2. Lucy
It wasfive thirty-four a.m. and I considered ordering yet another triple espresso.
Just when I thought I’d become immune to an excessive amount of caffeine, I started to fight with the growing urge to shake my leg or fidget with the lid of my coffee. There wasn’t a lot of angst building up to this trip, not until I drove to the airport this morning.
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.
I mindlessly scrolled through tagged photos on social media from the night before to distract from my racing thoughts. But then the overhead announcement system called out my boarding group and brought me back to reality.
I gathered up my duffle bag and submerged myself into the herd of other scrambling passengers. Standing behind a woman not too much older than me, she started a conversation with the people beside her.
“Is your final destination Connecticut?” the woman asked so naturally as she pulled the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder.
“Oh, no,” the others responded. A grin was plastered on their faces as they began to speak. “Just a layover, we are spending our summer abroad.”
I didn’t make it a habit to eavesdrop, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes pretend to have music playing through my headphones so I could hear peoples’ side conversations—ya, know…naturally.
But right now, they’re right in front of me, talking at a normal volume, and my headphones are at the bottom of my backpack. Was I not supposed to listen in?
“Wow, that’s exciting!” The first lady sounded genuinely intrigued, so much so that they all grew closer in distance to carry on their conversation. Eventually, they pulled out their phones and shared their social media.
I had no issue talking with others, really I didn’t. My entire academic career, and soon to be professional career, required me to fall right into conversation with people I’d never met.
But out in the wild, in places like the grocery store or in this case the airport, I could never strike up a conversation so easily.
As the line got shorter and the plane boarded, I found my seat in the third row of First Class—a little graduation gift to myself—and settled in. It’s quieter as opposed to Economy. Comfier, too.
I snapped a photo wearing my neck pillow and sent it off to Gracie with the caption, “told you I know how to have fun.”
Already unpacking the contents of my carry-on, I took out a miniature notebook and a book that’s been lodged smack dab in the middle of my bedside stack since freshman year of undergrad. I clicked my pen a couple of times, tested it by drawing squiggly lines in the upper right hand corner, and got to work on my summer to-do list.
The idea of going into the summer blindly frightened me. I had to familiarize myself with taking each day as it came, a foreign concept to say the least. Every day—every week—was planned out on the first of every month. Now, it was the end of May, and I had no idea what I was walking into. I was destined to fly by the seat of my pants this summer, and “disaster” was the first word that came to my mind.
I’m excited, terrified, eager—but I don’t know if I can say that I’m ready. At least not for this. How is anyone ever ready to face uncertainty?
“Excuse me,” an older gentleman nodded at the seat beside me. I shifted my legs off to the side so he could squeeze by. He had countless creases in the corners of his eyes and plenty of freckles that made it clear he’d been kissed by the sun more than once. “Have you read that before?” he asked, pointing to my book with his free hand. The other started to pour out a miniature sized bottle of vodka into a short cup of orange juice.
“Oh, uh,” I coughed out, then adjusted my belongings on the tray in front of me. I shifted them straight, lining them up perfectly with one another. As if I was making a mess when I knew that I wasn’t. “No, I haven’t. But here”s hoping the next five hours give me enough time to make a dent.”
I fidgeted with the rips in the spine and the bent up corners of the cover.
I had bought it second-hand at a used bookstore in my early years of college. I was fresh off the plane from Connecticut, with no money to my name, and all of my books took up residency in boxes and bins inside my childhood home. That wasn’t going to deter me, all I wanted was to find a book I could escape into.
The man held his plastic cup up for a distant cheers. “Here’s to hoping,” he repeated after me, and said, “That’s one of my favorite reads of all time.”
I smiled into my lap, then slipped the notebook back into my bag. I flipped open to the first chapter and got straight to reading. We were both silent for the remainder of our flight, except for the quick grumbles in passing for bathroom trips or when we went our separate ways at the end. There was a sense of comfortability that he brought to me and I didn’t even catch his name.
Something about literature being able to bring people together was comforting. It was familiar.
***
I stepped out of the airport and made my way down to the rental car port. All of the stress and worry that ran through my body was relieved once the scents of Connecticut hit my bloodstream.
A summer in New England was exactly what I needed. I drove further into that daunting uncertainty, I drove further into Rider.
Suddenly, I was seventeen again in a town I couldn’t wait to get out of. I rolled down my window and let the smell of beach roses and salt air from the seaport dance throughout the car. I passed the storefronts and traveled the main road. People filtered in and out of the shops and sat at the small tables out front of the coffeehouse. Muscle memory kicked in, though, and out of instinct, I turned down a long dirt road.
An invisible string pulled me toward Hummingbird Lake, a place I’m forever tied to.
