36. Evelyn
36
Evelyn
S queaks fill the air as shoes scuff across the linoleum flooring of Hartsfall High School’s gymnasium. Long white plastic tables line the perimeter with different vendors testing out their foods and services. Hand painted signs are being touched up at the far end away from the main entrance where coordinators are checking in volunteers. We join the short line and I check my phone again. I stopped counting how many times I’ve reached for it an hour ago when the number hit an embarrassingly high double digit.
Garrett
I’m in the city. Talk soon.
Evelyn
Why didn’t you wake me up?
Garrett
You haven’t been sleeping well. You needed to sleep.
I’ve drafted and redrafted messages, but none of them have felt fair. We made no commitments to each other last night. It wasn’t about me at all. I’m not the one who severed ties with the only parent I’ve ever known. No matter how much him leaving for Manhattan feels like a knife in my gut, I understand it.
He’s going back to somewhere safe, somewhere without all the memories. He needs that, and it was always supposed to be the plan. I said yes knowing I wanted more, betting on being strong enough to turn off the emotions that are now swallowing me whole.
He left and didn’t say goodbye. It’s just a few days early. I can’t be upset about something that was lurking right around the corner.
So, I deleted the texts and told Oliver and Quinn he’d be here late. I’ll come up with another excuse about his absence later.
The pair in front of us finishes and I sign us in. As I scrawl our names, I do my best not to look for any evidence that Garrett could be here. He’s not on stage with the other musicians or mingling with the crowd. Quinn and Oliver didn’t originally have placements, but Poppy is the person who is checking us in so she’s able to help us find places for them to fill in for people who are sick or will only be able to work the actual event in a week.
Quinn joins me at the face painting station while Oliver helps with the cider. Between every person who sits at my station, I make any excuse I can to get up and look around. The moment we run out of paper towels, I head out to find a bathroom to get more. I offer to grab water and refreshments. I probably only paint one person’s face for every five anyone else does.
Before I can get up again, Fletcher slides into the folding chair across from me.
“What will it be? I can do hearts, flowers, or hearts,” I offer. Though I’ve worked in design before, Photoshop is a completely different ballgame than a tiny plastic brush against the contours of a human face.
“Hmm, I have a novel idea. What about hearts?”
“Might be hard, but I’ll try my best. Color?”
“Purple. Special request, can I get an F plus E in one, like a doodle in a notebook? I gotta remind the world who this ugly mug belongs to.” A crooked grin cracks across his face.
“Is Emily here?” I ask.
“Nah, it's flu shot season so she’s helping with that, but I’ll be damned if she doesn’t come to the real thing with me.”
The door behind me opens and clatters closed with more arrivals and before I can stop myself, I turn to look.
“He’ll be here,” Fletcher says as his eyes soften. I look away and focus on perfectly coating my brush.
I take my time with little hearts making them almost look like freckles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.”
“But if I did? I mean, know what you’re talking about.” I give in slightly but don’t dare break my forced concentration. I try to dampen the hope building in my chest.
“I’d tell you he’s never missed a rehearsal or the actual festival. Not when he was touring or when he was in school. He made it work, made them write into his contract and everything. He has his rough edges but he’s reliable as hell.” A woman painting the face of an apple-cheeked child huffs her disapproval and Fletcher corrects. “Excuse me, reliable as heck. Forgot we had some tender ears around here. That’s why they tuck me back in the da—darned garage.”
I cover my mouth to hide a smile. “Even when he was touring? There’s no way that people didn’t recognize him.”
“Well, he doesn’t sing. He just plays because of Alina. Then there’s the wig.”
“Wig?” I choke out the question through a laugh.
“Yeah, wig. It kinda looks like a fucking”—the lady throws him another look and he cringes—“dead rat. And he takes off his glasses.”
“Now that I need to see.”
“Hell, it’ll change you. That's for sure,” he says, giving me a wide-eyed, haunted expression.
“Let me finish you up before you say something that has parents pulling out soap to wash your mouth with.” I hold back a laugh as I pull back my hand so I don’t leave jagged scribbles on his face.
A few flicks of my brush later and I send him on his way. He grabs a donut then bounds over to help someone move speakers.
“Hello, everyone!” Pat’s voice booms through the gym in a way that probably gives some of the younger people flashbacks to when she was their teacher. “I wanted to thank all of our volunteers and business owners for making today possible. Every year, you are the folks who make the magic happen for everyone who comes to town on the 14th of October to experience the Love Letter Festival. We know you’ve been waiting for it, so the music is about to start.”
Alina and then a younger blonde woman walk on to the stage. The woman settles at the piano and Alina in front of the microphone. Then, there he is carrying a cello case and wearing an impassive expression. An expression I want to crack open to know how he is. I wonder how long he’s been here, what side door he used to come in.
Even with Fletcher’s reassurance I had doubts, but he’s here. The conversations of the community members dominate the space as the trio finishes setting up.
A bow stroke carries through the gymnasium. Everyone stills with anticipation. In practiced unison, the pianist and Garrett start a familiar swinging tune, and Alina starts to sing “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” Couples start to form in front of the stage, dancing however they see fit, gentle swaying to seemingly choreographed routines. I pay them little mind. I only care about the man with his arms in an embrace around his instrument. He looks up and catches me staring—I don’t look away because I can’t. Not when he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.
