show, but I’d love to help out until I leave.”

  “The girls would love that. You’re kind of a legend around here.”

  “They’re going to be so disappointed.”

  “Hardly,” she says. “I bust out your Finals tape every year as motivation.”

  Memories from that epic night flicker through my mind, raising goose bumps across my arms. The roar of the crowd, the electricity floating through the air, the excitement rolling off my teammates as I stood in the center of the mat and waited for the music to start.

  “I haven’t thought about that in a long time,” I admit.

  “If I pulled out a perfect routine on national television, I’d think about it every day.”

  “I’ve had a lot of other things to think about, you know. Like rent.”

  She laughs with me.

  “Trials of adulthood,” she says.

  “I’m really not enjoying adulthood as much as I once thought I might. It’s freaking hard, Aerial.”

  She smiles softly. “It doesn’t get any easier. But at least you’re home for a bit. How does it feel to be back in God’s country?”

  It’s not a loaded question, but it certainly feels like one. By the contented smile on her face, I know she expects an answer full of sunshine and roses. That coming back seems like a perfect fit and akin to a warm robe on a cool evening. Truth is, it’s not. Not completely.

  I struggle with how to explain that my adult memories take place on the streets of the city. How I love a good play in an antiquated theater and street food that may or may not make me sick. The museums brimming with history, the way you can sit in Central Park and lose yourself in the throngs of strangers, are my new normal. I miss them. I love them. I love them as much as I used to love the quiet streets of Dogwood Lane, especially when the streets here are filled with people who have lives and experiences I know nothing about anymore.

  “It’s strange,” I say, tossing out the closest word I can find that gets near how I feel.

  “Strange?”

  “Yeah,” I admit, shrugging. “I’m a fish out of water. I drive through town or wake up in my old bedroom, and for a split second, it feels like that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. But then I talk to people, even my own mother, and things aren’t like I remembered them. How could they be? I mean, I’m not the same person I was when I left, so why would they be? Does that make any sense?”

  “Absolutely. But I bet you won’t feel so ‘fish out of water’ here long. You’ll find your st
ride.”

  “I don’t know.” I cringe. “I’m used to being able to get a latte on every corner and Chinese at three in the morning. It’s like I’ve gone back in time.”

  “No one needs Chinese at three in the morning.”

  “When you’re putting together a piece that’s due at six a.m., you need Chinese at three,” I insist. “Trust me.”

  She leans back and assesses me. Arms over her chest, eyes narrowed, she sweeps her gaze over my face in a way that makes me squirm. “So, Neely, why are you really home?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you here? And don’t give me the crap answer you’re giving everyone.”

  Fidgeting in my seat, I shrug. “I’m visiting Mom.”

  “Remember when you used to fall off the balance beam,” she says, “and I’d ask you girls why and you’d say you slipped. And I’d ask you why you slipped—what were you thinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you thinking that made you want to come back after all this time?”

  “I quit my job,” I say, shifting my weight.

  “Maybe, but that’s not why you’re here.” She stands and leans against her desk. “Shouldn’t you be there job hunting?”

  Scrubbing my hands down my face, I feel the weariness settle in my muscles. I should be there doing just that, but the thought of fighting that battle today is overwhelming. Being here, in the gym, at Mom’s, seems weirdly more palatable.

  “Have you ever become so tired you felt like you were running on autopilot? Like you go through every day in survival mode and you hope tomorrow is better?” I ask.

  “I’m a mom. So yes.”

  I grin weakly. “I’m tired, Aerial. And not just from this whole job-loss, job-hunt thing—although I’m not enjoying that. But I’m just exhausted from life.”

  The words aren’t a revelation, but saying them out loud seems to ring a lot truer than I even realized. I feel so much more run-down than I did when I ran in here, like verbalizing it to Aerial somehow gave me permission to feel it. As I wrap my brain around that, I imagine starting all over again—working my way up the ladder at a brand-new company—and I want to cry.

  “Exhausted from life? How so?”