Wynn in Doubt (21 page)

“Here.” She presses the photo of Lola into my hand.

“You should—”

“Keep it. Please.”

She doesn’t walk me to the front door. I let myself out, and it isn’t until I’m a mile down the road that I realize I forgot the diary. Maybe it’s for the best. Lola’s story, the past week with Oliver? They’ve been diversions masquerading as answers.

The light at the intersection turns yellow, then red. I stop, the first in a growing line of cars. Lola’s picture sits beside me on the passenger’s seat. I look away, outside at the people who seem to be everywhere. Other drivers, women pushing strollers, men in baseball caps, couples and kids and old people. All living. All waiting for one thing or another. What makes me so special? I press a resigned laugh into my hand, then tilt my head back. Shutting everything out for a few seconds. Restless, dissatisfied, resentful . . . foolish.

I’m going to take the social studies job. I’m taking it because there’s no reason not to. It’ll be a good job, if I let it be. Besides, I can’t go on like this. Always dreaming, always hoping things will change. It’s me that needs to change. I can’t live my whole life waiting for someday. If Lola’s story has taught me anything, it’s that life is about choices. I may get them wrong at times, as she sometimes did, but the important thing is to try. I need to start trying.

His back is to me when I turn into the parking lot. Hands casually stuck into jeans pockets, T-shirt half–tucked in. Maybe he has a time machine, after all. He looks almost exactly like the teenage boy I was so infatuated with.

Oliver turns toward my headlights, a big smile on his face, and I’m struck by the sameness of it. I’ve been waiting for him to come to me the same as I’ve been waiting for everything else. My life stalled when I was seventeen. I just didn’t realize how much of that was my fault. Until now.

“You came.” He comes to me and helps me out of the car, placing a kiss on my lips.

An ache like regret burns inside me. How much time have I wasted remembering that first kiss? How many relationships did I doom unconsciously by comparing every other kiss to that one? I pull away from him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just went to see my mom.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Yes. No. Maybe?”

His laugh relaxes me. “Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“Me, too.”

“But I haven’t given up hope.”

“Oh, no?”

“No.” His dark stubble will turn into a beard soon if he doesn’t shave.

I run my fingertips over it. “You let this grow out any longer and people are going to start calling you a hipster.”

He kisses the tender spot behind my ear, then rubs his stubble against me. It tickles, and I fight to get away. “Oh, no you don’t. You want a hipster boyfriend? I’ll give you all the hipster boyfriend you can handle.”

His words stop me. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I thought so. Unless you’re looking to keep your options open?”

My lips always insist on making a fool of me in front of him. “No.” I shake my head. “No options.”

“Alright.” He kisses me on the nose. “Now that’s settled, I actually brought you here for a reason.”

“Oh no. You’re not going to try and surprise me again, are you?”

“Haha.” His smile is nervous, not at all like him. He rubs the back of his neck, and his eyes shift from me to the ground and back again. “I want you to come with me.”

“Come with you? Where?”

“Nashville. I’ve got friends there. They’re making some amazing music, and I think we should go. Together.”

Wait.
“What?”

“I know it’s sudden, but I’ve been thinking about it for a few days. You’ve inspired me, Wynn. I feel good. For the first time in a long time, I feel really, really good. Like I could write songs again. It’s time for me to get back on the road, and I want you to come with me this time.”

He stands tall and sure of himself now. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t dreamed of this. It’s everything I thought I wanted. But I don’t feel excited. I don’t feel that tug against my stomach. I feel frustrated and angry and pulled in too many directions. I adore Oliver, I want to be with him, but music is his dream, not mine.

“Oliver . . .” I swallow, buying time. Trying to find honest words. “I got the job.” I move my hand toward the building on my left. “They want me to start in a couple of weeks.”

The confidence leaves his shoulders.

“Franny actually hand-delivered the offer.”

“You’re taking it?”

