One
Tai t
2 YEARS LATER
“If you don’t shut that thing off I swear to God, Tait, I will grab the next bottle of champagne that floats by and use it to smash it to pieces.”
Ava is concealed in giant shades, her waist length, beautiful, raven-black hair—hair that I still get jealous of as an adult—pulled into a messy bun, wearing no makeup, and suffering what appears to be an impressive hangover.
“Well, well, aren’t we chipper today?!” I laugh as I put my phone on silent. “It’s just my boss, couldn’t possibly be important or anything, but since you were quite insistent that you wanted to continue last night’s fun, here we are!”
She groans. “I was a completely different person then. I clearly don’t get out enough and let the evening get away from me. Also, you were keeping up with me. How are you so perky?”
“I haven’t gone to bed yet. I might still be a little drunk,” I explain.
To be fair, I’m rocking the same general look that she is: workout leggings, an oversized Fleetwood Mac tee, the same crazy-ass, wobbly bun on my head, sans makeup… but my bun is vaguely blonde, and I guess I’m just not radiating pain the same way she is.
“Ha. Nice. More like you didn’t have a three-year-old riding the high of his ring bearer power to wrangle into bed. He was on another level.”
“Not that I’d share this with the bride, but he did steal the show, didn’t he? Kid has some moves.” I pay tribute and mime his little robot routine.
She laughs. “His enthusiasm for the Ying-Yang Twins should probably make me reevaluate a few things.”
The waitress comes to the table, then, and offers a quick intro—Penelope or something, I think. Despite not being in quite as bad shape, I’m not exactly thriving at the moment, either. Still, I can’t help but poke the bear sometimes.
“Hair of the dog?” I say to Ava. “I know it’s hard to get past the idea, but one more is usually the cure.”
She laughs darkly. “You did not just quote our mother to me.” Then, turning a little green around the gills, “Fine, you order it though, I’m afraid to speak it.”
I smile up at the waitress—a cute platinum blonde with bright red lips and pretty doe eyes. She’s practically bouncing on her toes and is probably much too bubbly and bright to get stuck with the Logan sisters on this particular morning.
“Okay, we’ll do a round of mimosas, and we may as well start off with a good starch. Hit us with the cheese tots.”
“GRRRRRREAT choice! I’ll be right back with the mimosas and just let me know when you’re ready to order those meals, gals!” Penelope exclaims .
“Okay!” I wince and give her an awkward thumbs up in an effort to match her enthusiasm.
Yup, definitely too bubbly for us today.
I look back to Ava, already anticipating what’s about to come out of her mouth.
“Gals? What are we, eighty-five?” She snorts.
“She’s sweet and it’s Sunday brunch. She’s probably just excited for her tips. By the way, where are Jack and Casey today? They were more than welcome to join us.”
“I know, but they were happy in the hotel room and nursing their own kind of hangovers, I think. They were both propped up in bed watching Paw Patrol when I left.”
I smirk at the mental image. Jack is a mini Casey these days. And, despite his jokes and various sarcastic comments about missing sports, I know Casey loves just about every kid show out there. Except, apparently, something called Caillou —who is akin to the devil’s spawn, according to him.
“Kayla was so grateful for how you came through last night. Thanks again. I’ve never gotten the warmest vibes from her and now she’s already texted me twice today to make sure I passed along her thanks.”
Kayla is Casey’s cousin and the bride of the wedding we’re recovering from. Her photographer’s flight was rescheduled so that she could attend her niece’s birth, and then delayed last minute. She wasn’t going to make the ceremony. There would still have been a videographer, and the photographer was there in time for the reception, but I get that it would have been pretty devastating for those memories of the rest of the day to go un-captured.
“It’s no problem, I’m glad it worked out. And I hope she’s not still pissed. I know I wouldn’t have missed Jack’s debut for anything either,” I say .
“The photographer offered her a full refund and still came for the reception, plus you’re basically the best photographer upgrade ever, and took her wedding photos for free—which I still don’t agree with, by the way. If she’s still pissed, she’s an idiot.”
I dust my shoulder off sarcastically. “True.” I smile.
The mimosas arrive, and since I know it’ll end up doing us some good, I pour each of us a glass before second thoughts take hold. She likes a 50/50 ratio of juice and champagne in hers, whereas I prefer mine to taste like it drove by an orange grove and picked up an orange essence, so I make them accordingly.
“Ugh. I mean what’s even the point of the juice when you do it like that?!” she says with more venom than I think she intends. I respond with an unladylike gulp.
“Hey, last time I just wafted the orange juice towards the champagne. I did this for your benefit.”
She shrugs me off before changing course.
