13. Evelyn
13
Evelyn
Build a Hemingway Shrine: Monday, 9 a.m. - 12:30 p.m. @ The gazebo
I arrive ten—well, technically eleven—minutes late to find Garrett waiting for me next to the railing of the stairs that lead up to the gazebo.
It’s a sight that captures him so completely. Instead of looking relaxed, he’s still somehow alert and rigid. I’ve always thought of him as more predator than prey, but he has this alertness that reminds me of a deer ready to bolt at any moment. It doesn’t matter that his attention seems to be on his phone.
“If you’re on vacation you shouldn’t be doing work on your phone,” I tell him in lieu of greeting.
He slips his phone in the back pocket of his tan slacks. With the addition of his green linen button down, the vintage leather watch he always wears, and his glasses, he looks a little like a handsome archeologist. Not the rugged Indiana Jones type, but a version more bookish than that.
His brows pinch together. “Care to explain what today’s activity entails?”
“I thought it was fairly straightforward,” I say without giving anything away.
“If you mean making a daiquiri at nine a.m. then buying Hemingway’s backlist, you might be out of luck. The bookstore’s classics section doesn’t extend beyond Bronte, Austen, and Shakespeare.”
“Let me guess, romance only?” I smile and turn to see if I can spot it from where we’re standing. Bound to You has the same idyllic whimsy as the rest of the shops with its large window display and blue trim. Cute as it is, it was never actually on today’s itinerary.
“Love stories and romance with a few thrillers and horror because of all the people who come in the fall,” he explains.
“That’s okay. I have a backup plan,” I say, already walking toward our actual destination.
The latticed metal of the cafe chair presses into the backs of my thighs. Per my request, we’ve been seated in the farthest corner of the outside patio of Butter Half with the other brunch goers.
There’s a range of other patrons from the couples in matching workout gear, who have likely been up for hours, to those in sweats and sunglasses that remind me of what I was like yesterday. I mean, it’s not like I’ve put in much more effort with today’s T-shirt that says, Ask me about my lobotomy , which I chose specifically in reference to the invite I sent him yesterday. Okay after I flung all my clothes on the floor, and it landed near the top. I’ve paired it with loose Levi’s I’ve worn so many times that the back pocket has faded with an imprint of my phone.
When our waitress comes by, I order a croissant sandwich and a pitcher of mimosas for the two of us. Garrett gets a loaded omelet. The waitress's eyes linger on him as he looks over the menu. He has that effect on people, and I’m not sure if he fails to notice or deems it beneath him to acknowledge. I guess that could be part of the allure for people. The unattainability of the perpetual bachelor.
“You could have had breakfast by yourself then grabbed me after,” Garrett gripes.
“I thought I told you to leave your pessimism at home?”
“It’s not pessimistic to ask for clarification,” he says.
“For one, you need a mimosa or three to act like you actually want to be here,” I joke.
“And?”
“This is the perfect spot for people watching.”
It was a habit before it was a hobby. In school I always thought that people were more interesting than homework or textbooks. Casual conversations and gossip taught me more about the world than my teachers did. There’s something special about getting lost in what other people care about. It could be mundane, but that doesn’t make it unimportant. To one person a street corner could mean nothing, and to others it’s where they learned they got a promotion or stumbled into the love of their life.
I look around. “We’re going to play a game to see if we can spark a seed of inspiration. We take turns picking a couple or a person and come up with their story. Think about what song you’d write about them.”
“And that accomplishes what exactly?” he asks, sounding unimpressed. Lovely.
“Think Larson, use that stupidly big brain of yours. The reason people like music is it makes them feel something. Like they’re part of something bigger, but also have their own experiences. It manages to ride the line between universal and personal.”
“That explains why there’s so many songs about doing coke in bathrooms, I've always wondered. It’s a deeply poignant and personal experience?” His voice remains dry and disinterested, but there’s an edge of a joke in there that he’s carefully containing.
“See, you get it! I was starting to think I lost you,” I say with an extra dose of enthusiasm.
“If your next idea is doing coke in the bathroom, the answer is no.”
“No, but those songs make people feel something,” I explain. “Like they’re young and maybe, just maybe, they can live wild and free and not give a shit about what comes in the morning. It’s freedom.”
