14. Garrett
14
Garrett
“ T hat’s one way to end a date.” Fletcher fails to conceal his amusement as he lifts his mug to take a sip.
“Wasn’t a date,” I say pointedly. Maybe for a moment it felt like it was, with her full attention on me and the way that, despite the alarm on my phone, I could have let it go on forever.
“Even if it wasn’t, you’re still an asshole,” he says, then places the mug on the desk beside him. “Just because you’re pissed about being here you shouldn’t take it out on her.”
He’s right. I hate the way her face fell before she all but ran out of the garage. I should have gone after her. I should have done something; I just didn’t want to make things worse.
I use the rag he’s given me to aggressively scrub at the grime collecting in the creases of my knuckles. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Well, excuse me if I’m making assumptions based on the fact that you treat your visits home like damn business trips and you won’t even claim this place publicly as where you’re from,” he says, and I throw him a look. “Yeah, I’ve seen the fucking interviews. Everyone loves to paint the picture of the boys from Tennessee who came from middle class backgrounds to become stars. The fucking American dream.”
“What if I don’t want to be here?”
I come back frequently enough. I check in and keep tabs through the endless group messages. But staying?
I don’t have a permanent place here. Alina’s guest room is just that, temporary. It doesn’t matter if this is where I was born, even when I had a home here it wasn’t like it felt like one. This garage is a manifestation of that too. It was a place I’d visit because there was nowhere else to go. I made myself useful enough to be invited back. Fletcher had a spot here because he was born to take over. I always felt one screw up away from being asked to leave.
“Doesn’t matter. God knows why she’s using that time and spending it with you. So, even if you hate being here, find a fucking ounce of decency and don’t waste her time,” he chastises, the words pelting me in the chest. He crosses his brawny arms the same way his dad used to when he’d check my work back in the day and found a loose bolt.
“I didn’t mean to offend her.” That’s the last thing I wanted. But there’s this constant tug-of-war. Wanting her to be around while knowing it’s a terrible idea. Wanting to keep her even if I know that I’ll screw it up.
“Words work wonders, you know. I might have a Conversations for Dummies guide sitting around somewhere that I can loan you,” he says, returning to his usual unserious self and rifling through a stack of documents on the desk.
“Since when can you read?”
“Since Emily said she liked books.” He beams. The man would do anything for his high school sweetheart.
“And does the town golden boy have any ideas about how to get a girl to forgive him?”
“You coming to me for relationship advice? If I knew it was my lucky day I would have put more money down on my bet that Sara and Winnie would put passive aggressive Shakespeare quotes on their shop windows this week.” His notion isn’t that far-fetched since it wouldn’t be the first time they used literature to air their grievances.
“I’m not asking you for relationship advice.”
“Platonic, romantic. Doesn’t matter.” He shrugs, and I don’t bother to correct him. Evelyn and I know each other but I wouldn’t go as far to say we’re friends. As of now, we have mutual interest tying us together. An arm’s length distance is the safest, but if I want even that, I do have to repair this misunderstanding.
“So, do you have any ideas?” I prompt.
A smile breaks across his face. “Lucky for you, tomorrow is Tuesday.”
I text Evelyn first thing in the morning to see if she’s free tonight, all I get in response is a calendar invite.
Mysterious outing: Tuesday, 7 p.m. - 11 p.m. @ ???
Maybe it’s not the best sign, with its passive aggressive undertone, but at least she’s giving me a chance to redeem myself. I pull up to her place a bit before seven and because she’s still not disconnected from my Bluetooth, I get a brief soundbite of what she’s listening to.
“—out track nine is objectively the strongest, but is mid-range compared to Seeing Double and Passing Through . I'd rather relisten to—” The man overly articulates every word, broaching newscaster territory.
I only get the sentence to go off of, but I recognize the names of Lyla West’s first and second albums.
Evelyn’s albums . I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that.
Though I’ve casually listened to the albums before, I’ve been relistening to them recently with heightened intent. I tell myself it’s for research, that it will help me learn what she’s capable of and familiarize myself with her style of writing. There’s another layer to it, listening to the songs and knowing that the words are hers makes me feel like I understand her more. There are emotions in the music that I’ve never seen her outwardly show. Anguish, longing, and an emptiness that never slips onto her face.
