Higher Ground (25 page)

“I’d like that.”

“My shift is still shitty, so I’m only free on Tuesday and Wednesday nights.”

“Tuesdays are good. I can do Tuesdays.”

We started with coffee a week later. He took his black and limited himself to two cups a day. He asked how school was going and admitted he hated poetry. I confessed a lackluster opinion of Shakespeare. But we both loved words, and that was enough.

Lunch seemed like a natural progression, so I met him at a sushi joint close to his workplace the following week. He humored me by letting me ask questions about his job the entire time and may have even earned some brownie points for letting me pay for my own meal without any argument. Instead of kissing me goodbye, he pointed to his building and asked, “Do you want a tour?”

“From you, not the public tour, right?”

“Right.”

“I’d love to.”

I met his friends and his boss, sat at his desk for a few minutes while he carried on a conversation with Nick about the Hawks’ chances of winning their game that night, and figured out which co-worker had wanted him. Her name was Natalie, and she gave expert-level dirty looks.

He held my hand as we walked out, and when we parted at the MARTA station, he asked me to have dinner with him. Seven days felt more like seven hundred, but it was worth it, because he invited me to his apartment and cooked the meal himself.

He lived with a roommate, but she was a flight attendant for a major airline and hardly ever home.

“I wish I’d spent more time in the kitchen with Miss Verity when I lived at home,” I said. “My brother and sister cook really well. I’m the odd one out.”

“You can’t be that bad,” he said.

“I don’t think I’ve cooked anything other than eggs since my undergrad days.”

“What do you eat?”

“Salads, sandwiches, cereal, and lots of frozen meals.”

“We’re going to have to fix that,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”

“Who taught you?”

“My mom.”

He didn’t hesitate to tell me how his father had split when he was young, that his mom had met and married one of his childhood basketball coaches. Family was important to him. I could tell.

“My parents met because my mom’s college roommate borrowed a bong from my dad’s roommate,” I said. “They almost divorced once or twice but always figured out their shit in the end.”

A timer pinged, and conversation was forgotten. I watched as he pulled a few dishes from the oven. There was a Hawks game on, so we spooned food onto paper plates and settled on the sofa in front of the television.

“Don’t go,” he said after our celebratory toast at the end of the game. I stared down at the soda can in my hand until his fingertips gently tilted my head back so he could see my face. “I don’t know who hurt you…” The pad of his thumb brushed over the corner of my mouth. “…but I promise I won’t.” He leaned in slowly, paused with his lips almost touching mine, and waited.

I kissed him.

Believed him.

Let him touch me.

And, with silence and secrecy as cornerstones, built a life with him.

“He hasn’t called or sent a single text all day,” I say, watching the Pelicans run the ball all the way to score.

“Have you called him? Messaged him?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should.” Van turns his head, waves for two more beers, and pulls his wallet from his back pocket.

“Maybe he needs space.”

Instead of handing me my beer, he holds it and stares at me. “Do you love him?”

An odd mixture of anger, indignation, and disbelief stirs my gut. “More than anything.”

“Then start acting like it,” he said. “This isn’t a game. Wade isn’t Oliver. Call him. Don’t go to sleep tonight until you’ve at least tried to talk to him.”

“Are you mad at me?”

He shakes his head but frowns. “You know Troya would never do anything to hurt you. She’s never blamed you or even talked about why you two aren’t friends now.”

“I know that, and believe me when I say that I regret the way I treated her. Wren thinks I should reach out, maybe call her before we see each other at the reception.”

“She’s here. She got in yesterday afternoon. I had dinner with her and her family last night.”

“How is she?”

He smiles. “She’s good. It took a while, but she’s in a good place now. You’re not the only person Oliver hurt, you know.”

“Does that mean you think I should call her?”

“I think it’d be good for both of you.”

My brother’s the one cheering at the end of the game. I’m lost in my head, imagining what Wade’s doing. My guess would be sitting in our apartment, irritated our team lost. Maybe he’s contemplating how he settled for a liar…

It’s hard to think about him. My mind continuously filters back to the look he gave me in our apartment this morning and the way he walked away.

The ride home is quiet, and the only lights on at my parents’ are the porch and the Christmas tree in the foyer. We tiptoe up the stairs like we’re teenagers again, and like then, he follows me into my room instead of going to his.

“Ugh. This room is obnoxious,” he says. “It looked much better in the yellow you loved.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not mine anymore.”

He opens the door to the patio and motions outside with his head. “Want to smoke?”

“No, but I’ll come with you.”

“Bring your phone.”

He lights a joint as I tap Wade’s name on the screen. The phone rings once… twice…

He answers. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say.

Van nods, breath held and eyes narrowed. He gives me a thumbs up and exhales. I reconsider for a moment, wondering if a hit might numb what’s coming.

“I saw you,” Wade says. “On television. We watched the game at work.”

“Van got tickets. Why are you still at work?”

“Did you have fun?” There’s no curious lilt to his voice, only a dull script of things he feels obligated to say.