“Then show me how it’s done,” he says with a note of challenge in his voice.
“Pick a couple for me.”
The mimosa pitcher and two champagne flutes arrive while Garrett surveys the other patrons and the meandering couples doing laps through the town.
He takes his time before his eyes fix on a table. “The people who look like they just came back from a run four tables over.”
I stretch so I can take an assessing look at them. I let my mind drift back, taking a time machine to who they were before coming to this town. For me, a song, or at least the ones I used to love to write the most were only give or take seventy percent about what was happening in the moment. Break up songs are a prime example of this. There can’t be a breakup if there wasn’t a relationship before it. That relationship—the good, the bad, the ugly of it—gives the context for the breakup to matter. The pain has to come from somewhere.
I nod as the idea starts to form. “They met through a mutual friend. She started running because of him. She’s more than happy to mold to the interests of the people she cares about. It makes her feel closer to them,” I say, feeling the momentum of it build. “Still, she’s never felt like she’s known herself well enough to have any strong special interest of her own, so she’s rarely single. He’s not the type she usually goes for but he’s stable and a bit of a health nut and she’d been wanting to work out for a while, so why not?
“The problem is that she never knows if she’s happy or if she’s just faking it so well that she even believes it because they never fight and everyone else also says they work so well together. Secretly, she wants to fight and know if he’ll fight for her.” I close my eyes and feel the wisp of song floating by, but as usual it’s like I’m hearing it through a dream. “The song would be about staying even if you’re not sure it’s the best option because you’d rather be with someone than be alone.”
His eyebrows arch. “That’s a love song?”
“Love isn’t always about making the right choices,” I say, but it feels like a futile justification for my own choices. I need the words to be true if there’s any hope for me to find anything like what the couples around us appear to be experiencing.
“From the sound of it, you don’t need me at all. You could write a whole anthology.”
“You’re not getting off that easily.” I laugh. “Yes, I can come up with these fully fleshed out ideas. I can find a beginning and an end, but I just make it too big. It’s like shoving a month-long trip into a carry-on after you took the trip, and for the life of you, you can’t figure out how you did it the first time. I have the ideas, I just can’t pull it apart and stuff it neatly into three minutes.” That, and the few times I’ve tried I hate every word I write. I can’t even be good at the one thing I’m supposed to do; the thing I gave up so much to do.
“So, you’re expecting me to do what exactly? Put your proverbial shoes in my bag?” he asks.
“I knew you’d catch on. Afterall, I’m an excellent teacher,” I say. “Your turn.”
I fill my glass from the sweating pitcher. The cool morning is starting to break into a wave of heat. I’ve always liked this time of year the most when you can taste summer and fall all at once. My gaze wanders as I raise my glass to my mouth. From my first sip, the fizz of the drink bursts against my tongue.
I want to see Garrett try, but there’s a challenge brewing in the back of my mind. I want him to have to admit that there’s something worth appreciating about Hartsfall and what it does for people.
“There,” I say, tipping my already half drained glass to guide his attention. “The guy in the green hoodie holding open the door while still carrying both coffees.”
“If I go with my intuition you won’t get mad?” His eyes cut to the couple in question. The woman is wearing an oversized sweatshirt and shorts reminiscent of Princess Diana. A smile brightens her soft features as she talks, like there’s no place she’d rather be and no person she’d rather be with. The man is holding open the door as he balances a drink carrier, all the while his eyes never leave her.
“I won’t, as long as you play along,” I say.
He steals another glance at the couple. “He’s cheating on her.”
“Seriously, what do you have against this town?” Even though I promised not to say anything, the remark rushes out of me.
“I know this place better than you. You chose the couple, and I’m just telling you what I see. It isn’t just people who are happy that come here. You just admitted that.” He levels me with a scrutinizing look. “He feels guilty. He’s overcompensating.”
“Or just wants her to have a good time. Holding doors, actively listening, really putting in that extra effort,” I counter. I plant my elbows on the table and lean forward.
A muscle in Garrett’s draws closer as he picks up where I left off. “And making sure she notices every single thing he’s doing. My guess is that she suggested this place and he went along with it. He more than likely broke it off with whoever else he was seeing before this trip and is trying to redeem himself. He’ll make her feel special and wanted and then she’ll forget until he does it again.” The moment he’s done he reaches for his drink and takes a hearty sip.
