Higher Ground (26 page)

Troya’s tucked into a corner at the very back of the shop when I arrive a few minutes after 3:00. The fiery orange has been traded for a soft brown, her natural hair color. Thick bangs and the red-framed glasses she’s wearing look good on her. A few shopping bags are stacked on the chair next to her, so I slide into the spot across the table.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” There’s a silver travel mug on the table between us, so I don’t bother to ask if she wants anything. “Thank you for talking to me.”

Her head tilts, and she frowns. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I say.

“Still mad at me?”

“No,” I say. “I needed someone to blame, someone other than myself to be angry with.”

“Oliver might’ve been a better target,” she says.

“He was.”

“You should take these,” she says, plucking an oversized orange envelope from one of the bags and sliding it across the table.

“What?”

“They’re pictures. Pictures of you. Oliver’s.”

“Oh!” I don’t want them, but I can’t leave them… out there. Troya knows me well and senses my dilemma.

“I can get rid of them for you,” she offers.

“No,” I say. “I’ll do it. There’s a shredder in my office back home in Atlanta.”

She smiles and nods, watching me fold and shove the envelope into my purse. “Good idea.”

“Are you giving the others their pictures, too?”

For the first time, she looks like she may cry. “There weren’t any others. Well, except Melissa. I almost hate myself for saying this, because I know how awful he was to you, but Oliver really did love you. As much as he could love anyone, anyway. The only person Oliver ever put before himself was Gabriel, and that only lasted for a little while. Even that sweet little boy wasn’t enough in the end.”

“Do you…?” It might not be wise, but I still ask. “Do you have any pictures of him? Gabriel, I mean.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Hang on.” She lifts her phone from the table, taps the screen a few times, and then passes it to me. “Melissa moved to Bossier City, but we’re still friends on Facebook, so I save all of the pictures she posts of him.”

From the stormy blue of his eyes down to the pout on his lips, Gabriel’s still the spitting image of his father. He’s Oliver’s clone. No… His son. I swipe and swipe, watching him digress in age until I stop at a picture of him on Oliver’s hip. A thinner-than-I-remember face stares back, but there’s also the same infectious smile. There’s one numb moment, and then something cracks and realigns. A flash of pain dulls to quiet regret in an instant but not for the reasons I expect.

I close the screen and hand the phone to her. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I saw Van’s post as I was walking out of the building after defending my dissertation. It was a shock. I can’t even imagine what it must’ve been like for you and your family.”

“It was a nightmare,” she says, honest as always. “Melissa found him on their sofa at 6:00 in the morning with the needle still hanging out of his arm. She was holding Gabriel. I hope to God he doesn’t remember seeing Oliver like that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“No one ever does. And I hate that people will remember the way he died instead of the three years he managed to live sober. He never told me what happened between the two of you, but it’s not hard to guess. He came home and put some effort into his relationship with Melissa, and they were really happy for a while.”

“I’m glad.”

“It wasn’t all bad. The accident changed things. There were multiple surgeries, rods and screws in his leg and ankle, and pain killers are expensive, especially when you don’t have insurance.” Her lip trembles as she stares at the table between us. “He was hooked before any of us even realized he had a problem.”

“Oliver was good at hiding things.” The truth spills before I can stop it.

“He was.”

“Do you think it was intentional?”

“No. The heroin was cut with Fentanyl. He probably felt fucking amazing for a couple of minutes until… until his body forgot how to breathe.” It’s easy to recognize the cocktail of resentment and sadness in her voice.

“I’m sorry. I know I keep saying it, but it’s true. I wanted Oliver out of my life and far away from me, but I never wanted anything bad to happen to him. I hope you know that. I was afraid to call you when it happened. I was afraid to come home. I didn’t want to hurt you or piss you off. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“Thank you,” she says.

“I’m so sorry, Troya. For everything.”

“Please stop saying that.” Her hand moves across the table until her fingers brush against mine. “I can’t say okay and act like it never happened.” Tears burn, even though I expected as much. “But I love you, so I can’t stay pissed, either.”

“I slept with him.”

