Chapter 10
Ten
EMBER
I pull on a pair of black leggings and that's it—still wearing Felix's button-down, no bra, no panties. Fuck it, I don’t give a shit. My favorite pair of Tieks, scrape my hair into a ponytail, grab my purse, and head out the front door.
Felix has pulled around the vintage SUV he was driving that day at the beach. The engine is idling with a bit of a squeal, and it has a white top on now, whereas it was topless that day at the beach—it looks like it could rain at some point, so a top is probably a good idea.
Barely containing my maelstrom of emotions, I can't look at Felix as I stop in front of him, twisting the strap of my purse in my hands. "Felix, I…"
He takes my hands in his, pressing a business card into my palm. "That has my cell on it. You call me if you need fucking anything , Ember."
"Felix, I just need—"
"I'll handle your bus repair. Take all the time you need." He holds my gaze, and I see a very complicated world of emotions hidden in the depths of his pale blue eyes—I only see it now that I know him better.
"I'm sorry, Fee."
He puts a finger over my lips. "No apologies. You've been through hell. I don't expect you to just jump into something with me."
"But we—"
"Shared something enjoyable," he cuts in. "It was fun. It doesn't have to be anything more than that, Ember."
I have to blink hard yet again, and my fucking god, am I sick of crying. "I don't know what it was, and I don't know what I want."
"And you don't have to."
"I don't do casual sex, Felix." I crush-grip his hand with mine. "Whatever it may have been, it wasn't casual."
"It's okay if it is."
I frown. "I'm not sure—I'm not sure I want you to be okay with it being casual, Fee."
He chuckles. "I'm just saying, no expectations. I know I have no claim on your heart because we…" he shrugs. "Hooked up, sort of."
"I feel like you're maybe not being totally truthful with me, Fee."
His expression shutters. "You don't need to worry about my feelings."
"But I do," I whisper. "I'm not running away from you. I just…I need to be alone to process things."
"Ember. I get it."
"We only talked about me," I say. "I never even asked you about you. About why you keep running away from letting me touch you."
"When you come back, ask me anything. Okay? I'll tell you the whole unvarnished truth."
I bite my lip, glancing at the idling vehicle. "I'm nervous about borrowing that. It looks old and valuable."
He twists to look at it, patting the hood. "Old, yes. Valuable? To a degree. As is, it's worth twenty, maybe twenty-five grand. I haven't done anything to it, so it's pretty much all original. If I do a thorough restoration, it could be worth more like fifty." He rolls a shoulder. "It's in good working order, but it's still a fifty-year-old vehicle, so it is possible something might break down on it. I don't anticipate it happening, but you should be aware that it’s possible."
I roll my eyes. "Felix, I drive a 1967 Volkswagen Type 2. I grew up driving that same exact vehicle. Mom's father, my grandfather, who died well before I was born, taught my mom a lot about cars and engines, so she did all the maintenance, repairs, and replacements herself, and taught me. I know my way around cars.”
"Well, good. There's a toolkit in the back, in case, and a box of the more common parts that may need to be replaced."
"I'll be fine," I say. "I don't think I'm going anywhere. I just need to think. Process. Figure a few things out in my head. Or, more accurately, get my head, heart, and body in alignment."
The next thing I know, his mouth is covering mine and I'm whimpering at the desperate soft sweetness of his kiss, losing myself in the warmth of his mouth, the strength of his hand framing my cheek and jaw, and I could just live here in this moment, in this kiss, drowning in him, vanishing into his strength and sweetness and depth.
And then he's gone, backing away from me, his gaze haunted for a split second before his expression shutters again.
"Fee," I whisper. "Goddammit, you can't kiss me like that. It's not fucking fair."
"Sorry. I keep forgetting to be more of an asshole."
I knot my fist in the front of his shirt, yank him to me, and kiss him hard and fast. "You can't be more of an asshole because you're not an asshole at all."
He snorts derisively. "You don't know the half of it."
I shake my head. "Somehow, I doubt whatever you have to tell me is half as bad as you're making it out to be. Unless you're a totally different person now or something."
