Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Georgie
As much as I want to live in a bubble with Logan and nothing and no one else, Dad and Marlowe are everywhere these days.
For the past week, they’ve taken to showing up wherever I’m working unannounced.
Dad’s been taking time off to “strategize,” and Marlowe looks like a plant that’s finally being watered after a long drought.
They’re standing in my apartment on my day off as Marlowe explains that she wants me training everyone on the truck.
A voice in my head says she’s planning to have an entire workforce of capable, cross-trained baristas so she can open a hundred new trucks and create a never-ending cycle of debt that allows her to effectively take over Meant to Bean.
That’s not what she says, though, and it’s not like me to read something so mean into such a nice gesture.
Even though I’m sure I’m right.
“You’ve worked so hard building up the truck,” she says, leaning on the back of the couch and looking at me in the kitchen, where I’m hand-washing the remains of the breakfast I had with Logan before he had to leave for rehab. “You deserve this break, sweetie.”
Does she mean that? Or is she trying to impress my dad? Or trying to get what she wants?
Honestly, I’d be happy if the answer was all of the above, because at least it would mean she cares.
I hate how much one “sweetie” can do … or undo. I’m twenty-five years old and that simple term of endearment always makes me want to throw myself at her feet and beg for a hug.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, rinsing my dishes.
“It is, Georgie Girl,” Dad says, putting his arm around Marlowe, who practically preens. “You’ve made the truck so much more of a success than we thought it could be. We’re so proud of you.”
I smile, even though I shouldn’t. “I’m glad you both feel so confident about the truck—”
“About you,” Marlowe says, and my desperation to be loved starts to spread.
“Thank you.” I can feel myself smiling too hard and have to fight my limbs so they don’t reach out for the hug Marlowe won’t give me. I put my hands on the counter—wringing them together again—and Marlowe does the unexpected.
She reaches a hand out to mine and squeezes.
Her hand is warm and strong, and this is the most loving thing she’s done since she hugged me on my birthday when dad wasn’t even around to see.
I WILL NOT CRY.
“We have a lease meeting scheduled for next Friday. Why don’t you join us?” Marlowe asks.
“I’ll be in Charlotte for the week,” Dad adds, “but I’ll get home early Friday for it. I can pick you up.”
My parents are wanting me around, wanting to make me part of the business. How am I supposed to say no to this?
Am I supposed to say no to this?
Suddenly, I remember Jane’s business card is on my bed in my room, along with my laptop and homework. I can almost hear the card beating like a heart buried beneath the floorboards.
Is this what I want?
I want the love and attention, no question.
But do I want them involved with the truck? I shift from one foot to the other, my Chucks too tight on my toes, and then I glance around the room, not looking at Marlowe or my dad. If I look at their smiling, supportive faces, I won’t be able to say no.
My eyes land on my calendar. Next Friday is Ava’s quince.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. That’s the day of Alma’s granddaughter’s quinceanera. I’m helping set up.”
Marlowe’s smile drops for an instant, but it’s back up again before I can blink. “No problem. Why don’t we schedule it for that following Monday instead.”
Logan will already be in Chicago by then.
Somehow, remembering this makes me remember other things, too. Like how no matter how loving Dad and Marlowe are, this is my dream. And I want to be the one who gets to live it.
I hope they’ll want that for me, too, whenever I’m ready to have a hard discussion with them.
But they’re both smiling sweetly at me in my apartment, where they stopped by for no other reason than to say hi.
Yeah, today’s not that day.
“I’ll check my calendar. Send me the details, okay?” I smile, hoping this will suffice. Hoping it will buy me time.
“Of course, sweetie,” Marlowe says, meeting me around the counter and putting a hand on my cheek in a way that sends more fractures along my resolve. “We’ll get out of your hair.”
Dad reaches across the counter to give me a quick hug before turning and escorting Marlowe toward the door. He stops with his hand on the knob. “When did you get the bookshelves?”
“They’re new.”
“You and your books,” Dad says, rapping his knuckles on the door and staring at the shelves and then back at me. “You’re so much like your mother.” He smiles. “See you soon, Georgie Girl. Love you.”
I wave as they leave, wishing my heart weren’t so beat up.
Too bad I was the one doing the beating.
Dad and Marlowe were so nice. So complimentary.
They wanted my input! They want me involved in their big venture!
And I put my heart in a cage and just stood there while it threw itself at the bars, trying to break free.
I’m trying to protect you, I think, rubbing my palm over the center of my chest.
