Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Flynn
June: I’m sorry
I stare at her text while eating a sandwich in the kitchen. Rupert and Callie are at a funeral today. It’s just me and Loki.
Flynn: For what?
June: For waiting so long to tell u about my life before MN
What are we doing? She’s there. I’m here. She had her secrets. I still have mine. We are so far apart in every way, whatever this is that we’re doing seems pointless. What do I say?
Yeah, you should feel sorry. I would never keep anything from you.
Flynn: I lied about my job
June: ?
I took Rupert’s Chevelle for a joyride and got caught. He gave me the choice to work for him or he’d call the police. Also I was in juvie for 18 months and prison for 3 years total
Even I cringe at all that information. So I delete the last part and stick with:
Flynn: I took Rupert’s Chevelle for a joyride and got caught. He gave me the choice to work for him or he’d call the police
I wait.
And wait.
No dots.
No emojis.
Wow. That’s it? Thank god I didn’t give her everything. Or maybe I should have. If that minor indiscretion has her speechless, what would the word prison do to her?
“Okay then.” I laugh, swiping out of the texting screen. “Nice knowing ya, June.” I keep eating my sandwich even though I’m no longer hungry, and my chest aches. I don’t want it to be love. Nope. No broken heart shit for me.
My phone vibrates, and the screen lights up.
June: How long is your sentence?
My sentence? Does she mean how long do I have to work for the Rawlings?
Flynn: No clue. Afraid to ask
June: I bet you’re the highest paid convict ever
What happened? Was she distracted? Is that why she didn’t respond right away? Maybe she’s practicing her cello, but that doesn’t make sense because she texted first. No. She paused, needing a moment to digest what I confessed. And she has no idea how much irony there is in her word choice.
Flynn: I asked for a pay cut
June: Who does that?
Flynn: People who want to stay focused on what matters
Again, she doesn’t respond. What’s wrong with wanting to stay focused on other people’s struggles? Not wanting the love of money to turn me into someone who looks the other way?
June: Can’t talk. Need to stay focused on my terminally ill grandmother
“Shit …” I smack my phone face down on the counter and sigh.
I don’t need emojis to tell me she’s pissed.
I hop off the barstool and pace the room. Then I grab my phone and call Monroe.
“What’s up?” he answers.
There’s clinking and grinding noises in the background. Typical sounds in an auto repair shop.
“I think I should just say ‘fuck it,’ and be a rich asshole. I don’t know if there’s a heaven, but I bet a few rich people get in if there is.
So what’s the point, ya know? What’s the point of keeping a level head if I can just pick a charity to Venmo a few thousand bucks to every month from my yacht?
Where is the alternative getting me in life?
I’ll tell you, nowhere. I just keep sticking my foot in my mouth which makes me look and feel like an asshole, so if I’m going to be an asshole either way, why not be a rich one? ”
“Well,” he chuckles, “first, I’m working.
Second, that’s a lot to unpack. Third, it must be nice to have the option to be rich or stay poor.
I would choose rich seven days a week. So judge me all you want, but I don’t know why you think being poor is some ethical choice poor people are making.
And if being rich is so awful, why are you still working for rich people?
Go to jail. Hang out with your tribe of poor criminals.
You already sound stuck-up and entitled by calling me at work to rant about your dilemma that everyone else would love to have.
And I say all of this with the most love possible. Okay?”
I sigh. “June’s grandma is terminally ill.”
“Sorry to hear that. But everyone is going to die. If you make it to be a grandparent, I don’t think anyone should feel cheated when you die. Now, if we’re done here, I have to work.”
“Thanks, man,” I say.
He laughs. “I didn’t do a damn thing, but you’re welcome.”
I set my phone on the counter and exhale. What is this life of mine?
“FUUUCK!”
The voices in my head return. I don’t even know whose they are, perhaps a mix of every person who has ever tried to tell me anything. So I go for another run, using memories of Zoya playing Bach to propel me around the lake.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
After six miles, I drop in the same spot, stare at the same sky, and wait for a different outcome.
