Forty-five
FORTY-FIVE
Bea
One week later
W alking up two flights of stairs to my apartment door felt herculean. My feet scuffed the concrete, my limbs dragged, my heart ached. I grabbed the rail and pulled, helping me get up the last few. I wanted to drop into bed and sleep until tomorrow afternoon. But if I crawled under the covers at 6 p.m., Jackie would hound me.
Standing on my doormat, I fumbled for the keys. They eluded me at the bottom of my purse. Why was every task so frustrating these days? After spending a good minute locating them, I realized the door was unlocked. I rolled my eyes at my stupidity and pushed in.
To my dismay and annoyance, my living room was crowded. Jackie and our other two roommates, Kelsey and Erica, were home. And we had visitors sitting on our couch—Peter and Sarah.
Peter popped up off the couch when he saw me. “Hey, Beatles.”
“Hey, Peter.”
His arms came out wide to hug me. Allowing him to hold me, I tried to gain as much strength as I could from the hug. I loved hugs. They usually helped me feel a little better. But this time the hug only made tears prick my eyes.
“How was your interview?” Peter asked.
My gaze darted away so he wouldn’t see the moisture there. “Oh, uh, fine I guess.”
Sarah was right behind him, there to hug me, too. Her red hair smelled like flowers, and silver bangles clacked on her wrist. She said in her typical honey-sweet tone, “Tell us what happened.”
“I mean, what typically happens in an interview?” I shrugged. “They said they’d call me.”
Peter chimed in. “You have a good feeling about it?”
“Not particularly. I’m pretty sure they realized how inexperienced I am.”
Jackie, making something in the kitchen, chimed in as she licked chocolate batter off a soft spatula. “I was inexperienced and look at me now.”
“Seriously, if I get the job, it will only be because Jackie works there.”
“And they adore me.”
“But you hate them.” I reminded her.
“They don’t know that though.”
I sighed. “Jackie talks enough crap about her boss and coworkers that I’m not sure I even want the job.”
“Look, they aren’t all that bad.” She strode into the living room. “I just think the work is life-draining, soul-sucking, and eye-ball frying. Everyone at corporate looks like a corpse.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “You can’t stay positive for once, Jackie?”
She held her hands up in surrender as she plopped down on one of our couches. “Just being honest!”
Sarah reminded me, ever the encourager, “Bea, it’ll work out if it’s supposed to.”
“I know.” I gave her a half smile.
Jackie turned to me. “The best part is the ability to work remote. If you get hired, maybe Aunt Judith will let us camp out at the cabin for a few weeks this fall. We can have a data entry party, go hiking, eat a party-sized bag of Starburst, and watch movies. ”
“Sounds fun,” I replied with no enthusiasm whatsoever.
Jackie gave Peter a pointed look. Whispered, “Happy?”
They chatted a while about dinner plans. Apparently, Peter and Sarah were there to stay for the evening and wanted to watch the Rockies’ game. I nodded and laughed when I was supposed to, even going as far as chiming in about what take-out I wanted, even though I had no plans to eat.
Life, days, seemed to stretch out into infinity. Me—in data entry. Tag—at the ranch.
That big skied, open-air ranch.
Every interaction drained my energy reserves. I felt my smile grow smaller as I slipped down into the seat. My blinks grew heavier, my extremities more numb.
And I felt a breeze, uncomfortably warm. One too warm for Colorado.
I heard someone fire-up the semi.
I saw rolling hills and the sun setting behind the big house—that burst of pink over the sky as the sun dipped behind the horizon.
I smelled hay, dirt, horses, molasses.
“Beatles.”
I jerked back to awareness, sitting up straighter. “Huh? Yep?”
Jackie, Sarah, Kelsey, and Erica were talking in the kitchen. Peter must’ve been watching me space out.
“You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“Yeah, I’m tired.”
He shook his head, mumbling, “You aren’t tired. I’ve never seen you like this.”