“No,” I say. “Can we—”

“I can’t talk about this right now, Violet.” He’s found his voice, his fire, the anger I deserve. “I need time.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you,” he says. It’s what he doesn’t say that’s louder. There’s no “goodbye” or “I love you,” only a dial tone followed by silence.

“It’s okay,” Van says, crushing the cherry against the rail.

I climb into bed alone, something I’m no stranger to thanks to Wade’s wacky shifts at the station, but it’s different this time. Even when he worked nights, he’d slide into bed before daybreak.

This is the first night I’ll be spending alone from start to finish since we moved in together. Maybe it’s the first of many. The room’s too quiet. There’s no soft breath next to me in the night, no warm body against mine. I roll onto my side and stare at the extra pillow. Panic bubbles and ebbs, seemingly on the hour, and I’m still awake when orange floods the room.

Out of habit more than hope, I check my phone and nearly drop it because of a text alert. It’s not from Wade, though. It’s Wren, asking if I’m okay and saying that Wade’s not. He crashed on their couch last night after working a double and was back at work this morning by 7:00.

What happened?

I want to dial her number and have the conversation, but she’s with Nick, so I text instead.

I told him about that night. Oliver.

There’s a long pause, and her response isn’t comforting.

Shit. I’ll try to talk to him.

She’s my best friend, but she’s Wade’s friend, too. I know she’s worried, but I’m the one who needs to fix this.

Please don’t. I love you, but he asked for time. I owe him that.

She agrees and tells me to call or text if I need her.

A hot shower doesn’t wash away the worry or the guilt. Knowing Wade isn’t taking this well is the worst part. I’d do anything to take it back. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wished I could.

The ring he chose for me sits on the sink basin. Because I know it may not mean anything anymore, it’s a dare to put it back on. Wade may be looking for the words to end this, for a way to say goodbye, but I put it on, anyway. I need that piece of him to hold on to. I need him to be real.

Breakfast is bacon and grits made by Dad instead of Miss Verity. It’s good to see that after running the house for my parents all those years, they’re finally the ones taking care of her. It also worries me the same way the tremor in her hand does when she lifts her cup for her first sip of morning coffee.

I offer to do the dishes after the meal, and my parents seem grateful. They have a few last-minute Christmas gifts to purchase before my sister and her family get here this afternoon. Van and Miss Verity sit in the kitchen, and he assists by drying the bowls and glasses after I’ve cleaned them.

Before we leave the kitchen, the doorbell rings. Miss Verity looks at me and says, “That’s Clara Richard’s grandson. Can you get the door?”

“Sure,” I say, thrilled she’s still giving readings. “I need to do some shopping, anyway.”

“I’ll come with you,” Van says. He reaches for his wallet, has second thoughts, and turns to Miss Verity. “Or I can stay, if you don’t want to be alone with a stranger.”

She smiles. “He’s not a stranger. Y’all have fun.”

The kid at the door is younger than I expect him to be, dressed like a nineties reject, with gauges in his ears and tattoos on his arms. He smiles, nods, and says hello with both hands in his pockets and a gentle shrug of his shoulders.

It turns out his older brother graduated the year after Van, and they’d had several classes together the year after I’d left New Orleans. I wait while they exchange pleasantries and catch up. Miss Verity doesn’t let us dawdle long.

“Your sister will be here before lunch, and I’d like to be finished with work when that happens,” she hints to me and Van. “Bartheleme,” she says, addressing her visitor. She then turns her wheelchair, motions for him to follow, and takes off toward the dining room.

It’s seventy degrees and perfect, so Van and I walk to Magazine Street. We find soy candles, incense, and sage at the apothecary. He hasn’t bought anything for the kids for Christmas, so we catch the trolley and take it to The Quarter. The toy shop in Jackson Square is a goldmine of retro perfection and the newest releases bundled into one nest. Van shops chess and tea sets while I stare out the window at couples eating beignets and sipping coffee.

“Are you okay?” he asks, shifting bags in his hand as we make our way out of the shop.

“I’m good,” I lie. During the ride back to Uptown, I try not to wonder what powdered sugar would taste like on Wade’s lips.

We disembark on St. Charles, and I pull my phone from my purse when we’re still a few blocks away from home.

“Is the number the same?” I ask.

He nods, and my thumb taps Troya’s name on the screen. After two rings, I’m convinced she’s not going to answer, but she does before the third.

“Hello?”

I stop walking and close my eyes. “Hey.”

There’s a long pause and a deep breath before she speaks, more cautious than vengeful. “Well, if it isn’t a Christmas miracle.”

“Hardly,” I say.

“How are you?”

“I’m… okay, I guess. How are you?”

“Great, actually. I got married last year.”

“I heard,” I say. “Or I saw, anyway. Van was tagged in several of the pictures.”

“Yeah. It was a great day. A lot of fun.”

“That’s great.”

“Are you here? In New Orleans, I mean.”

“I got in yesterday,” I say. I glance at Van, cross my fingers, and exhale before speaking. “Do you think we could talk? Maybe? Before Friday. Before the reception. Really talk.”

Van tugs my free hand to remind me he’s still here and on my side, too. His fingers grip mine during the silence while Troya mulls over my request.