The front door flies open, revealing Evelyn hastily shoving a granola bar into her mouth so she can free her hands to grab her keys. Once the door is locked she waves and sprints over to the convertible.
“Hey,” she says, the words muffled through another bite as she slips onto the leather seat next to me.
“Were you listening to a review earlier?” I ask.
“Maybe. It’s not like you care,” Evelyn brushes me off. For a moment, it looks like she’s going to kick her feet up on the dash then thinks better of it.
“It’s not healthy to listen to shit like that if you’re already in a rut,” I say.
“I like to know what expectations I need to meet with the album.” She shrugs.
I know I’m dipping into dangerous waters with this topic, but I keep going. “I thought we talked about this.”
“I don’t remember podcasts coming up over the last few conversations.”
“Eve, you know what I mean. You’re getting caught up in what other people think the album needs to be. Are you actually going to be happy with that?”
Her music is good, too good for her to be seeking out the opinions of idiots who’ve never written a day in their lives. Why can’t she see that?
“Do I have to remind you that it’s my album and not yours?” she asks, her smile twitching as if it’s an effort to maintain it.
“Are you going to let me disconnect your phone from the car?” I ask, twisting to check the road as I back out of the driveway, my hand landing on the back of her seat.
“How else will you continue to eavesdrop on integral moments in my life?” She sounds winded. When I turn back, I catch her staring at where my hand rests against the leather.
“So if I disconnect it, you’ll just add your phone back to the system?” My question has her focus snapping back to my face.
“Pretty much.”
The Gas Station has transformed the usual way it does on Tuesday nights. A podium stands at the far end just beyond the pool tables. Rows of metal folding chairs cover the checkered linoleum. Fifty or so people have already shown up and dozens more will trickle in throughout the night.
“What is this?” Evelyn hisses as we claim seats in the very back. Proceedings are already underway with Pat loudly reading tonight's agenda from her yellow legal pad.
“Town-Hall-trivia-night,” I say.
“Excuse you,” she replies as if I’ve just sneezed.
“What?”
Her eyes light up in amusement. “You just said a lot of words that make no sense strung together.”
“Because the businesses here stay open late most of the week, they close early on Tuesdays so they can come here for town hall meetings then trivia right after. It’s more efficient.” I maintain a hushed voice as Pat moves onto the first item on tonight’s agenda. “They used to have the meetings across town then trivia after, but attendance shot up the moment liquor was involved.”
The rumble of disgruntled voices rise around us. In response, Pat thwacks her gavel to silence the crowd. I’ve always thought it was a bit excessive, but it’s better than the whistle she used to use and way better than the attempts at incorporating a megaphone.
It’s been years since I’ve attended one of these. Usually, I only come up on weekends, unless Alina is in dire need of help with a repair and then I’m too preoccupied to spend time coming here. Still, I get the highlights. Every time I delete myself from the group chat designated for updates, I find myself added back against my will.
“Is Pat the mayor or something?” Evelyn’s eyes rove over the chaos around us. The energy could rival an auction house, even if they are only discussing the day to release seasonal flavors in town.
“High school gym teacher during the day. The mayor is mostly honorary.”
“Hmm.”
“Today is going to be mostly Love Letter festival stuff.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” she emphatically whispers back. “I planned my trip around making sure I could see it before I left.”
“Every year it’s the biggest fucking headache.”
“It can’t be that bad. I mean, it looks so fun. Or maybe, it being fun is the entire reason you hate it,” she remarks, cocking her head to the side in mock consideration.
“That's because you see the pretty final product for one day that takes months of prep,” I say. Hartsfall does well for a tourist town. Money is good year round. In the fall there’s the festival and the trees. In winter we are a good place for skiers to lodge, not too far from the slopes and bigger resorts. Spring and summer are nice enough. But the festival is the biggest draw. It often gives families the financial extra boost to buy things they’ve been putting off or save for the holidays. “Three years ago the gazebo caved in. We had twenty-four hours to replace the entire floor and did it all at night so it wouldn’t disrupt the tourists. Who needs a good night's sleep when the tourist might be a little inconvenienced?”
“There’s no way.”
“Yes,” I affirm, my voice rising.
“Thank you, Garrett, for stepping up and showing some festive spirit!” Pat bellows.
Evelyn shrinks into her folding chair. “Are we being reprimanded?”
