6. Evelyn
6
Evelyn
I sleep the same way I have for the last few months. An urgent need to do something I’m incapable of looms over me until I shut my eyes in the dark only to blink them open to a blaze of sunlight. It’s the flavored seltzer water of sleep, in the sense that I did technically sleep but I barely get an aftertaste of rest.
I kill the time before meeting Garrett by covering the basics I neglected yesterday. Namely, I shove all my clothes in drawers then go to the grocery store to get my standard store brand “Blizzard Flakes” that has questionable nutritional value but at least gives me something sweet to look forward to in the mornings, as well as a month's worth of instant ramen.
Once back at the rental, lingering in the kitchen with my bowl of nothing more than sugary milk, I finally brave the trench of despair that is my email.
Vincent has taken to sending me links to articles and books on boosting creativity. I don’t have the heart to tell him that yoga isn’t the answer we’re looking for. I know this because I tried and the only result was being the sweatiest person in a very clinical looking red light enhanced studio with women who made the splits look far too easy. Try as I might, I can’t self-help listicle my way into creativity. I’ve gone on walks wearing weighted wristbands I impulse bought, rearranged my apartment (swapped my side table and floor lamp), and downloaded a language learning app. None of that changed anything besides what side of the couch I have to sit on to get good lighting.
Today’s book recommendation is on the healing power of nature by a middle-aged divorcee who hiked the Appalachian trail. I reply over email to not disrupt the text thread we have going about celebrities that look like their dogs.
Another email comes in as I’m drafting my explanation that backpacking is a sure-fire way to not get an album out of me because I will go missing or be eaten by a bear. Every muscle in my body locks.
Quinn.
The name on the email is one I’m familiar with but haven’t seen in my inbox since I quit my PR job. One that I used to look forward to every day because I was working with my best friend.
In my surprise I forget my surroundings and my elbow knocks over my bowl, causing milk to slosh onto the counter and dribble on my leg. A few used paper towels later, I reopen my email and my pulse quickens.
Hi, Evelyn,
Debra finally quit and they’re hiring for her old position. I know you were aiming for it before you left, so I wanted to let you know. If New York isn’t working out, I know that they’d love to have you back.
Regards,
Quinn
Under her name is the standard company sign off for Henderson Creative, the boutique PR firm we both worked at for six years after we graduated. Before now, the longest we’d been apart had been for summer vacations. It's been seven months since I told her I didn’t need her to drive me to the airport because I didn’t want to be fighting tears through security. I cried in the airport bathroom, already missing her and questioning the choice I couldn’t take back.
My heart clenches at the curt, formal email that is so completely her. From class projects to texts, she says exactly what she needs to and nothing more.
I met Quinn during the first week of classes. I had been rushing from my dorm after throwing on the first clothes I could find, and Quinn stopped to tell me that there was a pair of frothy bubble gum pink underwear tucked into the ankle of my jeans. I’d passed by at least a hundred people and she was the only one who took the time to point it out.
It was a time in my life when I was desperate for someone to just be honest with me. At that point, any time when I texted Drew I knew that the only response I’d get from him was “I’m fine,” as he pretended that the world wasn’t crashing in on him. My parents were the same. Quinn was the person I needed, someone I didn’t have to be on edge around, trying to constantly anticipate what could buoy her mood. Shortly after, the addition of Oliver made us into an inseparable trio. Through the rest of college and the reality of adulthood, we stuck by each other in those small ways that mean the most. Picking up ginger tea for Quinn when she was on her period. The three of us going together to Oliver’s dad’s seventh, eighth, and ninth weddings. The two of them coming to dinner with my parents to act as buffers against their barrage of questions.
The distance between Quinn and I didn’t start because of my move. It was before that when I became Lyla. I had planned on telling her, but then her parents pulled her into their long overdue divorce. After that there was always something that made me hesitate.
A promotion I didn’t want to overshadow.
A trip we wanted to plan.
A break up.
My break up with Oliver.
