30
LUKE
When I see Eleanor’s car pull up, it takes everything in me not to run over. Still, after all this time together, I count down the minutes until I can see her again.
I stride over to her car once it’s stopped and grab her door handle before she can step out.
Eleanor leaps out of the car and into my arms.
“Hey!” I say through a laugh.
She embraces me tight, tighter, tightest.
“Okay, anaconda, I can’t breathe!” I choke out.
Eleanor releases me, her head flying back with laughter. Ever since she’s decided to stay in Austin, she is so much more at ease. And it’s a beautiful thing. I love her poise and how she lifts that veil for me.
Before I can catch my breath, she pops upward to snatch my mouth into a kiss. When our lips part, she finally says, “Hi.”
“Hi . . .” I say, scooping her up by the waist, trying to hold as much of her as possible. “How was your day?”
“Good. Amazing. Fantastic.” Her hands slide down to my chest, fingers tracing the suspenders. “Better now that I’m seeing these in person.”
I laugh. “Okay, down girl. Tell me about your day before you get all hot and bothered over the suspenders.”
Hand in hand, we walk into The Maverick where the set is just starting. We sneak up to the bar where Whit and Jen are waiting eagerly to meet Eleanor. Her stories will have to wait. Introductions are whispered and friendly words are exchanged. Whit and Jen don’t give her the third degree they promised, instead remarking what a cute couple we are and how she’s different than the women I usually go for. I don’t love the mention of my past dating exploits, but I have to take the wins where I can.
Eleanor, is, of course, perfect. As always. Again, at ease, rather than on edge.
Whit and Jen finally leave us alone to go enjoy the stylings of Eddie Black, fingerpicking extraordinaire.
Over two Shiner Bocks, because she’s an Austinite now, Eleanor regales me with the story of her day.
“So, Claire—that’s the woman who owns the place—said that Shortbread needs a couple more weeks to get his shots before he’ll be available for adoption,” Eleanor says.
“Sounds like it was meant to be,” I say.
Eleanor leans toward me. “Yeah, that’s what I’d say too.”
Our lips brush in a chaste kiss. Just because it’s chaste doesn’t mean it doesn’t light my body on fire. I have visions of taking her home tonight and giving her the ride of her life, watching her curls tumble around her face and the look of ease transforming into pleasure.
“But that’s not even the craziest thing that happened,” Eleanor says.
“Oh?”
She clamps her teeth down on her lower lip, smiling. “You are not going to believe this—Claire is Diane’s daughter.”
It takes me a second to add up all the words she’s said into a sentence that makes sense. “Diane?”
“Like the Diane.”
My pulse skips.
“Diane Bloom? The woman in the photo that brought us together?”
Don’t remind me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep the guilt at bay forever. I knew that one day it would all catch up with me. I prayed it wouldn’t, that I would luck out and Diane would become just a plot point in our love story, not a recurring theme. I should have known I wouldn’t be so lucky. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m just confused. How did you—”
“The picture. The original . It was on the wall of Claire’s office.”
“And Claire is Diane’s daughter?” I ask, trying to add up the pieces. Aunt Diane had a child? Assumedly, a husband too, and a whole life beyond her life I was a part of. I guess that’s the self-possession we all have as children. When we are little, we believe that the road rises to meet us. That the world is conjured for our benefit, rather than us existing amongst stories that are already being told.
“Yes! Diane apparently started the sanctuary, and when she died her daughter took it over. Claire didn’t even know about her mother’s recordings. Isn’t that crazy? I told her that she should come to the library and check out the exhibit as my guest. I mean, think about it. All the ways we can fill in the story.”
I nod slowly. Life is moving around me like water. The bounding fingerpicking of Eddie Black is sludgy, and the soft conversations and clinking of glasses are like echoes in a cavern.
“And! Oh my god, this is the best part!”
“Oh, there’s something better?” I say, trying to laugh. It squeaks out from the back of my throat. I hope Eleanor can’t tell how panic is strangling me.
“There was a note on the back of the original photo,” she says in a clandestine whisper.
“A note?”
She takes a big swig of her beer. “Yes, a note.”
“What kind of note?”
Eleanor smiles. She’s enjoying this so much I don’t think she’s even clocking my reactions, thank god. “Two words. That’s it.”
I wait with bated breath. I don’t even have a guess. I have no idea what kind of note it could be, especially one that’s only two words.
“Love. Frank.”
The slowness of the water turns into the rigidness of ice.
Love, Frank
“That’s crazy,” I say, though my voice doesn’t feel like my own.
“I know! Like, who is Frank? And were they in love or was he just a friend or—"
I’m going to be sick.
Eleanor continues to posit her theories and guesses without any help from me. “I mean, I think based on the photos, that’s the photograph a lover would take. You know something I would take of you.” She elbows me in the ribs, then turns on her bar seat to watch the musician play. “I wonder if Frank is alive. I wonder if we can find him.”
No. We can’t .
“Because I wonder what kind of stories he might have. God, wouldn’t that be cool?”
“Yeah, it would be,” I say.
Eleanor’s smile is proud and triumphant.
My insides are withering. Dying.
She swigs her beer again and slides the empty bottle onto the bar. “You going to have another?”
“Yeah,” I say. I push myself up to my feet. “You order us another round. I gotta hit the bathroom.”
I don’t wait for her answer. I just let my feet do the work for me. I am on autopilot, wading through the crowd until I make it into the red lit hall with signatures peppering the walls around the restroom doors.
I shoulder my way into one of the restrooms and lock the door behind me.
My stomach heaves upward, threatening to expel everything inside it. I grab onto the edge of the sink and try to steady myself.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
She wasn’t supposed to find out more. The story was supposed to be finished. I could have lived with that guilt and shame.
Now, she’s exposed another thread. A thread that is just a curiosity to her, an exciting new path to follow.
Eleanor doesn’t know what pulling this thread will cost me.
Because, Frank . . .
My stomach heaves again. I gag, but nothing comes up. I turn on the water, the rusty faucet handles squeaking angrily. I splash the cold water onto my face. The shock to my system steadies me enough to get a grip.
Water drips from the front of my hair into the sink.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, muscling the sink, my temples pounding.
Time is not relevant.
When I finally get the gumption to lift my head, my eyes meet my reflection. Blue eyes. Exact copies of my father’s.
“Fuck,” I say, although it’s more like an exhale.
Frank isn’t just a name. Not just Diane’s friend or lover or some new piece to the puzzle that Eleanor wants to find in order to make the picture as clear as possible.
Frank is my father.
I guess I can’t be completely sure that it’s the same Frank. But the questions I had about Diane’s disappearance from my life have opened pockets of memories that I haven’t ever reached into. How Diane’s disappearance was also marked by Dad’s absence. His late nights at work and business trips. His empty chair at the dinner table. Mom’s caginess, and when pressured, her short temper.
One memory comes forward, the clearest of them all.
I wake up in the middle of the night at the sound of my father coming home. He lumbers into the kitchen as I tiptoe down, hoping he’d take pity on my sleeplessness and make us midnight snacks that we could share together in front of the television. He stands in the doorway to the kitchen, humming.
Oh, my fucking god.
It was the song.
“Hyacinth.”
I wipe my hands over my face, wicking away the water. “What the fuck, Dad?!” I mutter.
What did he do? What did they do?
Do I want to know the answer?
Though I have more questions than answers, I know one thing for sure.
I can’t keep up the lie. I have to tell Eleanor that I’ve known about Diane from the very beginning, and that I’ve harbored this lie since the inception of us.
And I have no one to blame but myself if the truth causes everything to collapse.