“You barely looked,” I say.
“People aren’t all that complicated. You said so yourself. People all like the same song because of some common emotion. Well, they all act the same way if it means getting what they want.” His eyes go back to tracking the couple as they walk further away. “It’s in the details. Body language, tone, the little habits we hate but can’t stop. Those all tell us more than what people are actually saying. Those don’t lie.” It’s like he’s reading from some handbook not talking about people, but maybe those two things aren’t all that different to him.
Every time he makes a dig at his hometown, I feel like he’s also talking about me. Like every comment is subtly saying, how stupid do you have to be to believe in this shit? I shouldn’t have expected anything different from him.
“Do you moonlight as an armchair psychologist or something?” I pour my flute all the way to the brim with prosecco, not bothering with any orange juice.
“I make more money if I can see someone’s holding out in a negotiation.” Something in him tightens again, giving me the impression that there’s more to his evaluations of behavior. With such a strong response to the couple, there’s no way his evaluation was rooted in his love of the law.
“Okay. Then whose song is it?” I ask, trying to get back to why we started this exercise in the first place.
I’m not sure if I would have agreed to our arrangement in the first place if I knew it would be such a hassle. But I’m not one to back out of something like this.
“The person he left,” he says. “Maybe they never knew they were part of an affair and are wondering what they did wrong, maybe they’re left in their guilt wondering if they should tell the girlfriend. It’s them. Whoever they are, they’re the most interesting part of the story. The couple gets a happy ending. They’re left to manage the fear that the people in their life will always want something better than them.”
“I guess I know why we’re invited to all the same parties, you really know how to lighten the mood,” I say.
“It’s just a hypothetical for a song that’s never going to be written. For all we know those two are faithful and he just forgot to set the alarm clock this morning.” He brushes off the moment with a non-answer.
Our food arrives as we continue. Garrett and I take turns picking tourists and coming up with their stories. An older couple who comes back every year because they want to relive the magic, proof that good things last if you care for them.
“They visit every year,” I say.
“And neither of them will admit that it’s never the same as the first time,” he counters. “But they pretend anyway.”
I jump in. “It’s better that way because it becoming mundane means they’ve built something stable that doesn’t rely on fireworks.”
Another couple walking their dog in silence have come here because they’re giving their relationship one last chance and Garrett is determined it will fail because they refuse to communicate how desperately they want it to work.
As we go his cynicism wanes, like he’s slowly using up a store of negativity with every critique. Even so, the way he describes his scenarios draws me in. I know that not every relationship ends in a happy ending. I know that some have to end so people can find a better life or chase what they really want.
I wonder sometimes if I’ve ever really been in love or if I wanted to be loved so badly that I tricked myself into thinking that’s what it was. I know what I had with Oliver was special. We took care of each other without having to ask. We had the same friends and liked the same movies. All the important things were there built on a foundation of years long friendship. We worked and he gave me a place where I fit so well. Well, the version of me who was desperate to be loved fit well with him.
It’s hard to trust my emotions sometimes about if I want something or if I’m just caught up in the idea of it. I’m terrified of one day thinking I’m in love with someone new only to find myself in that same state of desperation. At least I’m not under any illusions with Garrett—he’s with me out of necessity. It’s kind of refreshing.
“Holy shit! Is that Garrett Larson, bassist of Fool’s Gambit!” a chipper voice calls from down the sidewalk. “Can you autograph my arm so I can get a tattoo of it?”
A few heads whip our way at the commotion causing Garrett to glower.
The man walking toward us has a paper bag hitched into the crook of his arm. His tousled hair is the color of natural clay. Stains are splattered across his coveralls as if someone has used them to experiment with abstract art.
“Fletcher,” Garrett says cooly.
The man, Fletcher, closes the gap between us with brisk strides. “Larson, how the hell are you? I didn’t think you’d still be around. This is longest you’ve graced us with your presence since you fucked off to Tennessee. You won people good money staying so long. Not me, but people.”
“So, you’re Fletcher of pub-slash-garage-fame,” I say as I recall my glimpse of the betting pool chat.