When I return to the house, entering through the back door by the laundry room, I hear voices. Loud voices. Rupert and Callie are home, and they’re arguing. I’ve never lived in a house where the couple didn’t scream at each other. Why should this house be any different?
“It’s a fucking decision, Callie,” Rupert says. “Right now. Not tomorrow. Not in ten years. Not in another life. Just make the choice to let go and be happy. Otherwise, what are you even doing?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? If I can’t reach your perceived level of happiness, then I shouldn’t be here? Do you mean with you? In this house? In this life?”
“I’m not saying that,” he says.
“Sounds like it. Rupert, you can’t undo what’s been done.
You can’t erase it from my brain. It doesn't matter how many people you find to distract me. You can hire a hundred Flynns, and I’ll find a soft spot in my heart for every single one of them.
But I don’t need a muse. I don’t need inspiration.
The only thing I need is for you to accept me for who I am now.
Not the woman you married. Not the person I was before he died.
ME! The Callie who will have good days and bad days for the rest of her life.
The grandmother who will never forget what happened and who will always feel a little dead inside.
If I were disabled from a car accident, unable to walk again, you wouldn’t tell me to get out of my stupid wheelchair and just walk like it’s a decision. This heartache—”
Her voice cracks. “This heartache is every bit as permanent and disabling as losing a physical ability. And if you weren’t such a selfish man who yearns for a time that is lost and can never be again, then you’d accept me where I’m at.
You’d take the good days and magnify each moment.
But you’d also give me space on the days that I just want to allow my heart to feel the grief that comes in waves. ”
I step around the corner into the hallway to hear better as Rupert lowers his voice to a volume of defeat.
“I fix things,” he says. “I build things. I create things. It’s who I am. And when the woman I love more than anyone in the world has bad days, I feel incapable of doing nothing.”
“You are Flynn. He is you,” she says. “You’re both hellbent on seeing the world as you think is just and right, instead of how it is.
Sometimes you have to let go and trust the process.
There’s an ancient philosophy that states by doing nothing, everything is done.
Stop resisting. Let yourself flow with life around you.
Welcome changes in your life and how you see life around you.
” She sniffles. “We buried a friend today. Of course it triggered painful memories, and I felt them because I’m alive.
I get to feel. Pain. Grief. Regret. Happiness.
Hope. Love. I get to feel all the emotions.
I want to feel everything. So just … let me. ”
I peek around the corner into the kitchen. When their heads are bowed like there’s nothing else to say, I dash to the stairs, taking them two at a time. After a shower, I lie on my bed and type out a text to June.
If a guy from MN wanted to visit a girl in CA how would he go about doing that?
I stare at the screen for more than thirty minutes, then delete it before heading downstairs, listening for voices before descending the stairs. No one’s in the kitchen, so I check Rupert’s office. It’s empty. Then I check downstairs, and he’s hitting balls with his golf simulator.
“Do you golf?” he asks, focusing on his shot.
I open my mouth to say it’s a rich man’s sport, and he should know the answer. “Never had the opportunity,” I say instead.
“Well, let’s see whatcha got.” He hands me the club and nods for me to stand by the rubber tee.
“Slide your grip back a little.” He grabs another club and demonstrates.
I mirror him.
“Widen your stance an inch.”
I do as he instructs.
“A little bend in your knees. That’s it.
When you bring it back, keep your lead arm straight like this.
Rotate your torso and shoulders, but don’t let your hip jut out too far.
Keep your swing fluid, leading with your lower body, shifting your weight to your front foot like this.
” He swings slowly. “Head steady. Chest facing the target.”
I take a slow swing, making little adjustments. Then I hit the ball on the tee and look at the screen.
“Not bad at all,” Rupert says, giving me an approving nod.
“I talked to Callie the other day about your grandson,” I say, setting another ball on the tee.
“Yes, she told me.”
“Well,” I hit another ball.