In the universe.
“Hey, Ev,” someone calls, and my attention is forced back to where I’m sitting. Oliver is standing to my left. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets and he’s rocking back on his heels.
“Oh, hey. Do you need something?” I ask, actively having to pay attention to Oliver and not Garrett. Not Garrett, who I still don’t know how to feel about right now.
“Dance with me?” he says. The question itself is complete, but my mind tacks on like we used to . “I mean, if you want.”
“What about Quinn?” I ask, looking to where my friend is meticulously cleaning her station.
“You know how she feels about being perceived with the potential of publicly failing or anything like it,” he says with a light smile. Quinn notoriously only dances when the lights are low and the music is deafening.
“If it’s okay, then sure.” I give a nod and he gives me his hand. As I drape my fingers in his, my first thought is to compare Oliver’s soft ones to Garrett’s calloused ones.
We join the rest of the dancers, slipping into a gap a few feet from the stage. There’s no strict pattern to our movements, just intuition. I lead as my body is swallowed by the aching strains of music, and Oliver follows.
We’ve experienced so many shades of this before, even when we weren’t together. The first time was at a sophomore year bonfire. We’d driven out of the city with a group of people Quinn and I knew from our major, and Oliver tagged along like he always did. Two beers and mystery shots later I was insistent on teaching someone to waltz.
“I’m sorry, but I have no need for ballroom lessons, I don’t intend on having to go through archaic courting rituals,” Quinn said from her place on her log-turned-bench.
“You’re right. I much prefer our modern ones that involve watching potential love interests slam cheap shots as proof of their courage,” I said, recalling an event from a few weekends ago when a guy misinterpreted Quinn’s indifference as a drinking challenge.
Quinn mulled this over a bit. “I could settle for something arranged and loveless with a few affairs.” She’d been making light of her own parents’ constant cycle of infidelity. That night was before their long-awaited divorce.
Oliver walked over with a fresh drink and his permanently bashful smile. “Why is Quinn considering marriage? Has something changed since she rambled on about how she would be a child bride last week to her mom.”
“She doesn’t want me to teach her how to waltz,” I explained.
“As usual, a perfect line of logic.” He nodded then handed his neon plastic cup to Quinn. “I’ve always wanted to learn. I guess now's the perfect chance.”
I always liked how serious he was about all of it. Nothing was stupid if it was something one of us cared about. Really, I only kind of knew how to waltz, but I had gotten so swept up in the idea of it I couldn’t back down.
Oliver and I arranged ourselves with one of my hands on his shoulder, one of his on my mid back, and the others linked.
“It’s a box step. Start with your left,” I said as he moved toward me. I’d continued to give my instructions until we were tilted away from Quinn. “Thank you for playing along.”
“I just like dancing.”
“You’re good at it.”
“I’ll tell my ballroom teacher that,” he said, then his eyes crinkled. “I have three sisters who took lessons, and I wanted to know what it was all about.”
“You already know how to waltz,” I concluded.
“I was in need of a refresher.”
There were times at friends' weddings and bars when he wanted to pull me close and rock back and forth, even as the music urged us to flail and bounce. I’ve missed it, but not because I’ve missed him.
I’m flung back into the moment as Oliver briskly maneuvers us from getting hit by overly enthusiastic swing dancers.
“You’re still so good at this,” I say.
“I’m a bit out of practice, so I’m happy this is passable.”
“Does Quinn still threaten arranged marriage as a way to get out of it?” I ask.
“We don’t dance,” he says and his features shadow into something unreadable then quickly bounce back. “But she is still a fan of the arranged marriage bit. Not great for my ego.”
“You two make sense together.” I swallow and keep going. “Like a boat and an anchor.”
“Going out on a limb and assuming I’m the boat here,” he says, flashing me a timid smile.
“A very handsome boat named after someone’s twenty-year-old mistress.”
He nods. “As the best kinds are.”
“And Quinn is a very sturdy anchor,” I say. “The kind you can rely on in a storm.”
Growing up I wasn’t good at making friends, I was loud and didn’t understand how to reel myself in. But I had Drew and he was my best friend, until he was in Fool’s Gambit. I wasn’t close to my parents in the same way some people are, because they were always worried about what I’d do. Then there were the small things. I couldn’t connect with my quiet father or cook like Drew did with Mom. Even with Avery I’ve been in the backseat because Wes will always be her person on a level I can’t fully grasp. I didn’t fit anywhere until I met Quinn and Oliver. Fitting with them made me more aware of the loneliness that came before, but I was sure it was over. And I really had started to think I might have a place with Garrett.
Oliver spins me around, the move requiring me to concentrate to keep my balance. He pulls me back in then stops short on the next step.
“Can I cut in?” The low voice is cold but it invites me in like the urge to crunch through fresh snow.
“Of course.” Oliver's hands leave my body, but I don’t feel bereft without them. At some point they just turned into hands and not the tactile things I constantly wanted pressed against me. “If you need a waltz instructor, she’s great.”
Garrett’s light brown eyes clash with Oliver’s brilliant blue ones.