I lifted a shoulder. At this point, my family knew the basics: Tag and I were penpals, we fell in love, and he had some personal issues regarding his past he needed to work through in order to be ready for more. If “more” was even on the horizon. Obviously, I bulked up the explanation a little bit and left out his personal details and my suspicions. I figured if Tag wanted people to know what happened that night, he’d tell them. In the meantime, I tried to cast him in as positive a light as I could. I didn’t want my family to dislike him should there be a potential future for us .
But, they knew I hadn’t heard from him. I couldn’t keep it off my face if my life depended on it. Every day that went by, the “more” I was hoping for seemed further and further away.
“I’m guessing you haven’t heard from him still?”
“No.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all good.”
“No, it’s not. He sounds like a tool.”
Immediate emotions grabbed my throat and squeezed so hard I could barely breathe. I whispered, “He’s not a tool.”
“You are defending a guy who clearly doesn’t deserve you.”
“No, Peter, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I’m worried. You weren’t even this messed up when David cheated on you.”
David felt like Little League compared to Tag. Abruptly, I stood on wobbling legs. “I think I’m going to go to bed. Can you put my food in the fridge?”
“Bea.”
“I’m fine. I’m just tired.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I held out my hands to stop him. “You didn’t. You seriously didn’t. I’m okay.”
Blinded by tears, I stumbled into the hall where I found Erica. Sweeping past me, she said, “I put some mail on your dresser, Bea. You had a package.”
“Thanks.”
I pulled on some sweats and the red t-shirt I’d stolen from Tag. Lifting the collar, I sniffed, catching only the faintest hint of his rigid laundry routine—the softener scent fading from the fabric.
I imagined him in it.
I tucked my arms around my body as a silent tear slid down my cheek.
All I wanted was to freaking sleep—sleep until the pain wore off.
I finished up my bedtime routine then stopped at the stack of mail on my dresser. A bill, some junk, a credit card offer, and beneath…a package .
I audibly gasped when I recognized the handwriting.
The package read, Bea Thompson (Strings).
Tears raced down my face like someone turned on a faucet. Fear and hope blended together until I felt like I was going to be sick to my stomach. Did I leave something behind and he was returning it? Was this a gift?
It had been three weeks since I left. I’d texted and called, but the only thing I received was one text back that said:
Tag
Bea, sorry for being unavailable. Really busy right now and taking some time to sort a few things out. Thanks for being patient with me. I’ll be in touch soon. I promise.
That was a week ago.
All the text did was make me jumpy, check my phone obsessively, and constantly wonder if the dumb thing was malfunctioning.
I’d given up hope a few days ago.
But now, a package? What did it mean?
It was actually a padded manila envelope. The contents were flat, hard. Maybe a book? I didn’t take a book to the ranch, so he couldn’t be returning something. With trembling hands, I ripped into the thick paper and glue like a wild animal.
A carefully folded piece of paper came out, along with a black, leather notebook.
Like an instinct, I lifted the black notebook and took a deep inhale of its scent. It smelled like him somehow. Tears filled my eyes and I had to blink them away in order to unfold the letter. My heart thumped with adrenaline as if I was running through a pasture, trying to get a halter on Sawyer.
My Dearest Strings,
The last three weeks have been a journey. One that has forced me to make changes in myself. I hope you’ll eventually forgive me for not staying in touch like I promised. I want to explain all the reasons you didn’t hear from me, but it doesn’t honestly matter right now. Defending myself at a time like this won’t help either of us.
I’m writing this letter for one purpose only—I need to be honest.
You need to know who I truly am.
I’ve kept this part of my story under lock and key for nineteen years. But a week ago, it all spilled out for the very first time to a woman named Miss Simone. She was the counselor at Burton Falls Middle School where I attended before moving to Meadowbrook. She advocated for me as a child and I knew she would listen to me if I went to her.
Sharing my story with Simone led me here—to this, to you. If only one person in this entire world could know and understand me, I’d want it to be you. I wanted to tell you all this voice to voice, but the shame I feel is drowning. I don’t want shame to control me, but I’m a long way from being free.
Years ago (I think I was twenty-four), I heard someone say talk therapy can relieve the invisible burden of an untold story. I didn’t have anyone to talk to, so I spent weeks writing down my story in order to find that relief.