“I have no fucking clue.” When my eyes lock with Pat’s, I know whatever’s happening is penance for me talking out of turn, even if we’re in the back of the building. This is exactly why I don’t come to town meetings.
Poppy, a redhead with springy curls who helps run the pottery studio and the inn in town, looks back from where she’s seated a row in front of us. “I think you just agreed to go up to the Barlowes’ and do the official wine tasting on Thursday.”
“No,” I say. “I didn’t.”
“Try telling Pat that,” Poppy says as Pat moves onto the next point of order.
“What’s wrong with wine tasting?” Evelyn asks.
“I’ll tell you later. You’ll probably love it,” I explain.
The wine tasting is the one assignment for the festival that people avoid like the plague. The wine itself is great. But the Barlowes have been known to change what they donate to the festival based on how much they like the people sent to the taste testing. On some occasions the good stuff has all been “out of stock” other times they give the town extra, allowing the celebration to stretch an extra day with the alcohol alone. So it’s safe to say Pat would like me to shut the hell up.
The agenda alternates between things that matter and things that only matter to the town in their own special way. Love is Brewing is thinking about transitioning to a coffee roaster in Rochester. There’s a pothole that’s given three tourists flats in the last month and simply won’t stay filled. The high school band wants permission to change their set list for the festival.
Once Pat gives the final bang of the gavel, everyone rises from their chairs in a practiced but chaotic fashion. People do their best to not drag the chairs but there’s a decent amount of clanging and scraping.
“Time for trivia?” Evelyn asks.
“If you want to.” It’s part of the reason I brought her here, but if she doesn’t want to stay we don’t have to, even if it means having Alina saying something about it later.
“Do you?
“I’m not allowed to play.” My phone buzzes in my pocket and I reach to silence it at risk of angering Pat even more.
“You’re kidding.” Evelyn’s eyes shine with delight. “Got caught cheating? Couldn’t handle losing? You’re starting to sound like a deviant.”
“No. I’m a little too good at winning,” I admit.
“Of course that’s why.” She playfully rolls her eyes.
“The jerk’s never lost a game. Not fair to the rest of us who want to enjoy some good competition,” Pat explains as she walks up next to us. “He has the honor of tallying points. I came over to tell you that I’m taking drink orders for the next ten minutes before we get going.”
Pat gives me a hearty thump on my back before she heads off to tell others to get to the bar.
“So, stay or leave?” I ask, trying not to act like I care either way. I’m hit with an unexpected wave of protectiveness for the town. I don’t give a shit about what the tourists see, but this is special. These are people who mean something to me, and I want her to see that they’re worth more than the cute shop names and a marketable theme. They are the heart and soul of Hartsfall; the reason people believe in happy endings.
“How do I join in?” she asks with genuine curiosity that puts my fears to rest.
I break down the rules, then Evelyn splits off and joins a group with Alina, Poppy, and Sara. Within moments she strikes up a conversation with them. I shouldn’t have expected anything less. My phone starts to buzz again. Probably Wes is just bored, a few hours alone won’t kill him. The only people who would call me in an emergency are in this room, so I silence the phone again.
“I could make an exception for tonight,” Pat says as I meet her at the folding table that has been set up with the list of questions, a microphone, and score sheets.
“Don’t go getting any ideas. I already have Alina’s matchmaking delusions.” The last thing I need are more people pushing me in Evelyn’s direction. I can handle being around her for two weeks, but it’s smart for me to not test my limits. Anything more than what we’re up to is a one-way trip to one or both of us getting hurt. Even if she saw me that way, I’d just disappoint her. I’m not exactly the open, carefree type that can get swept up in the moment with her.
“If that’s how you want to play it. Pick up a pencil and get ready to help me read the most god-awful handwriting known to man.”
“I’m not playing it any specific way.”
“And you’re also not looking over to check in on her every five seconds when it seems like she has a damn good handle on fitting in,” Pat says, feigning disinterest while reviewing the first set of questions.
I glance over, despite myself, to see Evelyn talking animatedly, like she’s been coming here for ages. For the rest of the first half, each time I look she’s cheering or booing along with her team, immersing herself in the game.