“I figured.” She frowns. “I didn’t tell him your address. I promise. When I confronted him about it, he said he creeped your Christmas postcard on my fridge during a Christmas party I hosted the year before.”

“Did he say why?” I ask.

“He wanted to see you.”

“He wanted to sleep with me.”

“He regretted it, too,” she says. “Knowing you were in love with someone else broke his heart a little, but for the most part, he was glad. He wanted you to be happy.”

“I was.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s a beautiful ring,” she says. “When’s the big day?”

“Things are up in the air at the moment.” I hold up my hand to look at the ring, “This is new, and life’s hectic with the holidays and all. Plus, Van’s reception…”

“Right,” she says. “You’ll get to meet Dylan.”

“Yeah. Penn’s coming.”

“Whoa.” She raises her eyebrows and gives me a look almost identical to the one she spared me the night I slept with him.

“I know.”

We both laugh until she glances at her phone. “Shit! I need to go. We have plans tonight.”

“Sure.” I stand when she does and watch as she gathers her things. “Thanks for coming here.”

“I’m glad you called,” she says. “I’ll see you Friday.”

It’s easy for her to walk away and out the door. The only baggage she’s carrying is in her hand, and it’s there by choice. Her words help loosen the death grip I’ve had on mine for years. Oliver didn’t hate me. It doesn’t change anything, but it’s good to know.

I order a mint hot chocolate for the walk home and step out into the afternoon sunshine. I make a left on Washington to get out of the crowd of last-minute shoppers and regulars hitting their favorite joints after a day of work. I know before I look that there won’t be a text from Wade, but it doesn’t lessen the sting of confirmation.

I’m lost in my phone, checking emails from the university, when I trip over the gigantic oak stump outside the entrance of Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. Since it’s well past closing time, the gate’s closed and locked, but I still take a step forward, drop my phone into my purse, and wrap my free hand around a random metal bar.

I haven’t been here since the night I was hauled away in handcuffs as a teen. The Magnolia tree on the other side of the barrier’s grown in the last ten years. Even though it’s December, it’s taller, fuller, and greener. My grandfather and Violet still rest beyond the gate in Square One of the Willow Walk section. The old me lived in Square Four Laurel Walk, tucked between a palm bush and a tomb. I don’t miss it.

The sky shifts from orange to pink to lavender and then settles. I step away and go home, clutching my cocoa and staring at the pavement in front of me the entire way.

From Baronne Street, I can see the boys and Zoey playing in the yard with one of Van’s old soccer balls.

“Vi!” she yells. “Play with us!”

The boys also beg, so I place the cup and my purse on the porch and join forces with Tyler. He grins and welcomes me with a fist bump. At times, it’s obvious he thinks he’s an outsider with us. I try not to let it happen, because I remember how it feels.

I’m not great at soccer, but I’m not awful at it, either. Van pushes Miss Verity out onto the porch to watch. She cheers for her great-grandchildren and, on the rare occasion I score, for me, too. Tyler’s a rock star in cleats and carries us to victory on his own.

At dinner, I’m squeezed in between Will and my mom, bumping elbows with her every few seconds since she’s left-handed. There are too many carbs and too much seafood, and I overindulge in both. After dinner, the whole family gathers in the sitting room to eat Miss Verity’s banana pudding for dessert and watch
It’s a Wonderful Life
. Zoey falls asleep on Van’s lap twenty minutes in. The boys lose interest and decide to turn in after an hour or so. The rest of us cry at the end of the movie and then part ways for bed. I consider calling Wade but decide against it, sending a text instead.

I’m sorry.

It goes unanswered well into the night, and I toss and turn until I can’t stand to be still any longer. For the second night in a row, I can’t sleep. My eyes are burning, and my thoughts are jumbled, but I manage to find my way to the kitchen in the dark.

I flip on the light, open the pantry door, and search for a snack.

“I made cookies yesterday,” Miss Verity says, rolling herself into the room. She stops and points to the jar next to the sink.

They’re cranberry cheesecake and absolutely divine. We sit in silence until the plate in front of us is empty. She pushes away from the table to take it to the sink.

“Will you read my cards?” I ask. “My palm? Anything?”