Go figure, it didn’t help at all. I was just as oppressed when I finished as when I began. The only benefit from that exercise was that my story was now in a convenient, accessible spot. Maybe I was writing it for you, and I just didn’t know it at the time.
The past few weeks, I’ve added some things—a part two and part three.
As I was writing this letter, I remembered something you said to me in the hayloft all those years ago. I searched through my huge box of journals and found that old folded up one I left in the hayloft that night. I leafed through the pages to find where I had written about you for the very first time.
Here’s what you said to me, “Stories are meant to be told. Even if they’re hard.”
My story will be hard to read. I know you are deeply empathetic, so I hesitate to send this to you. If you read the first few pages and decide these words aren’t for you, it’s alright. Whether you read them or not, I want you to have my heart—in its totality.
And this black book is a big part of it.
If you read this and want to part ways, we will. Because more than anything, I want you to be happy. I want you to have every good thing. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.
I love you, Strings.
Thinking of you,
Scribbs
I refolded the letter, tears dripping from my cheeks.
My stomach rolled in my belly. Deep down, I knew whatever was in the journal would break me. Part of me didn’t want to even open it. I wanted to leave my love for him as it was—ignorant, accepting. But the other part of me knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there were no words he could write that would quell the deep love I’d always had for him.
With magnetic pull, my hands picked up the notebook. I pressed his words to my chest, trying to calm the wild rhythm in my heart. This gesture was no small thing. Surely, the content on these pages were the fuel of his constant shame and fear.
Jackie popped her head in without knocking. “Sister! Get back out here! ”
I kept my face turned away, the book tucked against my breast. “In a little bit, okay?”
“Okay. Food just got here.”
“Thanks.”
When the door shut, I slipped to my bed, taking the notebook with me. As soon as I was under my fluffy pink throw, Kelsey spoke through my closed door. “Bea, can I borrow your blue dress for my date tonight?”
I growled. Five minutes later, she left my room bummed it was too tight on her. Then Jackie called me again. Then Peter came to my door.
And Mom called me to ask about my interview.
And the group chat blew up about the upcoming birthday party for Hollie’s daughter.
I tried to deal with everyone as quickly as I could so they would leave me alone. The notebook screamed my name. I could hardly focus as everyone pestered me.
Finally, I sat down with the notebook and quickly flipped the pages with my thumb. So many…My eyes clung to words here and there as the pages flew by. For some reason, I was surprised to find the thick notebook almost completely full. It would take hours to read this…
I wished I was alone. Truly alone.
Then an idea hit me like a bolt of lightning.
The cabin.
I threw the blanket off my legs and dove for my phone on the dresser. I dialed Aunt Judith. Three rings later, she picked up.
“Bee Gees! Hey sweet girl!”
“Hey, Aunt Judith.”
“To what do I owe this amazing surprise?” She was always so sweet, I hated to use her when I hadn’t talked to her in months.
“Well, I honestly need something.”
“Oh sure, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just—I need to get away for awhile, and I was hoping the cabin was free.”
“Didn’t you just get back, Bea?”
“Yes. Something came up.” My eyes flitted around the room, until they landed on Glory—neglected and gathering dust in the corner. I blurted. “I need to write some songs.”
“Oh! That sounds like good news. Cal told me you were struggling with the song writing stuff right now. Will you be recording your next album as planned then?”
I was supposed to record a week from now and I had nothing to sing. Absolutely no songs at all. I just gave a nervous laugh. “Uh, I’m not sure. Maybe.”
Truth was, I’d probably cancel the session.
“Well, the cabin is empty at the moment, but our WiFi is down. The club house still has it, but there is no connection in the house at all. And you know the service up there is worthless. It’ll be like you’re off grid.” She laughed.
Off grid? No service? No WiFi? Perfect .
Twenty minutes later, I had my pink duffle over my left shoulder, and Glory’s strap across my chest. I waited for the Rockies to hit a good ball and slipped out the door while everyone was riveted to the TV.