“Let your right elbow bend a little more,” he says.
I nod. “I don’t know how long I have to work here to pay for my joyriding incident. But I don’t think there is anything I can do to help her. So I was wondering if you’d be okay with me flying out to California?”
“To visit June?”
I nod then hit another ball. “Figured I’d sell her car since she’s not here, and I don’t see her returning. And I’ll use the money for a plane ticket and a hotel room when I get there.”
“Are you asking for permission to quit?” He lifts his golf club over his head to stretch.
“I think so. If you’ll let me, without calling the police.”
“Well, calling the police would be a real dick move on my part, wouldn’t it?”
I grin. “It would.”
“Did June invite you to come see her?”
“No. She’s not speaking to me.” I swing the club and whiff.
“You’re going to California by yourself to see a girl who’s not talking to you?”
“So it would seem.” I hit the ball this time.
“Nice.” Rupert watches the screen and whistles. “Thought she was too rich for you.”
“She is.”
“But?”
I hand him the golf club. “I think I’ve been waiting for things in my life to make sense, since they never have. June made sense, or so I thought.” I climb onto the barstool at his fully stocked bar.
It looks just like something from an actual pub. Draft beer. Shelves of every kind of alcohol imaginable.
“I now think waiting for something to make sense is the biggest waste of time. When I die, I don’t think I’ll care about things making sense, but I know I’ll remember how her hands felt on my neck or in my hair.
I’ll remember the way she brought me to my knees with a single look.
The music she made. The look in her eyes when I touched the scar above her lip. ”
Rupert returns the clubs to his bag. “Well, shit, Flynn. You might just be smarter than ninety percent of all other men. But you still haven’t told her about your past?”
I shake my head. “I will.”
“And what will you do if she doesn’t want to be with you?”
“Dunno. I’ll figure it out if I have to.”
He pulls a cold mug from the freezer and fills it with beer. Then he slides it to me across the polished bar.
I can’t hide my grin.
“Would you like me to get your airfare arranged?” He fills a second mug with beer.
After I take a swig, I shake my head. “No. But I appreciate the offer.”
He gives me an approving smile. “Well, you have my number. Don’t choke on your pride or drown in misery. If you need something, call. Okay?”
I nod several times.
“At least let me make a call to help you get a credit card and a bank card if you don't have one. You’ll need it for booking things.”
I twist my lips.
“It’s not charity. They’ll be your bills to pay.”
After contemplating it, I nod and murmur, “Thank you.”
An awkward silence lands between us, and I glance around the bar area. “So … you’re an author, who secretly loves cats.”
Rupert frowns when I look at him.
“No.” I snicker. “It’s cool. Your secret is safe with me. Well, that’s a lie. I already told June about your books.”
“Don’t pass up an opportunity to try new things,” he says. “Writing stories is fun.”
“I’m dyslexic,” I say.
“Your brain is not broken. You could write a story if you wanted. Speech to text.”
“My brain feels a little broken.” I shrug. “Anyway, June’s grandma is terminally ill. Any suggestions on what I should say?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You should ask Callie. It’s been brought to my attention that I have a tendency to force my need to fix things on other people.
You can’t fix what’s happening to her grandma.
I’d probably go with KISS—keep it simple, stupid.
Something like, ‘This sucks. I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’m here if you need anything.’”
I nod slowly. “KISS. Got it.”
“I’d avoid criticizing anyone, even if you attach it to a respectfully.”
“Good tip.” I laugh.
He sets his beer on the bar and slides his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t hire you as a punishment. Callie didn’t make you sit with her on the balcony for hours as a punishment.”
“I know.”
“I hope one day, you’ll look back and think the best mistake you ever made was taking my car for a joyride.”
I drink the rest of my beer and stand. “I don’t have to wait for that day. I already know it was.”
His smile swells. It’s fatherly pride. And since I don’t remember my father, I’ll remember this summer with Rupert and Callie Rawlings. The summer I grew up. Fell in love. And wore leather loafers without socks.