I need him to understand. I’ve been waiting to do something with my life for years. Something for myself. I’m tired of waiting. “Oliver—”

“Don’t.” He turns away from me, squinting into the darkness of the parking lot.

“Please understand. I would love to go with you. I want to be with you. But I need to take this job.”

“Why?” His eyes flash. “What can this job possibly offer that would make missing out on this experience worth it?”

My mother’s words about trading my connection to the people who love me for just the possibility of something more come back to me. I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t walk out on my family. Not now. Not like this.

“You said you’d go with me.”

I touch his arm, and it tenses beneath my fingers. “And I want to, but—”

“Come with me.” He takes my hand in his. “I want to be with you.”

“I want to be with you, too.” The words hurt as they cross my lips. To lose him now feels so incredibly unfair.

“Then say you’ll come.”

I can’t.

Oliver nods, accepting my silence as an answer. He leans back on his heels, away from me. “I thought we wanted the same things.”

I’m struck by his tone and rigidity. I don’t know how to fix this. I’m upside down and confused. I stutter a few times, wanting to explain myself, but he steps forward, and I lose my words altogether.

He holds me and presses his lips against my hair. His breath is warm against my skin. He turns to walk away, and I realize that the kiss was good-bye. My arm reaches out behind him, my body doing what my brain can’t, trying to keep him here with me. Here in the world I know, the one that’s real and safe. Not the one where people like him and Lola exist.

nineteen

Lucky’s is full of people tonight. I’m glad it’s my last shift. Working with Oliver these past two weeks has been almost impossible. Every time our fingers accidentally brush passing beer over the bar, they come back feeling bruised. He’s been polite on the occasions we’ve had a reason to speak to one another, but otherwise he’s kept his distance. It makes me feel like I did in school when all I wanted was for him to see me.

Our boss yells across the room, the
r
’s missing from the ends of his words. It sounds like, “Hey, Wynn! Grab a couple of Coo-ahs from the bah, would ya?”

I turn toward the bar and catch sight of Oliver. He’s surrounded, as always, by a group of girls vying for his attention. Attention I had all to myself for a little while. I stand near the end and wait for him to notice me. It doesn’t take long. I think we’re each overly aware of the other’s presence.

I hold up two fingers. “Coors, please.”

He grabs the bottles from beneath the bar, removing the caps as he walks toward me. “Here.”

I pinch them between my fingers and grab some cardboard coasters. “Thanks.” He tries to smile, but I’ve seen him happy. He can’t fool me. “How are you?”

“Alright. You?”

“Okay.”

“Tonight’s the night, huh? Last time you’ll ever get paid to encourage public drunkenness?”

I try laughing. “I guess. I—” My voice catches in my throat. “Lucky said you’re leaving, too. Are you going to Nashville?”

He lifts one shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe. It’s on the list, anyway. Thought I might take a month to bum around for a bit. Spend some of that hard-earned cash my accountant’s been hoarding for me.”

“That sounds amazing. Do you know where you’ll go?”

“Not really.” His eyes meet mine. “I thought I’d wing it. Maybe hit up some museums. Go and have a look at all those places you’ll be teaching about come Monday.”

“I’m jealous.”

“Are you?” His question lacks the reservation of politeness.

My heart dips and falters. “Of course I am.”

“But you still won’t come with me?”

I can’t go through this again. Saying good-bye once was hard enough. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you’ve said.”

“Please understand. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. But I need to start . . . something—something real and significant.”

“And being with me isn’t enough?”

“No.” The word surprises us both. “I can’t keep doing what everyone else wants.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing by staying?” He waits for my answer with parted lips. All I want to do is kiss them.

“No. This time it’s my choice to stay. I need to start my life, Oliver. Mine. If I go with you now, it’ll just be me taking the easy way out again.”

“How?”

“Because I’ve been in love with you since I was a child.” My voice is loud, and it draws the attention of a few customers. I flush furiously and pick at a spot on the bar. “Or infatuated, anyway. Being with you was all I thought about. Now I realize it was just another way for me to avoid something. If I was busy fawning over you, I didn’t have to worry about having a date for the prom or committing to a relationship. Because those guys were never going to compare. The idea of you let me keep one foot out the door, and I’ve just started to realize how much that may’ve cost me.”