By the time we reach the lightning round, my phone rings for a third time, earning me a warning look from Pat. I won’t risk pulling it out and buying nearly a third of the town drinks. I can afford it, but it's the principle of it. After the town hall meeting wrapped up, more people have filled the space to the point where it’s standing room only. There’s likely a fire code being broken, but that’s not news to anyone.
“I’m going to get this,” I tell Pat after she turns up the music for the one-minute time allotted for team members to deliberate and bring up their answers.
“Take your time. We have a break before the second half starts. Turn the damn thing off before you come back in.” She waves me toward the door.
Outside, the parking lot is full. Trucks are parked off the edge of the packed pavement. I walk to a shadowed corner away from the buzzing streetlamp and old gas station sign. My phone goes off again and Lana’s contact lights up my phone as I slip it from my pocket.
“Yeah?” I answer, the word heavy on my tongue. My hand squeezes the phone to prevent it from shaking.
“How are you?” she asks cheerily.
“Fine. Is there something wrong with your payments?”
“I heard you were home,” she ignores me, but that’s to be expected.
“I am.” I shouldn’t be surprised that town gossip has reached her, but I wish it hadn’t.
“What if I came to visit? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” she says, causing my stomach to twist.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years since we’ve been face to face. Fifteen years since she showed up at our tour stop in Vegas. She was smiling and wearing a glittery dress that managed to stick out in a crowd. We talked before I was supposed to go on for a mic check.
It’s the only performance I ever missed. The resulting migraine that came made it unsafe for me to be on stage with my nausea and spotty vision. It made me feel so useless. Everyone performed while I was tucked away in a dark hotel room.
Even though I haven’t seen her since, Lana and I still talk like this on occasion, or she sends me pictures of a chessboard from a trip to an antique store with messages like Reminds me of those times I’d come home from work and find you still up at midnight.
“You know what our deal is.” It’s simple now that it's been in place for a while. I give her monthly payments on the condition that she never comes back to Hartsfall and never asks for more. It’s her hometown, but she was hell bent on making people’s lives miserable when she lived here. The town took care of me when she didn’t, and I’m returning the favor.
Sometimes, I feel like I’ve given her a choice. Me and the town or the money; fifteen years and I’ve never made the cut.
“There are things I want to talk to you about in person, and oh, I miss the fall there. How are the stars? I bet they’re so bright. Tell me what they look like..”
I tilt my head to see stars wink at me over the treetops. “It’s cloudy tonight.”
My attempt to stop her stream of consciousness rambling proves ineffective as she barrels on. “Oh, what about the trees, are the trees starting to turn? You know, when I was growing up, I used to collect leaves. Your grandma and I would try to get the biggest one each year. I think I still have pictures of some of them. Have I shown you the pictures? If not, I can bring them.”
I do my best to block out the words.
She always means what she says, genuinely cares as words pour from her lips. That’s why everyone was willing to give her chance after chance, no matter what she did. She says sorry and you can’t help but believe her. She wants to show me these pictures and share the memories. But that is a foot in the door that has never led to anything good. In the end something else will catch her attention.
I hate thinking about it, but Lana reminds me a bit of Evelyn and the thought terrifies me. They both have this way of drawing people in, making them feel interesting and special. They don’t make small talk seem like an inconvenience and they want to share something with you, show you how they see the world in sparkling color. They’re fundamentally different beyond that. Lana wants to take, make things hers, make you believe that she is someone you can never leave because she shines so brightly. Evelyn would give her light away if it made you happy. I know the difference. I remind myself of it like a mantra. But it remains as a barrier I have to keep up no matter how much Evelyn draws me in, how much I love when she challenges me and makes me want her.
“I’m busy,” I say. This is the last thing I need.
“You can’t make time for your mother?” she whines.
Like you made time for me?
I struggle with it. She was seventeen when she had me. I can’t imagine having to take care of an entire other person at that age. Sometimes she did a good job, other times she didn’t. She’d miss rent payments or forget to get groceries because she ate meals at work. I learned to be self-reliant and careful. I learned everything I could so I could do it for myself.
“I have to go,” I say, already knowing this conversation isn’t going anywhere.
“Consider it,” she pleads. “Please.”
“I have.” I hang up.
No matter how short the conversations are with her, or if it’s been over a year since we last talked, my body feels like it’s under attack, muscles tightening for an invisible blow.