“I’m free this afternoon,” she says. “My dad’s taking Dylan to the World War II museum. I’d planned to get some shopping done, but I think I’ll have time for a cup of coffee and a conversation.”

“Okay.”

“The Coffee House on Magazine at 3:00?”

“Okay,” I say again.

“See you then.” She ends the call easily, like it’s ten years ago and completely normal to be making plans with me for a Wednesday afternoon.

There isn’t much time to think about it or worry. My sister and her kids are at my parents’ waiting for us. Lunch is Miss Verity’s chicken salad or her pimento cheese. There are carrots, cherry tomatoes, and apple slices. The kids are in line in the kitchen making plates when we walk in.

“Vi!” Zoey drops hers and runs across the room. She stops toe to toe and looks up at me with both hands on her hips. “Where’s Wade?”

“He…” I don’t want to lie anymore, but I settle for a half-truth. A three-year-old wouldn’t understand. “He’s working.”

Her nose wrinkles, highlighting the freckles on the bridge and her cheeks. “But it’s Christmas.”

“Not yet,” Van says, scooping her into his arms.

She giggles and throws both arms around his neck, happy to be the center of his attention. Ronnie takes care of the mess Zoey made while Van helps her with a new plate. Hayden waves from his spot at the kitchen table.

“Hey, Aunt Violet.”

“Hey, Denny. ’Sup?”

He laughs. “Mom’s going to get you. She saw some picture of a ring and started screaming and doing this weird dance. Then she got really mad you didn’t call her.”

Ronnie glares at him from across the room. “Not mad, honey, just surprised.”

“You said bad words,” Tyler, her stepson, says.

My sister’s eyes narrow, and she wags her pointer finger in their direction. “Don’t make me call Santa.” The boys grin and tuck back into their plates, leaving me and my sister to dance around each other in the food line. “You could’ve told me,” she says, dolloping pimento cheese onto her plate. Her lowered voice makes it difficult to tell if I’m dealing with anger or hurt.

“I was supposed to wait until after the reception to tell anyone,” I say. “Believe me. I wish I had.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, I pour a glass of tea and follow Van and Miss Verity past the children’s table and into the dining room. He parks her chair at the head of the table and leaves us to make a plate, passing my parents and sister on his way.

Since Van already knows, there’s no point waiting for him to come back to make my announcement. “Wade may not be coming,” I say. My voice breaks, but I don’t. “We’re having trouble.”

The smile fades from Mom’s face. “What kind of trouble?” she asks. “Are you okay?”

“Not really. I don’t know if he can forgive me.”

Ronnie’s mouth drops open. Miss Verity folds her napkin, places it on the table, and stares at it.

“I’m sorry,” I continue. The food on my plate sours in my mind, and I push away from the table. “Excuse me. I’m meeting Troya soon. I’m going to go.”

I can’t look any of them in the eye, so I focus on the plate in my hand on my way back to the kitchen and pass Van without a glance. It would be blasphemous to throw away Miss Verity’s chicken salad, so I wrap my plate and put it in the fridge. Dad walks into the kitchen and finds me staring at the shelves of food.

“Two of my friends in the English Department are retiring next year,” he says.

My head dips, and I close the door to end the chill.

“You’re my dad. Aren’t you supposed to tell me everything’s going to be okay?”

He rests his arm on my shoulder in an awkward half-hug and says, “I’m not Miss Verity. I don’t know what’ll happen with you and Wade. If he’s the person you want to spend your life with, then of course I hope that happens, but I can’t promise it. If it doesn’t work out, you can come here. You can always come here.”

My shoulders shake, and he pulls me closer. Crying in front of him makes me feel like a child, as does the comfort of his embrace. It’s something I haven’t had since I was one. “Always the fuckup,” I say.

“That’s not true,” he says. “I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, Violet. I’m not trying to diminish your life or your job in any way. I’m beyond proud of what you’ve accomplished and that you’ve done it on your own. Please don’t doubt it. And yes, I’m your dad, so I want you to know this will always be your home, whether you live here or not. The same goes for your brother. And I’ve already proved it to your sister twice.”

It takes a moment for me to decide what to say. “Thanks, Dad.” I step away from him slowly and thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the back door. “I’m going to leave early. I need to settle my nerves before I meet Troya.”

“Be careful.” He pulls out his wallet, finds his Jazzy Pass, and hands it to me.

With almost two hours to spare, I walk until I get to St. Charles and keep going until I meet up with a streetcar. I ride from Uptown to Canal, step off, cross the street, and catch another ride down to the river. I walk until asphalt fades to grass and grass turns to muddy riverbed.

There’s barely a ripple on the surface, and standing in the exact spot where I started slipping for Oliver doesn’t hurt the way I thought it might. Instead, it stirs a longing for the gentle lick of ocean waves in Tybee and barbecues on the roof of a high-rise in Atlanta.

My heart’s not in Louisiana anymore.

There’s no reason to stay, so I walk back to St. Charles to catch a ride. I stare out the window of the trolley and watch the storefronts and faces go by.