My move brought it all to a roaring crescendo. I reached a point where half of what I was telling her was just lies. I would text about the new company I was working at, even though there wasn’t one. Or I’d tell her I was having the best time and the adjustment wasn’t so bad. So, I gave one word answers or made excuses not to call until she reciprocated my energy.
This email is the Quinn version of saying, “I miss you. Talk to me dammit,” which is so rare that if I was home, I’d print it out and stick it to my fridge to memorialize it.
I anxiously tap between my text messages and my email. Texting is casual; it could start a much needed conversation. But I’m not sure if I’m ready for that, especially now that my brain is ever so conveniently failing me after I abandoned my actual job to pursue a dream. You know, really directing a spotlight onto the shit show I’ve made of my personal life. Email feels cold though, impersonal, which I hate even more than potential confrontation.
I look back to the email and genuinely consider it. With one simple yes, I can go back to the way things were. All I have to do is finish up this album and not sign the contract renewal from Reverb that I should be hearing about any day now. If I want, I can act like the last five years never happened. That sounds damn nice right about now, but with my recent string of questionable decisions, I should think about it a little longer.
Evelyn
I’ll lyk. On vacation. Look at this place - you’d love it
I copy and paste a link to a travel blog post about Hartsfall that I know she’ll appreciate more than Avery did.
Quinn
Cute
I’d demand to watch Netflix specials
I smile to myself, happy to share Hartsfall with her. The only flaw in Quinn’s impeccable taste, and really I wouldn’t consider it a flaw even if she definitely does, is her love of low budget small town romance movies. The predictable plots and cheesy dialogue were the white noise of our college years.
Evelyn
Of course
I wait for another text but after a few minutes nothing comes. I still have half an hour before I meet Garrett, so I go up and change out of my stained sweats and into jeans and a T-shirt. To my dismay, this only takes a few minutes and when I get back to the living room I’m faced with my piano. The stupid motherfucker. It’s not its fault I’m struggling, but somehow it manages to look smug.
There’s no getting around the fact that if I want to write the way I used to, I need to play. I go to the piano and pull out the black bench. As I sit, I’m greeted with a view of the deck out back that extends into a sprawling yard with a fire pit.
I guide the keyboard cover back so it slots into place with a light thud. My fingers hover over the spread of black and white. I welcome the familiar hum of possibility, of being in complete control of where I’ll start.
Music is the voice I’ve relied on so many times when I couldn’t find the right words to express how I feel. Playing the piano I can set free every emotion I keep to myself. All the things that contradict the illusion that I’m perfectly content. I can be the version of myself the people I care about need me to be if I have music. That matters far more than the album, but both are slipping away from me.
Simple. I’ll start simple with something I don’t have to put any effort into to get right. My hands drift down into position for an E major scale. After all this time, a thrill still rushes through me with how fast I can make my way up and down the octaves without stumbling.
The keys are cool to the touch.
E F# G#
The vibration of the hammers striking strings in the body of the piano.
A B C#
C# C# C#
It’s like my brain’s scratched against a Brillo pad, but I press the key again and again, drawing out the torment.
Out of tune.
It’s out of tune. Fucking perfect.
Garrett has claimed one of the benches along the walking path weaving alongside the gazebo. Today he’s wearing a button down and slacks, far closer to what I’m used to seeing him in. Still, I won’t be unable to unsee the way he lifted his shirt. That has been filed in a very permanent folder in the back of my mind.
“Do you?” Garrett asks, tilting his head toward me, yet somehow managing to keep his eyes on his phone as he taps at the screen.
“Do I what?” I ask. Did he say something while I was remembering exactly how speechless a passing glimpse of his abs made me feel yesterday?
He sighs as if it’s a burden to continue the conversation that he started. “Do you have a warrant out for your arrest as the rhinestones on your chest are declaring to the general populace?”
“Oh, this little thing?” I pick at the fabric of my white shirt emblazoned with ruby red rhinestone lettering. “I try to keep people guessing. Maybe I do and this is the best way to throw people off my trail.”
“That line of logic is inherently flawed.”