He shrugs. "I don't even know anymore." He grabs me by the shoulders and guides me to the driver's side, opens the door, and when I climb in and sit down, he reaches across me and buckles me in. "Your box of antique jewelry and your cash bag are in the safe in my garage, and I'm the only one with the code. Your suitcase is in the back, there."
I twist, seeing my suitcase. "Fee, I'm not leaving."
His answering expression is…complicated. "Not forever, no. I have your bus. But you're a nomad."
"Fee, I—"
He kisses me again, this time soft, hesitant. "Go. Just…go. I think you and I could talk forever."
“That's what scares me, Fee," I whisper.
"I know. Same." He backs away, shuts the door, and shoves his hands in his hip pockets.
Gives me a very male upward jerk of his chin as a goodbye, and then turns on his heel and heads for the house, as if it's too hard to watch me drive away.
I twist again to back out of his driveway, and I notice not only has he made sure I have my suitcase but also my toiletries bag, my laptop case, and my box of everyday jewelry. Pretty much all of my most important worldly possessions, except the stuff in his safe and the bus.
My stupid eyes sting at the thoughtfulness of the gesture—at the courage and selflessness he's demonstrating by releasing me rather than trying to hold on to me.
No, no, nope. Can't go there.
Not yet.
God, I'm a sissy. I can't face my shit. It's too hard.
I shake my head, turning around to face the front and putting the shifter into first; let out the clutch, set the SUV into motion.
For a while, I just drive. Get used to driving something other than the bus—that's weird. Eventually I find myself parking in Faye's driveway and then ringing her doorbell.
It takes a while but eventually she appears in the doorway—my heart sinks. She's lost a ton of weight, looking haggard and frail. Not at all the vibrant, active, vivacious old bird I'd known just a few weeks ago.
"Why, it's my girl Ember!" she exclaims, her eyes lighting up. "You came to see me!"
She opens the door and I throw myself into her arms. "Faye, I missed you. I couldn't stay away any longer. I just had to come see you."
"Well, I'm mighty glad you did, missy." She kisses my cheek and then pulls me inside. "Come on in. You want some coffee?"
"It's seven in the evening, Faye," I point out.
"So?" She waves a dismissive hand. "YOLO, bitches."
I cackle. "God, I love you. Yeah, sure, let's have coffee."
I follow her into a postage stamp foyer—a four-by-four square of tile a few inches lower than the rest of the room, with a waist-height half-wall on the right and a bi-fold coat closet on the left. The living room features a big picture window facing the street, a long, low, battered green velour couch facing the picture window. A fireplace occupies the wall between the couch and the picture window, with a wide, deep mantle across the top. The mantle is cluttered with photographs ranging from black-and-white photos of Faye and her family when she was a little girl, what I assume are Thomas and his family when he was young, Faye and Thomas as a young couple, and then graduating to faded color photographs from the early sixties and seventies, through the eighties, and into polaroids and digital photographs leading up to the present day—including a printed and framed photo I took on my phone of Faye and me at the beach together. I'd emailed it to Faye upon her request when I took her home that day. In it, we're sitting on the blanket, it's late evening, the fire is just out of the frame, and we're both laughing…and visibly stoned out of our minds.
My throat closes up and goes hot and thick. I hear Faye approaching. "You put us up on the mantle?"
She puts a mug in my hands. "That was the best day I've had in twenty goddamned years, missy. Of course you're on my mantle."
"Gah," I hiss. "Can one person just be mean to me for two fucking seconds so I can stop crying? Jesus." I rub my eyes with my empty hand.
She laughs. "Sorry, darling, no can do. Sit down, drink that, and talk to Grammy.” She nuzzles my cheek with her prickly lips and soft nose. "That's what Ben and Alaina call me."
I let her guide me to the couch, and once I’ve sat down, I rub my hands on the lime-green velour. "This couch is amazing."
She snorts. "I love it. Tommy hated it. I think he sat on it a total of six times, ever. I bought it just because of how much he hated it." She points at the decapitated head of a deer on the wall. “That was his revenge."
