Chapter Six #2
When I went to college, I didn’t make a plan for my bed, dressers, desk, clothes, art projects, or anything else in my room.
I moved to Dublin with two checked bags and a dream, and I left the rest here.
It’s my “mess,” as my dad called it when I got back from lunch with Eleanor—my memories, my childhood—and he and my mom want it gone.
Not to save money, because they probably get a deal on the multiple units they rent, but because they want to teach me a lesson.
Nothing highlights my failure more than emptying this room and having nowhere to put my stuff.
Since renting a unit as an unemployed transient doesn’t make sense, I’ll have to avoid sentimentality and donate a lot, leaving me with only the most important items.
“Any of your friends have a truck?” I ask. My car—my parent’s car, which only adds insult to injury—can only hold so much.
Ava taps her chin, and her eyes light up.
Seeing her so grown-up underscores how much can change in less than a decade.
My first few years away, we didn’t stay in touch too well—she was only eight when I left.
But once she turned thirteen and had her own phone, I ventured into Snapchat territory, and we’ve become close.
I’m selfishly relieved that she wants to follow my parents’ footsteps into law so I don’t have to worry about her struggling with them the way I always have.
“Actually, yeah, I do know someone.” Ava pulls out her cell, and her thumbs fly over the screen. That’s another bit of good news since my talk with Eleanor today. Depending on the size of the truck, we could do this in one go.
“Tell them I’ll buy them pizza or something.”
“Cool. Daze’ll be right over.”
“Daisy?”
“Yeah.” My sister stares at me like she’s never seen me before. “What?”
“You have her number?”
“We keep in touch. She’s cool.”
I scrub a hand down my face. I’d rather Daisy didn’t witness this low point. “Daze is an adult with a job and things to do, and I’m sure she has a boyfriend and a busy social life and friends, so—”
“You still have a crush on her.”
“I don’t have a crush on Daisy.”
“I was eight, but I wasn’t stupid.” She crosses her arms and cocks an eyebrow at me. “I’d seen enough Disney movies by that point to know how you looked at her. That was some Kristoff and Anna shit right there.”
Unwilling to entertain this any further, I survey the dust-covered items by the wall. “I’ll start with this pile of stuff.”
“Did you write secret poetry about her?”
“Would you help me?”
“You can’t hold it against Daisy for not realizing you were obsessed with her and for dating other people.”
“I don’t. And I dated other people too. Maybe not much in high school, but college and after.”
“Sure, and you’re good friends with all of them.”
“Some people would consider that a positive thing. Most people, actually.”
“Not when you stop being friends with the one person you want, all because you don’t think you deserve her.”
“That’s not what happened.”
Even if Daisy hadn’t sent that text the first semester of college, I never felt unworthy of her.
Did I?
“You had a big-time crush on her.”
“Okay, fine,” I say, irritation getting the best of me. “I liked Daisy. So what? It was a crush, and it’s done.”
“She’s single.”
I shouldn’t care about that. “Focus.”
My sister grants me a few minutes of quiet, working side by side until she speaks up again. “Daze has been single for a while, actually. She and that guy broke up a few months ago.”
I inspect a vase from my high school pottery class, wholly uninterested in Daisy’s relationship status.
“He’s a chef. He’s so sexy.”
“I would love to not hear how sexually attracted you are to grown men. Can you go through the bin over there?” I point to the other side of the room where there’s a Rubbermaid tote with art supplies.
A chef. Daisy didn’t mention him when we were at Sal’s, not that we ordinarily talk about who we’re dating. I stew on this information, and when I’m about to ask how serious they were, Daisy appears in the doorway, all tanned face and freckles and sunlight.
“Hey, you two.”
“Hi!” Ava runs over and gives her a hug. “Max didn’t want to call you, but I knew you’d help.”
“Oh?” Daisy meets my gaze with curious eyes.
“I figured you were busy.”
She shrugs. “I don’t mind helping.”
Daisy doesn’t press for information. Within minutes, she organizes us and creates three separate spots for items we’ll toss, donate, or keep. She plays some classic rock from her phone to lighten the mental load, and we tear through half the room in less than an hour.
“Oh my god,” Daisy says, pulling a piece of fabric off of something in the corner. “This chair. Max, do you remember this chair?”
I peer around a small mountain of boxes and see Daisy plop onto my burnt orange barstool. She was with me when I thrifted it—a strange squiggly-shaped seat that looked like a padded curlicue. Despite the heinous design, it was comfortable.
“Sit in this.” Daisy gets up and makes room for Ava, who ooohs the second her butt hits the chair.
“Want it?” I ask my sister.
“Seriously?”
“Consider it yours.”
“Ohmygosh yes!” She runs and almost knocks me over with a bear hug. My attention flashes to Daisy, whose gaze is on us as the sides of her mouth tilt upward.