“Thank you for your freakish ability to make jokes less funny. I just like seeing what puts you on edge. Don’t you worry, I have plenty more shirts that I’ll save just for you.” I packed a variety of clothes, but over the years I’ve thoroughly enjoyed seeing what can get a reaction out of him. When I was rifling through the dresser this morning, I couldn’t help myself.
“Why? New York apartments are small enough without having to accommodate novelty T-shirts,” he says, making the word novelty sound dirty, and not the fun type of dirty either.
His mention of my apartment has me bristling. Right, I’m supposed to be mad at him. It’s not like I expected us to make each other friendship bracelets or anything when he agreed to help me move. But there’s always been something about Garrett.
He gets all annoyed with me, and I just want to toy with him more. The only times I’ve seen him blush are when I feed him a stupid innuendo or three. It’s like there’s a secret part of himself he lets out around me. Sue me for wanting more of it. But work always comes first for Garrett, stupid to think he’d make an exception for me.
“Avery and I get them for each other every year,” I explain. It’s a bit of a compromise to the problem of what do you get someone who can buy themself anything they might want? The answer: shirts from the bowels of the internet. “If you’re done with helping an oil company steal property from orphans, shall we go our merry little way?”
“Whatever you think I do, I promise stealing property from orphans has nothing to do with it.” With this statement he finally rises from the bench. Once standing he brushes off his already immaculately clean slate gray slacks. “Let’s get this over with then.”
It quickly becomes apparent that Garrett’s interpretation of a “tour” is to point at the buildings we pass and read off the signs. The bookstore, which who would have guessed, sells books! A salon that I can go to if I need a haircut. His enthusiasm is absolutely infectious.
When we walk by Love is Brewing, a coffee shop with a scalloped awning and a rich scent of pastries wafting out whenever someone opens the door, he says, “You can get okay coffee here and the Wi-Fi is terrible if more than two people are using it.”
“If I were to order a coffee, what would you suggest?” I ask, attempting to start an actual conversation.
He stops in his tracks; two lines etch between his brows. “Are you trying to make me look like an ass?”
“What?” Startled by the accusation, I blink up at him.
“I know you don’t drink coffee so why would you ask for a recommendation?” he asks, like I’m trying to catch him in a trick question.
I don’t drink coffee, but it’s not like I expect him to know that. It makes me jittery and my stomach queasy. I’m more of a tea or Diet Coke girl unless I’m in desperate need of a boost and I’ll grab an energy drink that will inevitably mess up my sleep pattern for at least a week, as if it isn’t already fucked.
“I’m not. I’m just trying to make conversation because you obviously would rather be working. Seriously, if you don’t want to be here with me, just go. And it’s not like I expect you to know my order.”
“I’ve known you for the better part of two decades, it would take more effort to not know basic facts about you. I bet you can tell me my order,” he counters.
Cappuccino with whole milk. So, yeah, maybe I do.
“I guess you have a point,” I begrudgingly admit, a flush heating my cheeks.
“And as for leaving, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I promise I can handle myself,” I say. I was planning on doing this by myself anyway. Teasing and flirting is one thing, but I don’t particularly love the idea that he’d rather be anywhere else than with me.
He pulls off his glasses and rubs at his temples, making him appear older. Garrett always looked more grown up than anyone else his age when we were younger. It could have been attributed to his sharp bone structure, but even when youth softened his features there was an air about him. His clothes were always impeccably clean and put together in a way that stood out in contrast to the other boys’ carelessness.
“Alina has this uncanny ability to know when I lie. If she asks how the tour went, she’ll know. Also, we have at least ten pairs of eyes on us waiting for me to fail for the town betting pool.” He replaces his glasses.
“There’s a betting pool?” I perk up at the prospect.
“Unfortunately.” He starts walking again with measured strides that have me rushing to keep pace. “This is Lost and Found, it’s a wine bar.” He points, actively ignoring my question.
I grab him by the arm and pull him out of the way of a couple in matching athletic wear that makes me wish I could look half as good in elastane and spandex. “You can’t just mention a betting pool in casual conversation and not elaborate, especially when I’m involved in one of said bets.”