There was no question about it—coming here was as natural as breathing. I spent more time here than I ever did at home.
The lake water and the summer breeze hit my face as I climbed out of the Mini Cooper I managed to rent for the summer. I walked in the front door of the grill that looked out over the lake, and the entryway bell rang like it always had before.
Just like that, the echoic memories all flooded back. Except, this was not the place that I remember.
The two-top tables were replaced with light brown leather booths with metal plate-top tables, the lighting was certainly warmer, and all of the quirky knick-knacks and family photos that once lined the walls were simply gone.
The real kicker was there’s now a nameplate above the entrance outside.
The Hideout: Bar and Grill.
This was more of a place I wanted to hide from.
An old-school jukebox was positioned near the door, and a fireplace was centered on the back wall.
This was not Gus Dennings’ restaurant with the weirdly named sandwiches and fluorescent lights—the place he never bothered to name. The charm of the place was that you’d get a headache immediately upon walking in, but you didn’t care because you felt welcomed—you felt at home.
No, now it had a name, an identity beyond whatever you wanted it to be.
I walked over to the bakery case. Thankfully, it’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. Pies and pastries, cakes, and cookies were stacked in neat rows.
I searched behind the counter and peeked down through the kitchen window, but nothing. A brown dog perked themselves up from their curled position by the register while the cook on the line gave a quick smirk before returning to his job.
A cook? Someone who wasn’t Gus. There was no way I’d get used to that.
Gus took care of the cooking, while his wife, Leanne, was in charge of the baking. They are the heart and soul here, the best duo. Even with her confections right in front of me, and the smell of Gus’ potato salad wafting through the vents, nothing felt the same.
There was no sight of them at all.
I turned on the balls of my feet, knowing I’d catch either of them during my time here. I had the whole summer, after all. In an instant, I smacked right into the jukebox. The beginning instrumentals of Alan Jackson’s Don’t Rock the Jukebox started to play.
How fucking fitting.
Steam filled my cheeks as I slammed my palms down on all sorts of buttons in a frenzy. I realized there was no way to stop it. I either chose another song or waited for this one to end. Numerous songs from Chris Stapleton’s discography flipped through, each only a second long before the jammed buttons played the first few chords of Man, I Feel Like a Woman by Shania Twain.
I didn’t know if I wanted to start line dancing, or if I wanted to run and never show my face again.
I chose the latter.
I booked it for the front door but was intercepted with a hard chest to the face.
He swung a white bar towel over his shoulder, then stepped around me. He gave the jukebox one swift kick to the side accompanied by a low groan that escaped his mouth. The music stopped immediately, and the dog whimpered as the racket died down.
I pressed the palm of my hand to my forehead as I turned to face him.
He had kind eyes and a nice-looking jawline. I know I’d been gone for a while, but Rider didn’t tend to produce men who looked like that.
“That happens sometimes,” his mouth quirked.
I couldn’t believe that he found amusement in this fiasco… While I couldn’t do anything besides shrink into myself. He ran his fingers through his tousled sandy hair and flashed me a grin as he moved us off to the side and out of the main walkway. The few customers that have been seated since I first got here were stealing glances in my direction in between bites of their food.
“Sit anywhere, guys,” he shouted over my head as a family of four walked in. They guided themselves past us to an empty table.
“I am so sorry about that,” I spoke into the ground and began fidgeting with my chipped nail polish. My legs started to tremble from pure embarrassment. I couldn’t even make eye contact.
He looked down at my hands, then back up at me. He placed his hand at the peak of my shoulder, “Listen, it’s okay,” he said, then covered my hand with his, stopping my anxious movement.
He pulled his hand away like he had just grabbed for a cast iron skillet and huffed out a shaky breath. I shot my eyes up at him and that’s when I noticed his cheeks had turned a light pink tinge.
“Sorry, er,” he stammered out. “Like I said, that happens. No need to feel bad about it.”
I slowly nodded then headed for the door once more. Determined to make it out without a scratch this time.
“Was there something I can help you with?” he called out after me.
“No, nope,” I said with my hand on the doorknob but kept my sights on the lake. “Think I got the wrong place.” That’s putting it lightly.
I fumbled my way out the door but promptly stopped at the edge of the wrap-around porch. Waiting for my blood pressure to regulate and to kick the top ten country hits of the nineties out of my head, I looked back through the windows. Hoping I’d find Gus, Leanne—or someone or something of familiarity—in there.
That maybe the last five minutes was all a big, terrible dream.
But I didn’t. And it wasn’t.
Life was always meant to move on after I left, and I didn’t expect it not to, but the idea of Rider being a place I no longer knew frightened me. What if I’ve been gone for too long, that there was nothing familiar anymore?