I keep my phone out and I pull up the chess app. It’s the mechanism I use when I can’t sit down and play music. Something that requires my full attention to get a clear-cut desired outcome without any catastrophic stakes. Pat is the one who introduced me to the concept, almost forced it on me, because so many of the things I took up as “hobbies” were more work than play since I wanted nothing to do with people my age.
The bar door swings open and music spills into the night as everyone enjoys the intermission. A few seconds later, Pat turns the corner.
She gives me a once over then wordlessly starts pulling out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. I hold out a hand and Pat places one of her Marlboros in it. After a flick of her lighter, I prop the cigarette between my lips, taking a long inhale.
I’ve mostly kicked the habit. I know it only makes my migraines worse in the long run. Still, there’s nothing else that quite grounds me like smoking. It was the first act of rebellion I ever took part in. Knowing it was against the rules was a thrill. Now I need it to remind myself that I’m finally the adult who has the power to do what I need.
“You’re a bad influence, being a teacher and all,” I say as I ash the cigarette.
“Good thing you’re too old to be one of my students.” She takes a drag. “Who was it?”
“Lana.” Her name is sour on my tongue.
“Shit,” she spits.
“Yeah.” There’s something nice about being able to say her name and people knowing. Sometimes I hate the reactions, the pity that melts people’s eyes like I’m still twelve and sitting alone on a park bench doing my homework.
Pat’s good with it, though. She knows shitty things are just that. Shitty.
“Why’d you bring the girl back?” Pat asks, pointedly changing to what apparently has become everyone’s new favorite subject.
“It’s not a date.” I might have to tattoo it on my forehead at this point.
“Didn’t say it was.”
“It was an apology,” I explain. “We had a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“All cleared up?”
“Maybe. It was over the alarms I put on my phone for when I’m done with tasks,” I say. It’s a technique I’ve had since I was a kid, so Pat is familiar with it. I couldn’t control much, but I could choose how to use my time.
“No one wants to feel like a task, just so you know,” Pat says. “A bit dehumanizing. But maybe if she knows why, it’ll help in the long run.”
“Fuck,” I groan. How are we going to get through two weeks if I’m failing after one day?
“People have never been your thing, kid. Doesn’t mean you can’t learn. Let’s get inside before they come and hunt us down.”
After trivia, Evelyn helps put up chairs and clean up spills. All the while she talks to everyone. Her laughs break through the music and have other people looking at her with endearing smiles. I think about how she should have been the one from here, not me. She fits in a way I’ve never been able to, never allowed myself to.
It’s past midnight when we leave. Evelyn leans with her head resting on her hand as we cruise. Despite the light nipping breeze, there’s a glowing warmth in my chest and she might be the culprit.
“Tonight was fun, the trivia questions made me feel like an idiot. But still, it was a good time,” she says as I pull to a stop in front of her house.
“You accept my apology then?”
“You’re missing the key part where you apologize. If you need a refresher a good place to start is with ‘I’m sorry.’” Her expression grows expectant.
“I am sorry, Eve. I never wanted to make you feel like you were something to check off a to-do list. I am sorry for that,” I tell her. I try not to look away as my face heats with embarrassment.
“Honestly, I overreacted a little. I was having a pretty good time, and I thought you were too, so thinking you just wanted to get rid of me pissed me off.”
Here goes nothing. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to keep the alarms though, but I’ll explain why, if you want.”
“If it’s because you’re secretly a spy and need to check in with your handler I will take it as an acceptable excuse.”
“As fun as that sounds, I doubt I’d be able to tell you if that were true. It’s just that I like structure and to know what’s going on and when. Putting on timers and alerts makes certain I never lose track of that,” I explain.
As I was first introduced to a stable schedule, I clung to it. It was something I could control. It’s part of the reason I liked boarding school so much. I knew where I needed to be and when. I knew the meal schedule and that the food would always be there.
“Is there a reason you’re insistent on me having an action-packed double life?” I'm okay with explaining, but I’m not sure if I want to open myself to more questions.
“It's lonely being the only one, and it’s a waste to let your looks not be used for espionage and debauchery. You even have the car for it!” she says then reaches over to slap the dash. “And just so we’re clear, you like the calendar invites for the same reason?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make sure not to forget them. But I’m going to use my time to the fullest and make you have a little fun.” She throws me a wink. “I’m going to get a real smile out of you, Larson, even if it kills us both.”