“No, but really Tait, thank you. I know you haven’t taken wedding photos in a while, so I hope that was okay? You’re okay, right?”
Irritation flares, whipping through me with surprising force, and I have to take another sip before answering. I staple the nonchalant smile onto my face.
“Ave, we were dancing and having a blast all night. I took full advantage of getting to party during the reception. I could have just jetted home after the ceremony. You were with me. Did I look broken or even upset to you?”
She smiles at that. “No, no you didn’t. In fact, I did catch you flirting with that groomsman at the bar—who asked Casey for your number, by the way. You were doing great for a minute there—” She sighs and her tone flattens. “— and then spent the whole night dancing with the three-year-old instead.”
She’s right, I haven’t done wedding photography for quite some time. But it’s less nuanced than what I photograph now, and it was actually refreshing to have some specific parameters to follow: simply capture the happy people on their happy day.
“Hey, that was not on me. I even asked what’s-his-face—”
“Ryan. He was literally the best man and was introduced numerous times throughout the night, Tait.”
“— what’s-his-face, to dance. He wasn’t into the fun dancing and did not even participate in the conga line. You know how I feel about that. He just wanted to chat, and I could tell he was working up to ask for a slow dance, which is the lamest.”
“Oh my god. Someone not dancing at a wedding is not an in-depth view into their psyche, Tait. He was smoking hot, is single, has no baggage, and is a doctor for fuck’s sake. I had high hopes. I know you avoid the rugged ones these days, but we both know that’s your type, and he is very outdoors-y. He seemed extremely nice, too. Did you actually ask him to dance?”
Our tots arrive then, and we both shovel some onto our plates a little too quickly to be dignified. Desperately wanting to change the subject, and not having any great comebacks in my addled arsenal at the moment—I am disturbed that she has caught on to the fact that I avoid a “type”—I reply lamely, “My, my, Ava Jean Pruitt. Such language! From a mother no less.”
She tosses some food back and doesn’t reward my dumb remark with a response. I don’t blame her. The attempt was as subtle as a gun, and about as sharp as a marble.
Since I can’t help but hate when she’s disappointed, and wish she’d stop letting her worry over me take away from her own happiness, I give in.
“Okay, I may have just said that I was going to go hit the dance floor. But the invitation in that is implied. And it is a legit theory. If he can’t fun-dance at a wedding, where everyone of all ages is fun-dancing and there’s zero excuse to be self-conscious, then he’s probably just not that much… fun. ,And you know that slow dancing doesn’t count either—the combo of the wedding atmosphere, booze, music—that’s just a dude trying to make a girl feel twitterpated enough to hop into bed.”
She rolls her eyes, the expression exaggerated as she attempts to chew an overlarge bite. “I’m choosing to ignore the Bambi reference, but we will need to circle back to the fact that you need to start spending more time with grownups and probably less with Jack. Why is fun always your first and only priority, though? What about a genuine connection with another human? We both know that the moment they actually do have anything else going for them, you lose interest. I’m not saying it had to be hot doctor Ryan, but Jesus, Tait, there’s always something. You need to break the dry spell. It’s time.”
I sigh, and decide to give one more shot at lightening the mood. “Remind me to avoid hungover you next time. Booze takes you deep whereas it leaves me floating happily in the shallows.” I continue before she can protest, “BUT, I do get it and I love you. I wanted to just have a good time. I’m glad it happened to be right by home and everything, too. And, most importantly, I don’t need a person to be happy, or to have a good time. I’d hoped you would have known that by now.” She rolls her eyes some more at that and I sense more of a lecture coming, so I press on. “You know that I am now the proud owner of an air fryer. I am on a first name basis with all three of my Amazon delivery drivers, Ave. My life is full of joy.”
“Tait. Be serious. You know their names, their wives’ and girlfriends’ names, shit, probably even their dogs’ names, but do they know anything about you?”
Le sigh. I was not prepared for this version of Ava this morning. I like shining a light on others. I like how I make other people feel: important. I like keeping things light and without permanence right now. I chase these good and simple feelings.
And, okay sure, she might be right, I do avoid what I once may have considered my type. However, there’s a real purpose behind that, too. I most likely only find that to be my type because I was with the same person for over ten years—most of which were my very formative years as far as all that is concerned. How do I know that’s what I’m even really into?
My ex-husband was my first and only love, but it went deeper than that. He, his family, our journey together—it created roots in me that I hadn’t otherwise had. Roots that were effectively ripped up. I am growing anew here… I am happy.
