Twenty seven, p.6
Twenty-Seven, page 6
I smiled like his comment hadn’t slightly wounded my ego. He’d called me ‘a little dramatic’ once before when we were young. I asked him if he would write to me, and maybe-kinda-sorted insinuated that I might love him. But what the fuck can you possibly know about love when you’re fifteen, right?
The memory glimmered across my eyes, and I knew he noticed. His eyebrows furrowed as he searched his mind for something to say that might make me feel better about how I felt before I was old enough to know any better.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” I smiled again, mustering more authenticity. “It’s ok. I was at NYU when we met. He was all – messy black hair, big brown eyes, and an unapologetic British accent. He wrote the most gorgeous strings of words and when he sang them, he made me sad in a way that made me love the sadness. I loved everything about him. And then I took that picture and I guess the world decided they loved him too.”
I laughed because there was a deeper truth to that love story. It’s forever memorialized in songs and photos I’ll never get away from. It felt like everyone in the world already knew, but it was still too depressing to talk about over breakfast.
“Not the whole world,” he noted. “Honestly, he always seemed like a pretentious asshole to me.”
I smiled, remembering how Finn always considered ‘pretentious’ a compliment. “He was a lot of things. ‘Pretentious’ is just the thing that made him famous.”
He sipped his coffee and tried not to look too charmed. “I didn’t know you liked that sort of thing.”
“Oh Carter. You could fill a library with the things you don’t know about me.” I winked, because it seemed like that cliché of a moment when winking is appropriate. “Can we talk about one of your ex-girlfriends now?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Get cozy while I tell you all about the dreaded Emily, longtime girlfriend turned cautionary tale.”
Carter’s story about Emily was longer and more involved than what I’d been willing to divulge about Finn. He met her in college, and she was tall, blonde, and rich. I imagined she probably looked like the girl version of Carter. She surfed, because she’d grown up in San Diego. He studied philosophy, and she was pre-med, and that meant he’d never be good enough in her parents’ eyes.
The final straw was when they started talking about marriage. She went out and bought herself an engagement ring befitting a girl of her upbringing. She was certain she’d done him a favor, since this was a ring he never could have afforded on his own.
“Wow.” I said, shocked into near silence.
“Yeah. Pretty bad, huh?” He chuckled.
“Just a bit.”
“So how did it end with . . .” Carter hesitated to say his name.
“Oh, you know. Life.” I thought distantly to a moment I actively kept locked in the recesses of my mind.
“That is . . . painfully vague,” he laughed. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“Well . . .” I searched for a string of words to tell him the truth, but not the whole of it. “We both went around the world, but in different directions. We called and wrote and did video chats. Then we called a little less, and the video chats got a little sadder. The months went by, and the time differences got longer. One day I was in Australia, and he was in California. It was three in the morning for him, and he was still a little drunk from a show. He told me his heart was too broken to keep trying to love me from the opposite side of the world.”
“Wow, that’s,” he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and I could see he was trying not to say the wrong thing. “That’s really fucking sad.”
“Yeah, he was all sad eyes and tired hair, looking at me through his phone screen like he just wanted to reach out and touch me. And then two perfect double D breasts emerged onto his screen from behind him,” I laughed. “And a girl a lot prettier than me, with distinctly sex smudged eyeliner, asked him to shut off the light so she could go back to sleep.”
“Fucking, ouch.” He tried not to laugh.
“Fucking ouch, indeed.” I rolled my eyes at the recollection. “He meant it though – the part about being heartbroken. But as it turns out, heartbreak isn’t an ailment you can cure with perfect double D’s. And there’s a whole album of songs I still can’t listen to, to prove it.”
He looked at me with sorry eyes, as if to say he’d never treat me that way. He held it for half a second before deciding to lighten the mood.
“So. Sex-smudged eyeliner, huh? That’s a thing?”
“Not for me. But for anyone who bothers with eyeliner – yeah – that’s a thing.”
Ten in the morning made a smooth transition into afternoon as we continued to talk about our lives. When we could see that the waitress was tired of asking if we needed anything else, I insisted on paying the check and he walked me to the car I’d been borrowing from my dad. Before I could shut the driver’s side door, he had a bright idea.
“What about ice cream?” he proposed, nudging his head toward the shops just a block away. “I’m not quite ready to say goodbye.”
Things You Can’t Take Back
WE WALKED together licking ice cream as he kept ‘accidentally’ bumping his shoulder into mine. He told jokes so dumb you can’t help but laugh, and as I caught my breath, I tried to remember the last time I’d laughed so hard.
In a moment of boldness, he looked over at me the way I’d always wished he would when I was a teenager.
“You know, if you were mine, I’d never hurt you like that.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, still calming down from a fit of laughter.
“The double D’s.”
I could have been his. He had no idea of the ease with which he could have had me ten years earlier if only he’d tried. I hadn’t seen Finn in a long time, but I still felt defensive of him. I still felt defensive of us. No one would ever know what it was like when we were together, and so no one could ever really understand what it felt like when we fell apart.