I gag. "Ugh. Deer heads as decoration."
She laughs. “Oh, I know. But he shot that with a bow. He was very proud. We had venison with every meal for months." She eyes me. "Why, Ember James, are you stoned?"
I hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "A little. I was with Felix, and I needed some…courage.”
"Still dancing around that boy, are you?"
I nod. "I told him everything. I told him things I never even told Dutchie. I told him things about Dutchie and me that should have been private. But then…" I sip coffee and discover that she's spiked it with Kahlua. I cough in surprise. "My god, that's strong. You're a party animal, Faye."
"I know. Making up for lost time, you might say." She pats my thigh, squeezes it, and then jiggles it. "My god, these legs, girl. Solid muscle!"
I roll my eyes. "I'm out of shape. I stopped working out after Dutchie died. I've actually gained a good bit of weight."
"Oh, hush your mouth," she snaps, and then smirks at me. "What did our delicious Mr. Crowe have to say when he saw you naked?"
I frown at her. "How do you know he saw me naked?"
She plucks at my shirt. "Still smells like him."
I put my nose to my shoulder and inhale—she's right, it does smell like Felix. I have to stop myself from sniffing it again. "Oh."
"Well?" she demands.
I can't quite suppress a grin. "I think his exact words were 'Jesus fucking christ, Ember.' Followed by 'Fucking perfect.'"
"So then shut the hell up with that 'ewww, I gained a few pounds’ bullshit." She adopts a simpering, whining, mocking tone.
I roll my eyes. "Not what I said or how I said it, but point taken."
"So why are you here instead of there, with him, naked, getting plowed six ways to Sunday?"
I choke and nearly splutter Kahlua and coffee all over Felix's white shirt; I spend several moments hacking my lungs out while trying not to spew it everywhere.
When I can breathe again, I swallow and wipe my mouth on my arm. “Jesus, Faye," I rasp. "Getting plowed?"
She cackles. "I'm a bored, lonely old woman. Got nothin' to do but watch TV all day. You pick things up." She takes a sip of her coffee, flicking a finger at me. "So? Why are you here instead of there?"
"I need to think. I need to process. I…" I shake my head, huffing. "I'm confused. Scared. Lost. And he just confuses me worse."
Faye shakes her head. "Ohhhhh, girly." She points at the hallway leading to the bedrooms—moving boxes are stacked along both walls, some closed, taped, and labeled, others open. “You can help me pack, if you're gonna insist on being a daft bimbo and hang out with my fat old ass instead of letting that fine hunk of man mean diddle your bean."
"Faye—"I start, but she waves me off.
"Nah, nah. Don't start, missy. I know, I look like hell. Don't worry about it." At my expectant stare, she sighs. "I'm almost out of time, Ember. I can feel it in my bones."
"Faye," I whisper. "Don't say that."
"I'm ready, honey," she whispers back. "I miss my Tommy too much to live without him any longer. But I need to spend some time with Tina, Ben, and Alaina before I let the good lord take me home."
I tip my head back and blink hard. "Then you have to let me take you there."
She grins, resting her head on my shoulder. "Nothing on this earth could make me happier than to go on one last road trip, missy. You and me. No bras, lots of pot, and lots of snacks."
"Fuck yeah," I say. "Sounds perfect. When do we leave?"
"Well, if you help me pack up all this stuff…next year?" She laughs. "I have a lifetime of stuff to go through."
"Do you need to go through it?"
She frowns. "Who else would?" When I shrug, unable to verbalize what I mean, she pokes me in the boob. "Out with it, missy. What do you mean?"
"I mean, bring the few most essential things you need, your most sentimental stuff. Everything else, put it in storage. Hire a moving company to do it."
"And then it just sits in storage?"
"And then whenever Tina is ready, she can go through it, keep what's important to her. Don't waste your precious time on stuff, Faye."
She lets out a harsh sigh. "Oh. I see what you mean." A pause. "Let her sort through it after I'm gone."