“It’s not really about you.”
“If I wasn’t walking, your sad excuse for a tour would have put me to sleep by now. You owe me,” I tease.
“Fine,” he says. “But you’re not allowed to type anything. There are strict rules and I don’t particularly want to have to skinny dip in September.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time.” I lift my eyebrows suggestively, which only causes him to avert his gaze as his lips pull into a tight line.
Instead of acknowledging my comment with a response, he pulls out his phone and scrolls for a moment before holding it in front of my face. When I reach for the phone he pulls it away. Apparently, my enthusiasm at the prospect of skinny dipping is enough for him to distrust me with the device.
Haven (Museum)
Odds of Garrett making it all the way through main street without giving up?
Fletcher (Pub/Garage)
I give him until the gazebo
Poppy (Pottery Studio/Inn)
All the way
There are a few other messages as well as a few sets of numbers that I assume are the bets.
Garrett has a whole life I had no clue about, one full of people and places he’s never mentioned. The knowledge rocks through me, pushing me off balance.
“Why don’t you talk about this place?” I ask.
“It never came up,” he explains firmly as he starts to walk away from me and my question.
I match his stride and damn maybe I should have kept up with yoga if speed walking has me this winded. “And you conveniently made everyone you know believe you were from Tennessee. So, I don’t see how I’d think to ask. Do you hate this place or something?”
“I don’t hate Hartsfall. It’s all this.” He waves his hand around and as if to punctuate his point, the bell in the clocktower rings out over the square marking another engagement somewhere within the town limits. The wince that contorts his features is lightning quick, but I catch it.
“You hate love. How original,” I say.
“Though I don’t particularly seek out romance, I don’t hate love. But this isn’t love.” I can practically see him building up the walls to block me out as he talks. “This is a fantasy. Every issue you come here with? You’ll walk right out with it too, but with this delusional idea that it’s been fixed by a quick vacation. Relationships sure as hell aren’t built on a foundation of tourist traps.”
“Wow, tell me how you really feel. I bet you hate mall Santas too.”
“I do. The entire practice is creepy,” he agrees, regaining his usual impassive composure.
“Maybe you have a point about the mall Santas. But selling the fantasy of four guys singing love songs to predominantly female audiences, that’s okay in your book? Isn’t that the same thing?”
Millions of people have listened to him perform songs promising that there’s someone for everyone out there, that everyone will have their happy ending. I know fantasy is a part of entertainment, but it really pisses me off that he’s essentially writing off all the people that helped him earn millions.
“Of course it isn’t,” he says. “A proposal, that kind of shit is supposed to matter. Singing to thousands of people on stage isn’t exactly undying commitment.”
I catch myself running my thumb over my left ring finger then shove my hand deep into my pocket. I can’t think too hard about it. If I think about it, it means it was real when I do my best to pretend it isn't.
“Who are you to determine if this place matters to them or not?” I demand, my voice coming out sharper than I intend, but I’m losing my will to care. He doesn’t want to be here? Great. Let me give him a good reason to want to leave besides his superiority complex.
“Why are you worked up about this?” he asks. “It’s not like you expect me to be some sort of undying romantic. You know I’m not.”
That’s true enough. From what I’ve seen over the years, the public’s perception of him as an unattainable bachelor is spot on. He’s no playboy, like Wes, but he’s only ever spotted with this male model or that senator’s daughter a handful of times until he seems to lose interest.
“These people, in love or not, are here to have a good time. You have no right to judge them. Learn how to keep that chip you have on your shoulder to yourself,” I start. People like him get off on sucking the joy out of small things that bring others happiness. Sure, maybe I like to post pictures every time I get an overpriced Aperol Spritz with dinner, but it makes me happy, dammit. “And from how I see it right now, if I walk away from this tour, you’re the only one who has something to lose.”
Garrett’s jaw works as he considers. “I’ll put more effort into the rest of the tour.”
“You’re not getting off that easy. You still owe me for the move.”
