Chapter 5 – GLENNA #2
“Yeah.” I sling my purse over my shoulder.
“No nose ring tonight?”
“Nope.”
He glances down, his eyes bright. He licks his lips, but not in an obvious way. I think it was unintentional. “Those shoes are fucking amazing.”
“Thank you.”
I’m back at the doorway, but he’s not moving. He’s looking me up and down, hands in his pockets. Is that a bulge in his pants?
My cheeks heat. “Can you move?”
He blinks and kind of shakes himself, and then he flashes his notorious, super-wide, magically charismatic smile, the one where you can’t help but imagine an animated star twinkling in his eye.
I’ve seen it before, but never directed at me.
“You’ve never smiled at me before.” Holy crap. I said that out loud.
His smile fades. “No?” His eyebrows spear down.
“Never mind.” I insinuate myself through the narrow gap between him and the doorframe, and thankfully, he backs up. I lock the door.
Then I head down the hallway, not checking to see if he follows. He falls into step beside me.
“It’s ‘cause I’m nervous around you,” he says.
I snort.
“Back in middle school, you gave me a stutter.”
“Bull crap.”
I search my memory, but back then he was just Dina’s annoying twin brother, always under foot. We’d be playing Xbox, and he’d want winner. Or we’d be doing a photoshoot with the horses, and he’d bomb the shots.
“If you look at me, I’ll smile,” he says. “I promise.”
I’ve been focused on the green linoleum tile of the hallway floor.
“Don’t need it; don’t want it. This is a fake date.”
He sighs and picks up his step so he can push open the door to the stairwell for me.
“I’m gonna fake show you an amazing time.”
I roll my eyes and grab the railing hard. Four flights of stairs in these shoes is a challenge.
“Holy crap,” he says, noticing. “You’re gonna fall.”
“No, I’m not.”
He maneuvers in front of me and stops. “Piggyback,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Come on. Piggyback.”
“No way.”
“You used to be fun.”
“You don’t even know me. I’m never fun.” He’s blocking me, and I actually don’t have the confidence to go down without holding the rail. My balance is excellent, but I’ve worn these shoes literally twice before tonight.
“You can shoot like a pro,” he says.
What? Oh. That was a long time ago. My grandfather taught me before he passed. I had really good aim. We’d go out back and shoot potatoes off a fence post. He got a kick out of how good my aim was at a distance.
A couple times, Dina and I went target shooting with Mr. Wall, Kellum, and Cash. They had bullseyes tacked to haystacks in a fallow field. It was fun beating the boys.
My mom probably would have crapped her pants if she knew.
The Walls are country like my grandparents, so it was nothing to them, but Mom didn’t like guns on principle.
Dad’s ambivalent. He inherited my grandfather’s rifles, but he doesn’t do anything but clean them and take them to the range once in a blue moon to keep them in working order.
“You skinny dip.”
“What?”
But I’m remembering.
In the summer, Dina and I would spend whole days in the woods behind her farm.
A branch of the Luckahannock runs through it along a shallow valley.
It wasn’t much more than a creek, but in places, it was almost three feet deep, cool, and fast running.
If it was hot, we’d take a dip. If we forgot our swimsuits, we’d go in our underwear.
I never wore a bra back then. I don’t always now.
“We weren’t skinny dipping. We were swimming.” Oh, sweet Lord. “You saw us?”
“Relax. It was an accident. I didn’t stop and stare. I have no interest in seeing my sister in her underwear.”
“When was this?”
“Seventh grade.”
“Who did you tell?”
We’re still frozen in place on the stairs. He takes a step down and turns to face me. He’s so tall, we’re eye-to-eye now.
“I didn’t tell anyone, Glenna.” His face is solemn, his brown eyes dark. “I never would’ve.”
“You farted during square dance in gym class and blamed me.”
“That was elementary school.”
“You stole, like, hundreds of desserts from my lunch tray. You said my fat ass didn’t need the calories.”
“I didn’t say that. That was Logan Rolf.”
“Your friend Logan Rolf.” I exhale, puffing my cheeks. “Will you just move? I don’t know why we’re talking about this. It was high school.”
“Glenna, I’m sorry I stole your school lunch desserts.”
He tries a disarming smile.
I should let it go. Get on with things. It’s water under the bridge. Who cares about a pudding cup eight years later?
He winks and tries to look cute.
You know who cares?
I do.
“Apology not accepted.”
His face falls.
“Who stole your dessert, Cash?”
He doesn’t rush to answer.
“No one, right? ‘Cause no one would dare mess with a Wall.”