“Because you could’ve been with someone else?”

“Because I never allowed myself to be with
anyone
else. Not fully. I’ve been living in a dream world. Because it’s safe. It lets me feel as though everything’s possible without actually taking the risk of going after what I want. And you’ve been doing it, too.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m not your what-if. I never was. You were just alone and unhappy, and having something to regret gave you an excuse to come back home when things weren’t working out. But you’re brave. You never needed me.”

He reaches out and grabs my hand over the bar. “You’re wrong. I do need you.”

I pull away and let my hand fall out of his grasp. Lola’s words fill my mind.
I’m living for me now.
I turn away before I can’t. “I’m sorry.
I
need me more.”

“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” Lucky grins at the audience, most of whom are too drunk and rowdy to know where to look. “I’ve got a surprise I think you’re going to like. For the first, last, and—he says—only time at Lucky’s Bar, put your hands together for Oliver Reeves!”

Loud applause and cheers come from all directions. Oliver places a stool on the makeshift stage in the back of the bar, and people crowd around him. His guitar is honey colored with black wood laid beneath the strings. I watch from a corner near a blacked-out window, my eyes fixed on his face. An audience member yells something inaudible, and Oliver smiles and speaks into the microphone.

“I love you, too, man.”

The room laughs. He tunes the guitar, strumming the strings until he’s content with the sound they make. His eyes search the crowd until they meet mine.

“I’m leaving in a couple days.”

People boo him, but he smiles.

“I’ll be hitting the open road like any good musician must do. But I wanted to play one song before I go. It’s about a woman I met.”

Cheers now.

“She’s sort of turned me inside out. So this is for her.”

I will the beats inside my chest to slow down. His fingers brush the strings like a caress, and as his lips part, I try to catalog every note and word.

You caught me by surprise

I was just a boy

Lost and confused by life

My future laid in your eyes . . .

I watch his neck strain and muscles work to tell me, in his own way, that he loves me.

The audience claps and whistles for him and his story. He leaves the stage as Lucky comes to stand beside me.

“I can’t believe I’m losing my two best employees in the same week.”

I don’t feel like small talk. I want to run to the girls bathroom and hide in the stall where Oliver’s name is etched into the steel.

“In all seriousness”—his hands are gentle as they turn me to face him—“I’m going to miss you, Loyola.”

I’m grateful the smile on my lips comes on its own. “I’m going to miss you, too.” I let him wrap me in a bear hug that takes my breath away.

“You do us proud, now, you got it?”

“I’ll try my best.”

“I don’t want you crawling back in on your hands and knees for your old job.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on touching another plunger for the rest of my life.”

“Because,” he says over me, “you’re too good for this place.” He punches me in the shoulder without the normal bruising zeal. “You’re a classy lady, Wynn Jeffries. You deserve better than this shithole.”

I look around. “I don’t know. It’s not so bad.”

“The only good lookin’ thing in here is me. And I ain’t that pretty.” He gives me a final pat on the arm and takes a step toward the bar before turning back. “I almost forgot. Mr. Famous asked for a word with you. He’s in the kitchen.”

My gut ties itself in knots. “Do you know why?”

He gives me such a knowing look, I wonder if I’ve underestimated how much gets past him. “My guess is he wants a review on the song he just debuted. That, or he’s looking for bartending lessons. The guy’s got the voice of an angel, but he can’t mix a drink for shit.”

My legs carry me to the door that separates the kitchen from the back of the bar. I push open the white plywood with a trembling hand. Oliver’s leaning against the deep freezer.

I stop a few feet away. I can’t see the color of his eyes under the fluorescent light. “Lucky said you wanted to see me?”