"I mean…" I shrug. "Yeah, I guess. I don't mean it like—"
"No, you're absolutely right. It was making me sick, the thought of having to sort through my entire life. All of Tommy's things I never got rid of. Tina's things from when she was young and living with us." A laugh, a shake of her head. "I never got rid of anything. The attic is full, the basement is full. It'd take me forever. Even if you helped me, it'd take weeks to go through it all, and it would be heartbreaking for me to try to decide what to keep and what to throw away."
"I just mean maybe that shouldn't be your job."
She lets out a sigh of relief. “You just took a huge burden off of me, Ember." She reaches into the pocket of her pink crushed velvet track suit bottoms and pulls out a chunky Nokia flip phone from the early 2000s, opens it, finds a number, and calls it. "Hello, Roger? It's Faye. You have a minute? Good. So, I've decided I'm not going to sort through my things before I leave—I want you to handle it. Hire a company to pack everything up and put it into storage. Have the house cleaned and staged, and sell it. Add the proceeds to my will. Okay? Good." She eyes me thoughtfully. "Actually, wait. Do everything but sell it. I have to think about that. I'm not sure I want to sell it to random strangers. But put the stuff in storage, and once I kick the bucket, send the key and information to Tina. Have the old place cleaned up in the meantime. I'll email you with further instructions regarding what to do with the house after I'm gone." She pauses, listening. "Thank you, Roger. You as well. Goodbye."
She hangs up, clicking the phone closed and tossing it aside.
"You're a genius, Ember." She kisses my cheek. "Now I just need my clothes and a few odds and ends. We can leave tomorrow." She frowns at me. "You should go back to Felix, though. I can take the Greyhound."
"Fuck that, number one. You're not taking the fucking bus." I wrap my arm around her, take a sip of spiked coffee so strong my eyes water. "Number two, I need time to think about Felix. And talk to you. You're not getting out of this road trip, Faye, so stop trying. I'm the queen of road trips, I'll have you know."
She sighs, shrugging and nodding. "Okay, okay. But if you let that man go, I swear to the Almighty, missy, I will haunt you 'til the day you die."
“We can talk about him later. For now, let's plan."
* * *
Apparently, when I said "plan" Faye thought I meant "get hammered and watch The Notebook," because that's what happens.
What do you want? WHAT DO YOU WANT ?
I don't fucking know, Noah. Jesus. Lay off.
* * *
When I wake up, I'm disoriented. Someone is snoring loudly next to me.
Faye.
I have vague memories of us helping each other down the hallway, tripping over boxes as we laugh like drunk hyenas, and toppling into her bed. I'm still fully clothed, and so is she. God, she's a bad influence on me, but I love her to pieces.
I slip out of bed and tiptoe out of her bedroom, pausing in the doorway to actually see the room for the first time.
Pale blue walls, and a very old, heavy, ornate oak bedroom set—a giant king bed you damn near need a ladder to get into, a matching nightstand set, and a six-drawer bureau. The bureau is littered with life-detritus from a bygone age: a wobbly, handmade-by-a-child ceramic dish containing loose change, a gold Rolex of the type police departments give to cops when they retire, and a worn wooden-handled folding pocketknife. Beside the dish, a fat brown leather tri-fold wallet stuffed to overflowing with photos, receipts, credit cards, business cards, cash, and who knows what else. The wallet is decades old, curved concave from the shape of Tommy's butt.
My heart breaks for Faye, seeing that stuff. Her closet is open, and it looks like she tried to start going through his clothes but only got a few hangers in and gave up—there are a handful of flannel shirts crumpled on the floor, still on the hangers…dropped when the pain became too great.
I can't just leave them there.
I pick them up, re-hang them with the others, and close the closet door as quietly as I can.
I get a pot of coffee brewing and then rummage in the fridge, find ingredients, and set about making French toast—a favorite of Dutchie's that I haven't made since he died.
Faye shuffles out a few slices in, her white-pink-purple-blue-green (she added a few streaks) hair sticking up in every direction.
She shuffles straight to me and slams into me, arms snaking around my waist. "Thank you, girly."
I frown, hugging her back. “For what? It's just French toast. " It's not, but she doesn't need to know that—at least until after coffee.