“If I put on my best impression of an underpaid college tour guide can we let it go.”
“As if you could ever have that much pep,” I counter.
“Okay, a very calm, semi-disinterested college tour guide,” he corrects.
“That’s a step up from what you’re doing now.” Out of the corner of my eye I spot a woman wriggling into an oversized sweater from one of the strategically placed tourist gift shops. “Let me add one more thing to those terms, then yes.”
As we leave the gift shop, I hand Garrett my phone so he can take a picture of us in our new matching T-shirts that say You never stop falling in Hartsfall . I made sure to look over all the options to find the one that will be the best retribution. The vibrant pink on pink combo was obviously the best choice.
I step in front of Garrett while he takes a moment to adjust the settings on the phone then tests the angle of the camera with his outstretched arm. After the first picture, he checks then takes a few more. It's almost cute how much effort he’s putting into something that makes him look constipated.
“I don’t get the point of this,” he says as he gives me back my phone, which is now loaded with pictures that might be considered blackmail worthy.
I give him a purposefully suggestive once over. “I have a thing for men in novelty tourist shirts. This is a big turn on for me.”
“I’ll make sure to never wear them around you so you don’t get the wrong idea.” He grimaces and looks past me but there’s the slightest tinge of pink that reaches the tips of his ears. “So now that your overt attempt at public humiliation is underway, can we finish the tour?”
“Yes, but for my next stipulation. Show me something you can’t find on a travel blog or a tourism page. If you dislike the tourist stuff so much, show me something you actually like.” Who knows when I’ll have another chance to learn more about Garrett, so I’m going to take this opportunity while I can.
“Fine. But you’re not allowed to complain if you think it’s boring,” he says, his shoulders stiffening like he’s preemptively bracing for my complaints, an interesting reaction from someone who was just complaining.
Garrett finally starts giving tidbits beyond what I can find in the audio walking tour that I found on the town’s outdated, beige website. I learn that the owners of the two flower shops, Winnie and Sara are divorced, which has led to a long-standing rivalry.
“Whatever one you step into first is where you’re pledging your loyalties. If you go to the other one after they’ll upcharge you. One time I was getting Alina flowers and Sara had closed early, so I went to Winnie’s and I’m still certain that whatever she put in the bouquet gave me a rash,” he explains and absentmindedly scratches at his forearm.
He gives the same treatment to the pub where everything is good except for the Tuesday special, fish tacos. Then he points down an alley that leads to a trail where the high schoolers sneak off to.
Sure, I’d like to linger at some of the shop windows longer than his brisk pace allows, but I can do that later. I have weeks for that. Watching Garrett take more care in talking about his hometown feels like I’ve stumbled upon light flowing through a cracked door that’s usually sealed shut. I doubt I’ll ever actually know what he’s thinking, but that makes this glimpse all that more enticing.
I’m still struggling to picture the version of him that grew up here. To me he’s always been a city person, someone always pushing forward to the next best thing. It’s hard to imagine him walking lazily around the square on a summer afternoon with nowhere to be.
“I guess I’ll pretend not to know you in public then,” I say once we reach the edge of the parking lot where our cars are waiting. From the looks of it, he has the cherry red convertible that Alina was driving the other day. The image of his timeless features conjures images of drive-in movies or being picked up to go to a school dance in a way that I’ve never experienced. Not that I’d want it with him, and not that he’d ever do anything close to it. He’s made it clear he thinks those types of things are manufactured.
“No,” he says, stopping my hand from reaching for my keychain. “You asked for the real tour, so I’m going to give it to you.”
“Promise me that you’re not using this as an opportunity to take me to a murder spot.”
“Has anyone told you that you’d be terrible at committing a crime? I’d be the top suspect if you wound up dead,” he says. This time his exasperation doesn’t have much force behind it.
“I mean, you have the motive,” I say, pointing to his shirt then to mine. “And maybe I’m giving you credit for being smart enough to get away with it. You have this certain Patrick Bateman vibe.”
He rolls his eyes and walks to the car without checking if I’ll follow.