“I have something for you.” He reaches into his back pocket, and I panic. I don’t want anything from him. I don’t want to drag this out any longer. My resolve is weak enough as it is. But he pulls out a folded sheet of white paper.

I take it, not understanding.

“Read it.”

Swirling calligraphy takes up the top of the page. The word “death” stands out from everything else. I scan the boxes beneath. The font in them is tidy, like a typewriter. Lola Elizabeth Craig is listed as the deceased. I look up swiftly.

“I told you we’d find it.”

“But how?” I look between him and the paper in my hands.

“Our favorite crazy receptionist.”

I wait for him to explain, turning the name on the paper over in my mind.

“I borrowed my dad’s car—for real this time—and went down to see her. She’s actually pretty brilliant. After I told her about finding the diary and what it said, she went straight to her computer and searched Vital Statistics for Lola under Michael’s surname. It was the third option.”

The paper is dated April 27, 1951. The cause of death is automobile accident. She was forty-eight years old. I can hardly process the tragedy of it.

“Did you notice the state and county?”

I search the document. DuPage County, Illinois. “But—”

“She came back, Wynn.”

My mother’s gray-blonde hair looks white beneath the glare of my headlights. She’s sitting on the concrete step in front of the door to my building. It’s late, nearly midnight. The car is barely in park when I jump out and run to her, keys jingling in my hand. “Mom? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She stands, absorbing my hug.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you. Can I come up?”

I pull back, worried. As far as I know, she’s never made it past the ten o’clock news. There’s no way she’s here for a friendly chat.

“Come on. You can make us some tea,” she says, waiting for me to open the door.

I fire off a round of questions as we climb the stairs. She assures me everything’s fine, but her eyes say otherwise. I unlock the door and leave her to sit at the table. I pull two mugs from the cabinet and fill them with water and tea bags. Once the microwave is set, I turn and face her.

“Mom, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

She rubs a hand down her arm. “I needed to bring you something. I should have given it to you the other day, but”—she smiles and tilts one shoulder toward the ceiling—“I was worried.”

The microwave dings and she stands, pushing me gently aside to collect the mugs and take them to the table. “Sit down, sweetheart.”

I do as she says, watching as she steeps the tea in the water, not looking at me. She doesn’t seem to know how to start.

“The diary and the blue glass. It caught me off guard.”

I think of the death certificate in my purse. I need to tell her. “It’s fine, Mom. I understand.”

She shakes her head. “No. You don’t. Your grandmother didn’t tell me about what her mother had done until I was twelve. I asked her a lot of the same questions you did, but she pretended not to know anything more than a few details. I think I knew she wasn’t telling me the truth, but I could see how much talking about my grandmother”—she stumbles over the word—“upset her. So I didn’t press.”

She blows against the tea, and I watch the water ripple. “When you told me about the necklace, I was speechless. All my life I’ve been surrounded by blue glass. I thought she just liked collecting it, like a hobby. If you hadn’t read that to me, if the movers hadn’t found that box, I don’t think I could’ve believed it. I thought she hated her mother, and yet she surrounded herself, all of us, with a piece of her.”

She swallows slowly. “My mother was a . . . complicated woman at times. She loved her family, she always put our needs before her own, but she could be very stern and unforgiving. I don’t think she ever forgave her mother for what she’d done. Not even at the end.”

We sit quietly, warm mugs between our hands. I know her thoughts mirror mine. She’s thinking of Grams, the mother she loved and grandmother I adored, and the other woman, the one neither of us knew but who, nonetheless, impacted all of our lives.

I reach for my purse on the floor and pull out the paper Oliver gave me. “Here.” I hand it to her. There’s no point in trying to soften the blow. Not now.

She reads silently for less than a minute before carefully lowering the document to the table. She keeps her fingers pressed against the page, as though tethering herself to the information, the final piece of Lola’s story. I told myself, and her, that I wanted only the truth. But what I really wanted was a reason to leave and do
something
for myself. Seeing the distress in the creases around her eyes makes me wish I’d never found the article to begin with.