“So,” my sister continues, “what other stuff of yours can I have?”
Ava and I sort out which furniture we’ll donate and which we’ll take to her room. I love that some of this is going right back to my parents, but more importantly, Ava seems excited to redesign.
“You’re not keeping much,” Daisy says, pointing to the small pile of items deemed both worthy and easy enough to hang onto.
“Not flush with extra space at the moment.”
“Store it at The Mirage. The barn has lots of room.”
“That’s…” The barn would make life easier, even if the solution is merely a Band-Aid. My reunion with Daisy wasn’t as joyous as I’d imagined it would be, though, so her offer gives me pause. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m happy to.” She gives me a soft smile that makes my pulse jolt. “You helped me with the Hollises.”
“And then you bought me beer and tater tots as a thank you.”
“The tots were from Sal.”
“What about these bins?” Ava asks me.
“Looks like it’s all clothes, so donate.”
“Oh,” Daisy says with a gasp and beelines to Ava, who is pulling items from the box like a magician producing scarves from their ear.
“You cannot donate this hat.” Daisy throws on an old newsboy cap I wore in high school, and there’s a comfort in seeing her wear something I used to love so much.
“You tried so hard to make this a thing.”
“Excuse me,” I say, feigning offense. “It was one hundred percent a thing.”
“Were these seriously your jeans?” Ava holds up some denim. “These are so small.”
Self-consciousness clutches my insides. While I appreciate the help from Ava and Daisy, I want to blindfold them so they don’t see the remnants of a dorky eighteen-year-old Max.
“Your brother was a Doberman puppy,” Daisy says, fondness in her voice. “Paws too big for its body. All limbs.”
“Aw, well, at least puppies are cute, right Daze?” Ava asks.
Daisy glances my way but says nothing. Instead, she gives a barely audible mhmm as a response and reaches into another bin.
Once we’ve organized everything, we swing by the thrift store first. When we stop by my parents’ house with the items Ava will keep, she immediately starts moving furniture around in her room. Daisy and I haul the rest of my things to The Mirage alone.
“That’s it,” I announce, setting the heavy box of canvases down as carefully as I can. “Wow, this…” Examining the barn, I nod.
Large windows open the space up and allow the desert inside, and rustic wrought-iron chandeliers dangle from the ceiling. The exposed beams have all been treated with the same honey-hued lacquer, although some of them could use a fresh coat.
“This looks really good,” I say.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not. It’s way nicer than my last storage unit.”
She laughs a full-on star beam of a laugh, and I forget where I am. Planet Earth, somewhere. California. Harlow. That’s right.
“Is everything okay at your parents’ house?” Daisy asks, picking at one of her nails.
“Yeah. You know how they are. They just want to prove a point.”
“This is pretty low, even for them.”
“They love exceeding expectations.”
Having Daisy on my side lifts me up, but questions fly through my mind. What happened between us? What haven’t you told me after the beep? How can I get past these barriers you have—the ones that seem to be built for me alone? There’s only one question I feel comfortable asking out loud, though.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because.” She walks toward me, focusing her energy on the box of paintings.
Daisy thumbs through them, the inky lines of the sun tattoo on her hand dancing, and I have the urge to grab one of the blank canvases and paint her as I see her now—unguarded, with a slight smile blooming on her face.
“Your parents are giving you a hard time, and if I can ease that for you, I will. I enjoy looking out for people here. And for now, you’re here.
” She keeps her eyes trained on the art in front of her. “Thanks for the sketch you sent.”
“Of course.” When Amy died, I did what I could from afar to support Daze. Scouring old photos and picking up my pencil was soothing for me too, especially because I didn’t go to the funeral. The drawing of her mom was small enough to fit into a sympathy card, but I thought she might like it.
“I’m, uh, hoping to start back up with booking weddings in the fall, so do you think your stuff’ll be gone by then?”
“I—” I can’t tell if she’s simply curious or pressuring me to give her an end date. “Sure, I can do that.”
“I’d like to finish renovations by then. Or the ones I can manage, at least.” The corners of her eyes crinkle as she inspects a perspective drawing of downtown Harlow, and she lowers her voice, almost like she’s talking to herself. “You were always so talented.”
Her russet-colored eyes lock onto mine, and I become hyperaware of how close we are. I could reach out and slip an arm around her waist and pull her to me. I could recount all the freckles on her nose. I could kiss her.
As if she’s reading my mind, her focus lowers to my lips, almost like she wants me to close the distance between us. Like she’s curious and wants a taste. I’ve only seen her look at me like this once before—but I’d never forget it.
“Um,” she says, brushing her bangs off of her forehead. She backs up, and the connection we have has broken, if it even existed in the first place. “So, temporary.”
“Right.” I take a step back, craving some space from the botanical perfume or shampoo or whatever Daisy’s wearing. “End of summer, and this’ll all be gone.”