“You want me to buy you an ice cream sandwich?” He’s aiming for playful, but he knows he’s poked the bear.
“I didn’t buy the ice cream sandwich. I got what came with the lunch.”
“You want me to buy you a cookie then?” He’s keeping the tone light, and he’s not losing his patience, but he’s utterly oblivious, and it’s throwing him. He doesn’t understand what this is about.
And it makes me furious.
“No, Cash. I want you to go back in time, and I want you to make it so the girl whose mom just keeled over in the cereal aisle at the grocery store with a heart attack at forty-one, and whose father is so torn up about it that he avoids buying food, gets to eat the only sweet thing she’s gonna get in her whole damn day. ”
Now I’m crying.
I don’t know where it came from. It ambushed me out of nowhere. How do I stuff it back? Fuck grief. Fuck it so hard.
I expect him to back off. Mumble an apology. Find an excuse to bail.
No one has the patience for old grief. After a while, you’re supposed to keep it to yourself. Shove it under the bed or the back of the closet. Holding on to it is unhealthy, right?
But grief’s not an animal on a leash. It stays, regardless of how tight or loose you hold on. It settles in. It walks alongside you.
I wish I had two good arms so I could cross them, put something between my heart and this moment, but I can’t, so I hold the wooden banister tight with one hand while hot tears dribble down my cheeks.
Cash digs his hand in his back pocket and comes out with a navy-blue handkerchief. He holds it up.
“It’s a little damp. I was sweating on my way up to your place.”
He holds it there, between us, shame on his face. His jaw’s tight, and there’s a tic pulsing at his temple.
But he’s not making any move to bolt.
I take the handkerchief because he keeps holding it up. It is damp. Gross.
I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand.
I sniff. “Now my makeup’s messed up.”
“It’s not too bad.” He’s lying. His poker face sucks.
“Do you want to cancel?” I ask.
“No.” He answers immediately. “Do you want to go back up and fix your face?”
“Yeah.”
I turn and head back for my apartment. Cash follows, quiet and close.
I feel strange.
Nothing’s resolved. You can’t fix the past.
But still—
It’s like the memory—at least this one—was the beach at the end of the day, messy with piles of sand and holes and footprints—and now it’s the morning, and it’s all still there, but smoothed out. For now.
Nothing’s made right—you can’t change the past—but somehow, something has still been remade.
* * *
I let Cash sit on my couch while I fix my makeup. We drive to the bar, mostly in silence.
He doesn’t seem comfortable. He keeps flipping from station to station on the radio, adjusting his mirrors, asking me if he should turn on the heat or if I want him to crack a window.
I show him how I can crack my own window with the push of a button.
When we get to Birdy’s, the parking lot is almost full. It’s about ninety percent trucks and ten percent muscle cars. Country music spills out the door and blasts from the back deck. Folks are gathered out front, smoking and vaping.
Cash wraps an arm around my waist, and guides me through the people, saying hi, shaking hands, slapping backs. A few girls go in for hugs, which is awkward, since he’s only got the one free arm, and each time, he tries to shield me so they don’t bump my injured shoulder.
I get a few grunts, nods, and hi’s. It’s much more than I usually get from these folks.
We head inside, and there are more hey howdies. I recognize some customers from the coffee shop and a lot of former classmates, particularly the kids who played sports or were enrolled in the Ag program. Not a lot of band geeks, but there are some.
When I socialized, it was usually with Toby’s music friends, and this is definitely not their scene. When Toby dumped me, he kept his friends, which is fair. I know I should try to put myself out there and make my own.
But.
It’s a lot when I already have three jobs and making friends feels like painfully hard work.
Dina was probably the only person I’ve ever hung out with where it was easy.
I think because it was all about whatever we were doing .
She didn’t give a crap about my feelings, so I didn’t have to worry about hers.
We just played. I don’t think adults have friendships like that.
Or if they do, I don’t know anyone who’d like to have one with me.
Toby used to lecture me that there’s a difference between being shy and coming off as unwilling to be bothered. I guess that’s true, but I also don’t think anyone wants a friend who thinks being with them is a bother.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, you should stop.” Cash presses a cold beer into my hand. He’s led me to a table beside the dance floor and pulled out the chair. “Is this okay or do you want to go out on the deck?”
“This is fine.” I sit.
Cash sets two shot glasses on the table between us.
He raises an eyebrow. I take one and sniff. Tequila. He waits.
I toss it back.
He slides his across the table to me.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I have to shout to be heard above the music and the boot stomping.
“Yes,” he shouts back.