If you never want anything, you’ll never be disappointed.
My mind turns to Logan. But you’ll never be happy, either.
***
Logan texts sometime later, after I’ve wrapped up my classwork for the day.
Logan
Finishing up in ten. Don’t worry about picking me up—I’ll run to you.
Georgie
That might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever read.
Logan
Good, because it was definitely intentional on all levels. I’m suave like that. So well-spoken.
I mean well-written.
(Man, that was embarrassing.)
Georgie
Cute, though.
Logan
You said “though,” which means you agree it was embarrassing. Someone’s being nasty.
Georgie
Ha! Sorry, Logan.
Logan
Don’t apologize. I like every version of you, definitely including Nasty Georgie.
Georgie
You’re silly.
Logan
You’re cute.
I’ve missed you. It’s been forever since I saw you.
Georgie
:) It’s only been four hours since brunch.
Logan
Like I said: forever.
See you soon.
I set down my phone, and my heart throws itself at the bars again.
Logan’s so open about how he feels. Am I trying to protect my heart from him, too?
Dad’s smiling face comes to mind, and I glance over to the photos on the walls Mom put up so many years ago: pictures of a smiling family that don’t tell the full story.
Yes, we were happy. Mom and I were our own unit, and when Dad was around, we welcomed him wholeheartedly.
But when he was gone, Mom didn’t miss a beat. I’m not sure she missed him, honestly. We didn’t talk about him except for when he called. It was “Ashman girls” time.
That’s when we made mugs and put up shelves in the store and taste-tested new menu items. Maybe she didn’t want me to miss him, but I’m afraid all she did was show me that she never really needed anyone else. No one needs anyone else.
Which is true.
Except when you pass out in public and need someone to drive you home.
Except when you forget to take care of yourself and need tamales and hot cocoa.
Except when you’ve been lonely for so long, you don’t know how to be anything but alone.
Except when your need to be loved eclipses your need for food and shelter and even air to breathe.
These are dangerous thoughts. You don’t want things, remember? You don’t wish or hope or dream. You accept what you have and move forward, and that’s how you protect your heart.
I think of Jane’s business card tucked away with my laptop and homework, and then I look around my apartment, scanning rows of mugs and mountains of crocheted blankets, the memorabilia covering every counter, surface, and inch of wall space.
If I’m not supposed to wish, hope, or dream—if I’m supposed to accept and move forward, how do I move forward from all of this?
Being the keeper of my mother’s memory isn’t a cage, but it’s come with strings attached.
The thing is, I’m not sure she’s the one who attached them.
***
Logan and I are at Sugar Maple Farms for their Food Truck Friday, a place I’m itching to put my coffee truck, but I haven’t had the nerve to add my name to the vendor waitlist without talking to Marlowe.
My schedule has also been way too backbreaking to add one more shift, at least until recently.
The more time I have, though, the more time I find myself looking at the back of my notebook, where I’ve written down dreams I haven’t let myself think about. For years, I’ve sketched them there so I wouldn’t have to keep them in my head or my heart.
I kind of want them back.
We’re sitting across from each other at a picnic table amid the hay bales and pumpkins the farm put out at the first of September. A cool wind whips past us, and I huddle into the navy Firebirds hoodie Logan peeled off his own body the second we got out of my Sentra.
“When are we getting a Meant to Bean truck here?” Logan asks before taking a bite of his brisket-and-cheese french fries.
“I was thinking the same thing,” I say, stabbing a fork into my pecan pie. I take a bite and then hold back a moan. “I need to make a pecan-pie-and-maple latte. This is heavenly.”
“Can I try?”
“No way,” I say, smiling as I scoop up a forkful for him.
He grins. “I like Nasty Georgie.”
“Maybe this is just Georgie now.” I hold the fork out to him, and he watches me with his piercing blue eyes as his lips part and he takes a bite, and, wow, that’s attractive.
“Whoa. Yes, make that into a drink. But can you make a Whip Smart out of it, too? I’d have one every day.”
“You already do,” I say, and he smiles and steals more of my pie. “What is it about that drink you love so much? I know athletes need protein, but is something different?”
“I don’t know. It just feels like a post-workout drink. I wonder if it’s the macros or your protein blend. What’s in it?”
“Whey, sea salt, collagen, and tart cherry powder, but that’s because I like how it balances the sweetness of the syrups.”
He laughs. “Do you have any idea what you stumbled onto with that mix?”
“I know it’s all good for you and it makes the drinks taste richer. Does that count?”