8. Lucy
I traileda few steps behind Sawyer as he left the cottage. I hid behind the makeshift curtains I nailed up along the living room windows, shielding me from Sawyer’s view as he walked down to his truck. I could smell the year’s worth of mothballs all over them with my face pressed up against them. I made a mental note to find the box with all the candles packed away to get rid of the stench.
Afraid he’d see my silhouette in the window as he pulled out of the drive, I crouched down and army crawled to the center of the living room. I hadn’t moved since, and six hours had passed. Give or take.
I managed to get sidetracked and sorted through two boxes in the meantime. And by sort through, I mean I dumped everything out in front of me, looked at it all, and then slowly placed it back in.
Nothing caught my attention enough to decide whether to “keep” or “toss” so I saved it for the “deal with later” pile. As I’ve been doing with most of my responsibilities the past few days.
How was I to decipher what deserved a place in my life when it felt as though everything here had some sort of value?
Anytime I considered tackling the never-ending to-do list, I wanted to crumble inside of myself. Having a structured plan has always assisted me in how to go about things. But now, I found myself having to pencil in time to process my emotions.
I had always taken pride in being mature when it came to my feelings, I never let much get under my skin. There’s no point in dwelling on the happenings of life when they’re out of my control. With that being said, I think I fell headfirst into handling life alone after my grandmother passed, and I was never given the time to mourn her the way I felt like I needed to.
Did I cry? Of course. Do I miss her? I can’t imagine a day that I won’t. But I didn’t give myself time. Now? Now…all I have is time.
Her favorite spoon which she used to stir her coffee stares at me in the kitchen drawer. And the boxes that hold all of the memories from her life are stacked around, taking glances of me in passing. The little nothings that I refused to touch eight years ago hound me in every crevice and crook of this house. Wondering where they’ll be placed in the selection process, all asking questions I don’t have answers to.
I don’t know why I could pack some things but not others. I don’t know why some things are harder to look at than others. I don’t know much of anything anymore and it feels like it’s eating me alive.
Inside one of the boxes in front of me were some punch needle coasters and knitted throw blankets. I took out the fuchsia chunky knit and wrapped it around me. It molded around my shoulders like a much needed hug. The other box was filled to the rim with vinyl records. I filtered through and tugged out the Rubber Soul album by The Beatles. I dragged the needle over eleven tracks, In My Life started playing through the decades-old record player.
I closed my eyes and let the floor absorb me while I cried there. Soon enough, I fell asleep.
The stained glass window panel that hung above the front windows left a blue, purple, and yellow kaleidoscope-type pattern on the wall. The colors danced with the golden hue that started to enter the room from the sun setting. They so much as trailed all the way to the side of the grandfather clock that sat in the corner by the entrance. I couldn’t ignore the loud striking sound it made when it hit seven and jolted up from my spot.
It was minutes, thirty to be exact, before Sawyer’s opening was going to start.
I had hoped he hadn’t seen how ghostly my face became as he scribbled out his information. I stopped at the fridge to read the card because I needed to see it with my own eyes. Tonight, 7:30, the card read, with his number right beneath it.
It was simple, really. Common, even. He gave me his number—it was no big deal. But it was the way he did it. So confident, yet so relaxed. Very suave in the way he leaned against the counter, talked calmly, and then walked out after flashing me a crooked smile.
But there’s no way I could go. I don’t care if Gus willingly sold it to the guy. I don’t even know him. I don’t care that he is nice, or that he has a comforting smile and a strong jaw to accompany it. I know nothing about him. He just moves his way in and starts buying businesses with his big-boy bucks.
That’s not what Rider is about. Rider is for the people who grew up here, not those who decide to gentrify it. I like Rider exactly how it is.
The time ticked with twenty-nine minutes to go. I folded the blanket back up and placed it beside the box. I stopped the vinyl from mindlessly spinning and covered it back up with the dust cover lid. But still, the intrigue was there.
I’m not like the rest of them. Sawyer made it a point to mention.
He’s not like the rest of them. Gus sounded so sure with his statement.
Their declarations sounded so clear, so definite. Like I would be a fool to not believe either of them.
Fuck.
I scurried upstairs and busted into my room. I was going to make him keep his word. I owed it to Gus, it was the least I could do to see what he was all about.
I rustled through my closet, but nothing screamed out at me.Nothing said, “You should wear this to an event put on by a hot businessman that you don’t even know because it will look like you tried, but didn’t try too hard.”
I flipped through the hangers faster, as if going back and forth was going to make new items appear. News flash, it wasn’t. I opted for a fitted white tank and cut-off jean shorts and squirmed into pointed-toe booties.
I blew out a breath of relief. Just like that, I was dressed and presentable with five minutes to spare. Except that didn’t matter when I could not make myself move for the life of me. My eyes were glued to my reflection in the mirror.
My breathing was shallow. This is stupid, I thought.
The three times that I have seen Sawyer, my heart skipped more than it ever had. My stomach ended up in knots. I was getting butterflies for a guy that I didn’t even know—one that I wasn’t too sure I wanted to know.
But then he just showed up with his fitted tee shirt and five o’clock shadow from the night before. And he asked me to come to his opening—last minute, might I add—right before leaving. It’s bullshit. It’s even worse that I wanted to go.
I am here for the summer and the summer only. I was not going to fall for the nice, neighborhood boy—er, man—act. It was an act, it had to be.
Going tonight means absolutely nothing.
I brushed my hair by running my fingers through it and stood up straight. I marched downstairs, lightly pushed everything into the “deal with later” pile, and grabbed my phone.
“Going tonight means absolutely nothing,” I repeated out loud to myself as I walked out the door and got in the car.
I buckled myself up before flipping down the sun visor. I looked in the mirror and gave my eyelashes a lift with my finger. I took a couple of deep breaths and smiled back at myself.
Tonight means absolutely nothing.