So yes, I avoid the rugged, blue-collar men—the ones who come home dirty and have calluses. I find them to be too direct; they try to cut too quickly through the getting-to-know-you part, and elicit too strong a response for the comfort zone I’ve established. I also have a theory that they’re generally just more self-aware than is good for me. I still need simple, uncomplicated distractions for a bit. Besides that, I have a sister, brother-in-law, and a nephew that I adore. I have a dream career. And I have had occasional sex in the last few years! I have! It’s not as if I have closed myself off to that entirely… Nothing to write home about in that department, which is why I’m not dying to hop back in the saddle. I just have no interest in a relationship in general, and I don’t feel the need to give more of myself away again—not when I know exactly how it feels for it to disappear in an instant.
No thanks.
Hard pass… Actually, it’s a bit sad how easy the idea is to pass on.
I’ve worked hard enough to become whole again and happy, alone. I had the love story and the drama that came with it, and now I will happily choose to be the fun aunt who travels the world and has her own grand adventures. Life is whole enough. I’m no longer scared of loneliness. I’ve faced it and learned to enjoy my own company.
“Ave, I’ve got you guys.”
Still not feeling it, she won’t look at me. But she eventually relents and says, “I’m just really nursing this thing. It’s been a couple years since I had a good hangover, and I just have been thinking about some shit lately.” She pauses, darting her eyes to her plate as she pushes around a tot. “I got another letter from Dad which always brings out the worst, and I just want you to be happy because you deserve all the things— you deserve love and everything with it. More than anyone else.”
Something about that last part doesn’t sit right with me. “Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”
She gives me a quizzical look from behind her sunglasses. “Huh? Just what I said—that you deserve to be happy.”
“Yeah, but what do you mean, ‘more than anyone else’? More than who, exactly?”
She blows out a sigh. “I didn’t—I didn’t even mean anything by that. I didn’t want to bring this up at all. I wasn’t going to.” She puts her face in her hands. “Fuck my stupid, pickled brain.”
I raise an eyebrow at her and wait.
She takes a deep breath. “I did some social media stalking again…”
“Goddamn it, Ava. I told you to stop. I don’t even have any accounts besides my work page, which is work only, so I clearly don’t want to know. You told me to cut everything off. Why is it you who wants to know more?”
“I don’t know T, I’m sorry. I guess I think—well, maybe I hope to find out that he’s gotten fat or something.”
I know that’s not all of it. Not even close. But I understand to an extent. Cole was like a brother to her. We did grow up together through all those years. When our relationship ended abruptly, it effectively ended theirs as well, and just as much out of the blue.
That being said, the last time she did this it ended in complete disaster.…
She came across his wedding photos. It’d been a wine-soaked night at my place, and against my better judgment, I ended up scrolling with her. That was all that it had taken for me to learn my lesson… I would have hoped it did the same for her .
Cole and Alex (known by her friends as Allie) had their wedding in our— their— backyard, with all of our shared friends making up the bridal party. It was a small wedding by the looks of it. Perfect, really… The love radiated, almost cloyingly so, from the photos. Ava continues before I get the chance to tell her to stop, that I don’t want to know any more.
“Alex is pregnant.”
I manage not to pause this time.
“Of course she is, Ava. They’re married and happy and in an epic fucking love. Not some high school sweetheart kind of bullshit. They’re both fucking heroes. That’s the natural order of things, to have a baby next. So of course they are. I’m not shocked, and I am fine.”
The mimosa starts to turn on me and I reach for my ice water with a shaky hand.
Bubbles returns at that moment. “Ladies, are we ready to order? I highly recommend the lobster Benedict. Orrrrr the churro waffles! Orrrrr do we need another round before food?”
I want to bite out that we don’t need anything since she is not actually sitting with us, but I maintain composure and don’t dissolve into complete petulance.
“I actually will take the donut holes, the California omelette with the breakfast potatoes, and a side biscuit with gravy, please.”
“Great, two plates for that to share?”
“Nope, sure not.” I offer her a saccharine smile.
Ava throws me an anxious look, orders the breakfast sandwich and her own side of gravy, and Bubbles floats away.
“You know, it’s rude that you stay as fit as you do,” Ava says, as if all it will take is a thinly-veiled compliment.…
“I’m hungry and going on no sleep. Leave me be. And you’re one to talk.”
I work out to keep the demons at bay which usually means I work out five days a week, sometimes twice a day. I’m an active hobby addict because digging into a dark place and sweating my ass off means I’m out of my thoughts, frankly. The subsequent endorphins don’t hurt, either. Still, I am equally passionate about good food so I’m certainly not thin. Ava is five foot ten with long, willowy, graceful limbs, while still not lacking in the curves department. I’m five foot five with a similar shape plus a healthy amount of muscle, just shoved onto a shorter frame. I’m not complaining—I am admittedly self-conscious about my legs at times, and would happily take a few inches from Ave, but I’ve got a trim waist and physical strength, and I do what I need in order to be happy in my own skin. I’ll never deprive myself of a good meal. This world hands out enough shit sandwiches, so I’ll enjoy a tasty one whenever I can get it.