“Mostly garage now, haven’t worked at the pub since I was trying to earn enough money to impress my prom date.”
“Did you?” I ask.
“She married me, so either that or she pitied the hell out of me.” Fletcher readjusts his grip on the bag he’s carrying mid shrug. “Jury’s still out.”
Our waitress comes back and she raises a brow as she looks over the knee high decorative fence at Fletcher. “Fletcher, get in here and buy something or stop disrupting the ambiance of my section with your big mouth.”
“Annie, I’m wounded. I’m just saying hi to an old friend.” Fletcher gives her a pathetic pout.
“We’re friends?” Garrett asks.
“I teach this guy how to replace everything from spark plugs to brake pads, and this is the treatment I get.” Fletcher directs his words toward me.
“How I remember it, you were eating day-old donuts while Doug did all the teaching,” Garrett corrects.
Fletcher tuts. “I was part of some of your formative memories and I think that I deserve some respect.”
“I’ll teach you some respect if you keep disrupting the peace,” Annie presses as she starts to collect our dishes.
“What are you, a cop?” Fletcher slings back then flinches at the glare Annie gives him. “Fine. Give me one minute to ask what I gotta ask and I’ll leave your precious ambiance alone.”
“Good.” With that Annie collects the last plate and heads back toward the kitchen.
“Sorry about that…” Fletcher trails off as he looks at me, and I realize I never introduced myself.
I hold out my hand and Fletcher takes it with worn, grease-stained fingers. “Evelyn Mariano.”
“Nice to meet you, Evelyn.” He releases my hand then cocks his head toward where Annie headed. “Sorry about that. Little sisters, you know.”
“From living my life as one, I have a bit of experience. No offense taken. I make my older brother wish he was an only child.”
“Do you actually have something to ask, or are you going to keep hovering?” Garrett’s voice cuts in, clear and deliberate, like he’s just as annoyed as Annie.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your date.” Fletcher’s eyes dance with mischief as his gaze flicks between Garrett and me.
“Not a date,” Garrett corrects quickly, jaw clenching.
I love it when men are so eager to deny they’re with me. Really, a great ego boost.
Fletcher forges on as if Garrett didn’t say a thing. “If you have a minute, my apprentice is off today and I’m having a tough time with this old Volkswagen, you know the type. There’s this angle I can’t quite get. I had a bit of a boating incident that snapped my wrist and the doc doesn’t want me to force anything. I’d risk it, but she’ll notice if I get home tonight and make a fuss.”
Garrett looks at me then to the clock tower. “Evelyn and I are in the middle of something.”
“I don’t mind, we can include this as part of our outing,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m jumping at the opportunity.
Admittedly, I’m curious. I doubt that I’ll be offered more from Garrett about the affinity for fixing cars I witnessed a few days ago. This is likely one of the few chances I’ll get to learn more.
“We’ll meet you at the garage after we pay,” Garrett says as he reaches for his water.
“You better tip Annie well with all that fancy ass money of yours. She might be a pain in my ass but she’s damn good at her job.” Fletcher salutes with his free hand before heading off.
“Do you have an extra pair of coveralls?” Garrett asks once we find Fletcher by the door connecting a small office to the work area of the garage.
There are two main bays. One, as promised, has a boxy, old Volkswagen Golf. It looks like it was taken straight out of a Wes Anderson film with its bright orange paint job and dramatic angles.
“In the back by the bathroom. Haven’t moved since the last time you were here. There should be a few clean ones.” Fletcher tosses the words over his shoulder as he uses his hip to push through to the office. “Evelyn, you can come with me. Sorry, this place isn’t all that spacious. Since I’m walking distance from the shops, people don’t usually wait here.”
Fletcher holds the door open for me to the room. Cracked leather chairs line one wall. Above them is a peeling paper with the Wi-Fi password. Most of the space is taken up by the type of huge greenish metal desk you can find at military surplus sales.
When Garrett comes back, he’s wearing blue coveralls with a blank name tag. Fletcher leaves the office to meet him at the car. I can't make out what they’re saying and I doubt I would be able to understand what they were talking about if they were. After a few moments, they stand upright and Fletcher laughs as he thumps Garrett on the back. The sign of friendly affection has Garrett’s expression souring. At least he’s like that with everyone and not just me.