She puts both feet on the ground to halt the movement of her wheelchair. “No,” she says.

“I don’t understand.” I walk across the room, stop in front of her, and get down on my knees. “I’ve never asked you for anything or tried to manipulate my future.”

“You don’t need me to tell you what your future will be, honey. Your instincts are spot on when you pay attention to them. They always have been.”

“You don’t understand. I hurt him.”

“You hurt Wade?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Your grandfather and I were married for more than thirty-five years. Do you really believe I never hurt him? That he never hurt me?” She pushes the brake against the tire of her chair and looks at me. “You know things haven’t always been good with your parents.”

“But—”

“But nothing. You and Wade aren’t special. You don’t get to only experience the good stuff. That’s not how it works.”

“I slept with Oliver. Wade and I were sleeping together then, too, but we weren’t a couple. I never told him. He didn’t know anything about Oliver until a few days ago. Now he knows everything.” She cocks her head and narrows her eyes. “Well, maybe not everything. He left before I could tell him that Oliver…” The words catch in my throat the same way they have for the last two years. “That he…”

“It’s okay to say it, sugar. Spit it out.”

“Wade doesn’t know he’s dead.” A weight shifts in my chest, squeezing the air and leaving a heaviness in its place.

“The night I met Oliver, I knew he’d never live to be an old man. For years, I worried he’d find a way to take you with him.”

“But all that stuff about fate…”

“There was nothing you could do to change Oliver’s path.” Her hand covers mine. “But there was plenty he could do to change yours.”

“Troya says he loved me, but I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Then don’t,” she says. “Do you believe Wade loves you?”

“Yes.” The word flies from my lips.

“Then that’s what matters.”

“What should I do?”

“I don’t know, but you better figure it out. I like that boy. I want to see you marry him.”

“I want to see that, too.”

“I won’t be leaving New Orleans again,” she says.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. Then a wave of peace washes between us, because deep down, I’d already known. “How much time do we have?”

She pats my hand. “A while. I’m just not what I used to be.”

I lay my head on her lap and close my eyes. “You know when you’ll go?”

“I have a good idea.” Her fingers comb my hair, scratch my scalp, and sooth the ache of her words. “I’ve had a good, long life. I’m not worried, so you shouldn’t be, either.” After a while, she pats my shoulder. “Follow me,” she says. “I have something that’ll help you.”

Her secret weapon is melatonin, and I carry it and a glass of water up to my room. Out of sheer desperation, I pop the tablet in my mouth and wash it down. Before I close my eyes, I check my phone one last time.

There’s a message from Wade. Finally.

I know.

The melatonin works better than expected, and I fall asleep planning.

At breakfast, I announce my decision. “I’m going home on Saturday. I want to be here for Christmas, but I need to be home. I need to be with Wade.”

There’s a temporary suspension of forks against plates and one long moment of silence that’s eventually broken by Zoey. “Can I come?”

Ronnie rubs her back and looks at me as she says, “No, baby, not this time.”

My parents share a look—doubt at first and then resolve. Miss Verity smiles behind her coffee cup. Van taps his knee against mine under the table. “Do what you need to do,” he says.

The rest of the meal is drama-free, and then Van takes Ronnie’s SUV to pick up Corey and his parents, who are scheduled to arrive in less than an hour. He asks me to come with him, but I’ve had enough of airports and decide to stay home.

The package with my father’s gifts arrives, and I sign for it on the front porch, balancing it under one arm and holding the door open with my foot. The postman thanks me, waves goodbye, and steps off the porch. A familiar white Nissan slows to a stop and parks in front of the house. The mailman pauses to hold the gate open for Wade after he steps out of the car.

The box falls to the ground, because his face… He hasn’t shaved since I’ve been gone. There are dark circles under both of his eyes, and his cheekbones seem more defined with his frown. The hurt is still in his eyes and in the slump of his shoulders. With his hands in his pockets and his eyes on me, he stops just inside the gate.

“Violet, who’s at the door?” My mother’s voice snaps me out of the staring contest and back to reality.

I lean over and pick up Dad’s gifts, then hand them to her when she steps up behind me. “These are for Dad.” She looks outside and steps back in shock.