“If we’re being honest, though, you don’t really know what you’d do in that situation. People cope differently. Some people enlist the help of perfect breasts, and others minimize important moments as ‘little girl crushes’ and call you dramatic as they leave town to join the military.”
“Wow, been hanging on to that one for a while now, haven’t we?” It was a low blow; one I saw in the flicker of regret in his eyes. “Touché.”
“Sorry. I’m a little,” I started to smile, “some people say I’m a little dramatic.”
“Who would ever say that?” He laughed before moving on. “So, do you guys keep in touch? Do you ever see him?” He asked curiously.
“Why the interest in my love life, Carter?” He was starting to ask questions I didn’t want to answer.
“It’s a general interest in you, Jaxon.”
My stomach tightened at the thought of Carter having a ‘general interest’ in me after all these years.
“No, we don’t actively keep in touch. But we do see each other sometimes. Usually at festivals or award shows. You know how it is.”
He laughed. “Your brother said you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Nonchalantly talk about your life like everyone knows what it’s like to be you.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not as glamorous as it seems.”
“So, when you see him, is it weird?”
“Nah. It’s always pretty friendly. It’s been a while since we were together. Almost four years. I think there are some connections that are hard to break though, so we’re always friendly when we see each other. He greets me with a sweaty hug and tells me he’s happy to see me doing well. He’ll grab my camera and snap a few shots of the two of us together, and then he’ll rush off with a groupie.”
“He sounds regretful,” he noted sarcastically.
“He probably is, honestly. But there are some things you can’t take back, and some loves you can’t go home to. The last time I saw him, it was brief and mostly superficial. When’s the last time you saw the dreaded Emily?”
He thought for a moment before answering. “The last I saw Emily was in a newspaper. Wedding announcement. Heart surgeon, I think. It was a picture of them with her parents. Her dad looked ecstatic, and her ring was enormous, so I guess she got everything she ever wanted.”
“If I didn’t know you any better, Carter, I’d say that sounded a little bitter.”
“Well, there’s a backstory, and brace yourself, because it’s a scandal!” He lifted four fingers to his lips like he wasn’t supposed to talk about it. “She called me during her bachelorette party. She was crying, saying she wished things were different, and she wanted to see me.”
“Wow. Did you go see her?”
“Nah. It’s like you said, you know? Some things you can’t take back. I told her she was just nervous, and this is what she wanted. The big wedding, the rich husband, the status – all of it. She sniffled a little but agreed I was right. She apologized for calling, and that’s the last I heard from her. A few days later, I saw that picture in the newspaper and figured she was where she wanted to be.”
We sat together in the sand, looking out at the Pacific, in silent retrospect of the (frankly) exhausting string of conversations we’d just had. After several minutes of silence, he asked me about work.
I told him about a time I’d grown particularly close to an indie-folk band, and they invited me on tour with them. I talked about the many places I’d seen, and how the only constant is the way music moves people. The crying girls in the front row, the lighters and cell phone flashlights that look like stars in a big crowd during the perfect slow song.
“Seems like that kind of life makes it sort of hard to settle down and grow up,” he said, interrupting my train of thought.
The insinuation that I wasn’t a grown up, jolted me. I supposed it might seem that way to someone who worked in an office with a steady schedule.
“I guess that all just depends on your definition of ‘grown up.’ I’m pretty grown. My life just looks a little different than most.”
“Fair enough. So, what, are you just here on vacation? You’re not trying to settle down?”
Settle down.
I hate that phrase. It implies your life can’t be settled unless you’re living the cookie cutter version of adulthood.
“Just needed a break, I guess.” Like so much of what I’d already divulged, it was the truth, just not the whole of it.
“Huh,” he mused as he twiddled a broken seashell between his fingers, “that’s a half-truth if I’ve ever heard one.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. There’s got to be more to the story, but you insist on being mysterious. Don’t worry. I’ll wait a few more dates before I press the issue any further.”
“A few more dates? Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“Oh, please,” he laughed.
And just like that, we were blanketed in awkward silence. We’d run out of things to say. Not to be outdone by stillness, he rubbed his hands up and down the knees of his jeans, and he asked me to see a movie with him.
When I was sixteen and Carter was nineteen, he came home for Christmas. He came to our house to visit West, also home on a break. They hung out in West’s room all day, playing video games and talking about girls. Dad fed them pizza and beer, because ‘if Carter’s old enough to serve his country, he’s old enough for a brewski!’
The night ended with West going to a party and Carter saying he needed to get home. He lingered around the doorway to my bedroom as West ran past him, saying goodbye on his way out.
I pretended not to see him. I lay on my back with a book directly above me, and a giant set of headphones covering my ears. He walked into my room and sat down at the foot of my bed, lifting my legs and draping them across his lap. He leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled something out of his messenger bag, placing it on my lap.
A vinyl record. What’s the Story (Morning Glory), by Oasis. My favorite album. I used to listen to it every day, crying over lyrics I could feel in my soul.
I took my headphones off. “What’s this?” I asked him.
He responded, “Oh, you know. I figured you’d worn out your CD listening to “Wonderwall” on repeat.” He bought it in London. He knew I always wanted to go there, just like he knew Oasis was my favorite band.