There’s a digital chime as Fletcher comes back into the office. “Sorry for stealing some of your time. He knows what he’s doing and the old couple who own this car are headed up to Niagara Falls. I can’t, in good conscience, send them up that way in a car that old in its current state.”
I nod along to Fletcher's words, but my attention is fixed to where Garrett is selecting his tools from where they’re neatly organized on the far wall. The sleeves of the coveralls are rolled up past his forearms revealing the taut muscles and veins running down to strong hands. Those toned forearms of his should come with a content warning. I bet he sits at his desk most days with his sleeves rolled up and those things out there for anyone to see, completely disregarding that he’s impacting other people’s ability to concentrate.
“Did he learn how to do all of this here?” I ask, seizing the time to get more information.
“Yeah. Annie and him went to school together. His mom, well, she wasn’t the most reliable. One day my dad came by with Garrett ’cause she forgot to pick him up. He was even more damn quiet back then. After that he’d come back with Annie and watch Dad, until my old man offered to teach him the basics.” Fletcher starts to move to an ancient industrial coffee maker. The pot still holds a generous amount of black steaming liquid. He points but I shake my head. Even if I did drink coffee, whatever he’s having would no doubt ruin my stomach lining. “When he went off to Tennessee for that fancy high school he would come back over winter breaks and work as much as he could. I’m not sure if he was bored or what. Smartest guy I’ve ever met, smartest person besides my wife, Emily, but he’s a close second.”
Fletcher pours himself a mug from the sizzling coffee pot and joins me at my vantage point where I’m leaning on the edge of his desk.
“I gotta ask, are you Mariano as in the Mariano that was the drummer in his band?” Fletcher asks, then takes a sip and winces at what I assume is the foul taste. Nothing simmering that long can be good.
“That’s how we know each other. I’m pretty sure I’ll always be his bandmate's obnoxious little sister,” I say, ensuring Fletcher has a clear picture of our situation.
“I hope you don’t take it personally. I think the only person he actually likes is Alina, and she won’t let people not like her.”
A laugh burbles from me. “Yeah. I got that impression.”
“I know I’m the minority in this, but I really wish he kept up with that band. I mean, seriously, he’s so damn good. Like, I’d be pissed about how good he is at shit, but I think it’s the universe making up for the cards it handed him. He always planned on getting one of those jobs with a degree that he could frame in a jail cell of an office. Probably felt like he had to since Alina and a few other folks made up the difference to pay his tuition for that boarding school.”
“His parents weren’t the ones who sent him there?”
Fletcher grimaces for the first time since I've met him. “It was always just his mom and him. But she wasn’t exactly the type to show up.”
Before I can ask more, Garrett pushes through the door with his elbow and Fletcher tosses him a clean rag with practiced ease. I try to picture a younger version of them doing this. I have the creeping suspicion Garrett had the same severe expression he has now as an adult.
“Should be good now if you want to take a look,” Garrett says as he wipes the grease from his hands on the yellow cloth.
There’s something about this exact version of him that I want to keep seeing, the one that’s a little messy and undone. It’s like a secret I want to tuck under my tongue, a piece that I have that he’s hidden from everyone else.
Fletcher nods. “Thanks, man. I’m happy I ran into you.”
“No problem.” A digital alarm goes off and Garrett pulls his phone from his pocket to silence it. He looks at me. “Well, we’re done. Time to go.”
The statement is jarring. The words take a moment to hit me full force. God. Did he set an alarm to go off at the end time of the invite I sent him? Is that why he was checking the time when Fletcher stopped by earlier, not because he wanted to stay with me, but because he felt obligated? A lump settles in my throat making it hard to breathe.
“So desperate to get rid of me that you set an alarm?” I joke, but at the same time there’s a deep ache. He’s been clear about not loving the idea of vacation, but I never would have guessed he’d be this eager to get away from me.
“I’m just staying organized,” he says.
“Great.” I match his curt matter-of-fact tone. “I’ll get going then.”
“I’ll walk you back.”
“No, it's fine,” I insist as I feel a prickling heat build behind my eyes. “I’ll see you for our next appointment when you’re obligated to put up with me.”
I don’t give him the chance to make me feel more insignificant than he already has and walk away.