“So, the letter from Dad, huh? Who actually sends letters still? The man can clearly afford a cell phone, or send a damn email,” I say.
“Yeah, it was a little different this time, but mostly the same as always. He thanked me for my response again, even though my responses are, again, mostly just short answers and telling him not to feel obligated to continue to write. He asked me to send my best to you. He still sent us all plane tickets, one for Jack to have his own seat and everything. He apparently set up an account for Jack, and gave me all the info for that which caught me off guard… I haven’t looked at it yet or anything. The only thing different was that he actually asked if he could come here, if we would see him if he did, rather than just asking if we might consider visiting them. He stopped asking for your address a few letters ago. It was still him, but sounded a little… desperate, rather than mostly aloof like normal. He even signed it ‘Dad’ this time.”
“Wow. Reeks of desperation,” I reply.
She flaps a hand. “Yeah, I don’t know. Just small differences I suppose. Casey being Casey and the eternal sap that he is wants us to go out there. He tries to convince me that regardless of the awkwardness ‘it would still end up being a cool vacation.’” She includes the air quotes, which come off a bit forced, and I can’t help but get the sense that she might actually want to go.…
I don’t really have a response for that. I can’t sort through my feelings about Ava and her family getting reacquainted with our estranged father, and I suppose it’s not my place to even have feelings about what she decides with that, anyway. I know my feelings and my experience, and that’s all I need to know.
My mother was never the happiest person, and she didn’t always make the best choices. The consequences of those choices sometimes fell on us, to be sure. But, she had been left, too. She had been abandoned, and never recovered. The only difference between her then and me now is that I don’t have two daughters to drag down into my despair with me. She moved us to California, putting a few states of separation between her and my father, and to be closer to our grandparents. I haven’t seen Charlie Logan since. I was seven, and Ava was three. He started writing to Ava and I when she was fourteen, and I was eighteen. At that time, I had no desire to write back. I didn’t need to. Up until that point I had craved a family environment; one with a mom who wanted to be involved, who was warm, or just a bit more interested. Mom was damaged, somehow, but did her best… I wouldn’t be who I am if she hadn’t been who she was. And she was there, which is more than I can say for Charlie.
But at eighteen, I’d fallen in love and was busy making memories with a new family. I felt complete and excited about the rest of my life—plus, I was still being a teenager. So, I never wrote back. I was finally enjoying feeling like I had something good and whole in my life, and had zero desire to dwell in my broken home’s past. Charlie occasionally called, but I never had anything to say, and he was stoic at best. I never wrote back to his letters like Ave did.
Ava has always seemed to care more about her origins than I, though. She recently got into the idea of us doing those DNA kits, and pitched it to me with feigned nonchalance. It was under the guise of knowing our ethnicities “for Jack,” but it occurs to me now that maybe she just has always cared more. I suspected that she was interested in it segueing into a connection with Dad’s family. Like, maybe, an online thread would lead to a real-life one, or something. And, maybe, doing it together gave us collective permission to do so.
I don’t understand why I should care about my ties to Charlie, or any of the Logans, for that matter. The last real effort he ever put forth was sending me my first camera as a graduation gift—so, ten years ago now. Hell, we didn’t even invite Charlie to our weddings since that would have meant that he (and by extension, the rest of his family) would have needed to be involved in the rest of our lives. Plus, it would not have been fair to my mother, who was already in the beginning stages of illness by then .
Our meals arrive and the rest of the conversation is light and pleasant. That, combined with the striking blue of Lake Tahoe in the background, warm-yet-fresh air, and a contented, full belly, make me ready to catch up on that shut-eye by the end of the meal.
I squeeze Ava and send her on her way. Thankfully, they don’t have a far journey home—only about an hour down the hill in the foothills, where there’s no tourist seasons and it’s an easier place to raise kids. Where I also used to live.
I head back to my little A-frame on the west shore, feeling more numb than I probably should given the news of the day. I try to tell myself it’s a sort of peace I’m feeling and not that deep wave of depression getting ready to pull me under. It feels as if I’ve almost been waiting for this, though: the final confirmation that life—Cole—has moved on completely. That he’s getting what I couldn’t give him, and that however bad he may have felt for not being able to continue loving me, his happiness is too great to not sail on forward.
I get home and all but collapse on the bed, ignoring the constant vibrating of my phone, and sleep.