He stood up and said he really did have to get home, and I stood up too. I hugged him, thanking him for the record. He lingered in the embrace longer than would have been acceptable to my brother. Before letting go, he asked in a whisper if he could take me to the movies. I nodded ‘yes’ into the crook of his neck and he kissed me on the forehead before leaving.
He never took me to that movie.
Better late than never, I supposed.
A River Party
I GRADUATED from high school when I was seventeen. Why is that relevant? It’s relevant insofar as ten-year reunions are relevant. Not to me, of course, but to my friends who I can never say no to.
I understood that these sorts of events were supposed to happen right around graduation time, but what do I know about throwing a ten-year reunion? The genius (and I use that term with a full force of sarcasm) that is Cherrie McSherrie (yes, that’s her real name) decided that the best Green Valley High School reunions happen at the outset of July. According to the reunion newsletter, authored by the lovely Miss McSherrie: “July is for parades, and rodeos, and carnivals, and FUN!” Since ten-year reunions obviously fall into the category of ‘FUN’ ours also needed to be in July.
It’s not a short trip to Green Valley. It takes five hours to get there from Malibu, so ours would be a weekend trip. Cherrie McSherrie, who had been a good friend of Cindy’s back in high school, graciously offered us her guestroom. A convenient perk, considering there was only one good hotel in the small town, and it was sure to be overrun by former classmates.
I wish I’d had the foresight to tell Cindy and Lizzie that it was still too soon post-surgery for five-hour road trips. I didn’t think that far ahead. I’d made the mistake of telling them that Dr. McAllister had cleared me for car rides, just in case I wanted to get away for the 4th of July holiday. Dr. McAllister was under the impression that ‘a little bit of fun’ would be good for the healing process.
That’s how I ended up on a road trip back to the Salad Bowl with my friends. The worst of it was not the reunion. Don’t get me wrong, reunions are bad enough on their own, but this reunion was also a river party.
River parties. Because you’re never too old to pretend you’re too young.
Cherrie McSherrie never bothered with leaving our hometown. That might sound bitchy, and it is a little, but if I were Cherrie, I wouldn’t have left either. The McSherrie family were royalty throughout the Salinas Valley. McSherrie Vineyard employed a good portion of the people who lived in the cluster of small towns between Green Valley and Salinas. Headquartered in Green Valley itself, McSherrie Vineyard also supplied much of the community revenue. The family home, aptly named McSherrie Manor, sat atop a large hillside overlooking acres of grapevines as far as the eye could see. In fact, that balcony in the big fancy house where Carter and I shared our first kiss? You guessed it. McSherrie Manor.
Cindy caught us up on all things McSherrie during our long drive. Beau McSherrie, Cherrie’s older brother and former classmate of West and Carter, stayed behind after his own graduation to learn the family business. Ten short years later and he now runs the place. Cherrie was their head of marketing. She was in the middle of planning a very expensive wedding to a local politician, Gary Waterson, who was rumored to be running for mayor in the next term. Nothing could be more fitting than the future Mrs. Cherrie McSherrie-Waterson being the first lady of Green Valley.
“Cherrie just texted asking for our ETA,” Cindy noted from the front seat. “We’re going to her place first to get changed before the reunion. She’s so excited to see you girls!” I rolled my eyes. Neither Lizzie or I had ever been on Cherrie McSherrie’s radar in high school.
“What’s that about, Jax?” Cindy asked, apparently having caught my eye roll in the rearview mirror. “She’s genuinely excited to see you. She wants to hear all about life as a music photographer.”
“Oh, and I’m just dying to tell her. You know how much I love girl-talk!”
“Be nice, Jaxon.” Even as she said it, Lizzie looked back, giving me a knowing smirk.
“Sounds like her life is still picture perfect.” I said, staring out at the perfect alignment of lush green lettuce fields.
We’d finally arrived in the valley.
“No one’s life is perfect, Jax. You’re such a snob,” Cindy responded. “Please tell me you brought something appropriate to wear.”
“Yeah. More jeans and t-shirts. Oh, and clean underwear.”
“Is that really what you plan to wear to the reunion?” Cindy continued glaring at me through the rearview.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I plan to wear to this ten-year reunion kegger on the river. Sorry, I left my cocktail dress in my other suitcase, along with my other personality.”
“Well, not to worry,” she said with a devilish grin. “I’ve got plenty of cocktail dresses in my closet, and I packed one for you.”
As it turns out, the reunion wasn’t actually on the river. It was at some liquor scented lodge overlooking the river. Everyone was there – the valedictorian, the head cheerleader, the quarterback whose virtue was stolen by Cindy. Our school colors were prominent in streamers and flowers made of tissue. For a second, I thought I might be drowning in a parade float.
Pictures adorned the walls all around us. Our teenage selves memorialized in photo collage after photo collage. I found one of Cindy, Lizzie and me. Cindy in a short plaid skirt, Lizzie with her cardigan and a book tucked at her side, and me in a pair of torn jeans and a Radiohead t-shirt. I gently traced the tattered edges with my finger, worried the photo might dissolve at any moment. I thought about the simplicity of catching a person’s soul in a photo.