"Putting his shirts away," she whispers. "I couldn't—after I dropped them, I couldn't make myself touch them again. They still smell like him after two decades in that closet. I know it's not possible, but I swear they do."
"I've got you, Faye."
She pulls away, patting my hips. "French toast—haven't had homemade French toast in I don’t even know how long. Smells good."
"Mom used to make it for me. It was her rainy day special." I swallow hard, blink harder. "I kept the tradition going—I used to make it for Dutchie on sad, boring, rainy days. He—he loved it." I shake my head. "Sorry, sorry."
Faye wipes at my cheeks. "Ain't gotta apologize to me, missy. We widows know how it goes."
I frown at her. "Widow."
She shrugs, turning away to pour herself a mug of coffee in a gigantic black mug with "world's greatest grandma" hand-painted on the side in big, blocky, wobbly, backward, third-grade handwriting. "Didn't think I'd need to explain that one."
I snort. “No, I just…I never really thought to apply that word to myself." I snort again, shaking my head as I flip the bread in the frying pan. "Learning a lot of new words to apply to myself lately."
She stirs a nauseating amount of sugar and cream into her coffee and sits at the little round table—as time-worn and love-smoothed as everything else in this time capsule of a house; the walls in the kitchen are a pale yellow, the appliances from the late nineties, and the flooring and counters are laminate. A backdoor beside the battered white four-burner electric range leads to a small fenced-in backyard, overgrown now, the grass knee-high. If I squint, I can see what it must have once looked like—a play structure, a sandbox, a little girl running around as her parents watch from the kitchen. Maybe a puppy bounding after the little girl.
"Like what?" Faye asks, shaking me out of reverie.
"Oh. Um." I sigh. "Nothing."
"Don't start that ‘nothing’ bullshit with me, missy," she grumbles. "Ain't been any secrets between us yet, no sense starting now."
So, over French toast and half a dozen cups of coffee, I relate the story I told to Felix, and this time it's easier to get through. Getting it out once loosened its grip on me, I guess. It hurts less. I feel…lighter. Freer.
Faye doesn't say much—she doesn't have to. She just rests her hand on mine and stares into space, and the brief, haunted expression on her face tells me she knows firsthand that there isn't much to say, one woman to another.
I glance at her, after a while. "You tell Tommy?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Goodness, no. That's one secret I kept from him—the only one. It'd have killed him. Or put him in prison, which would have been worse. He knew something had happened, but I told him I would be okay. And I was. Wasn't the first woman to go through that, and won't be the last. Knowing about it wouldn't have helped him, and he couldn't have done anything about it—the man who did it was killed in a robbery gone wrong a few months later anyway. Tommy had just made detective and his caseload was just unbelievable. He'd have torn the planet apart trying to find the man, and if he had?" She shakes her head. "No. I think he suspected. He was…he knew what to do. Hold me. Give me time. Just love me, and be patient. I got through it and moved on, the way we women always have and always will. God knows men aren't strong enough for some things."
"You're my hero, Faye," I whisper, holding her hand and holding back tears. "I mean that."
She dashes a wrist under her eyes and shakes her head. "Enough of this maudlin bullshit. Let’s pack up and get this show on the road." She points at me. "You wearin' a bra?"
I lift up the shirt, flashing her. "No ma'am, I am not."
She unzips her track suit top, yanks it open, and shows me her boobs, too. "Me either! Let's fuckin' go!"
I whoop and dissolve into laughter as Faye shakes her wrinkly, saggy tits at me, and I do the same to her.
* * *
It turns out Faye only needs one big suitcase and one small one, and one box of her most sentimental objects—a handful of photos, a few mugs and other tchotchkes, and the precious items of Tommy's I'd seen on the dresser.
I stock the vintage SUV with the requisite road trip snacks and a cooler of sparkling water and soda. After inputting her daughter's Los Angeles address into my phone's GPS, we're on the way, California bound, just two crazy widows on a cross-country road trip.
In the back of my mind though, I know I'm only delaying my introspection.
But come on. How could I not go with her?