Wynn in Doubt (23 page)

I cover my mouth with my fingertips. “I don’t know what to say.”

My mother grabs the hand my dad’s placed on her shoulder. “Say you’ll stop letting things stand in your way. And that you’ll call me once in a while and let me know how you’re doing?”

I squeeze the hand holding the rings. I can’t believe what they’re doing for me, what they’re willing to give up. My sisters embrace me from either side, and I hold them desperately. Can I do this? Can I leave them behind? I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. I’m scared I won’t find it.

For the first time since Grams died, my mother’s voice is strong. “Go. Figure out what you’re made of. Then come back to us.”

twenty-one

One night, Lisa Menopolous and I staked out Oliver Reeves’s house from the front seat of her mom’s gold Cutlass. We brought Oreos, Starbucks café mochas, and my dad’s bird-watching binoculars. She insisted that we listen to “Every Breath You Take” at least once every half hour because, really, we were stalkers. We took turns scoping out the house for signs of him, and we were about to give up when the light went on in his room and, suddenly, he was there.

We pushed our seats back and got low so we wouldn’t be seen. He opened his window and climbed onto the roof. My first reaction was to jump from the car and scream for help. After all, in my mind he was the perfect male specimen, and should anything happen to him, it was humanity that would suffer. But Lisa held me back, and we watched him come to the edge of the roof and sit down.

She passed me the binoculars, and I focused in as close as I could get. He was wearing a black T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. His feet were bare and he swung them off the side of the house. I thought he was looking for something, but then I realized he was staring up at the sky. If I had to choose my favorite Oliver moment, I think I’d pick that one. I watched his feet dangle in the air, and I knew he was a dreamer, like me. He captured my heart.

Now, as I watch him load a guitar case into the back of an SUV parked in his parents’ driveway, I wish I could go back to that moment. I would do then what I’m going to do now. Get out of the car.

His back is to me. I tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. His face transitions quickly between surprise and confusion.

“Aren’t you supposed to be shaping young minds right now?” He looks at the watch on his wrist.

“It turns out I’d make a crappy social studies teacher.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“I think to teach something, you have to be good at it first. And I’ve never been anywhere.”

He cocks his head to the side and half smiles. “What’s going on?”

The past few days, the past few weeks, have felt like a lifetime. Everything I thought impossible has become possible, and everything I thought was true turned out to be, if not wrong, only one version of the truth. Everything but him.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got a little time.”

“Alright.” I look up at the house behind him. “But I have a request.”

My feet hang off the roof. The shingles will be unbearably hot by noon, but they’re not too bad this time of morning. Oliver sits next to me, always patient and content to let me make the first move. I slide my fingers between his. His gray eyes are almost the same color as the sky around us. He sits close but doesn’t try to kiss me, though I know he wants to. I shift and remove the blue envelope from my back pocket and hand it to him.

He doesn’t ask whose it is or where I found it. He knew all along we’d find answers. He’s the one who believed. I watch from the corner of my eye as he reads. When he’s finished, he refolds the letter and places it back inside the envelope, then returns it to me. We both look ahead, at the green grass and tidy houses below us.

“That’s quite a letter.”

I squeeze his fingers.

“I’m guessing your grandmother never read it?”

“No.”

A white cloud floats alone in the sky. It used to make me sad when I saw something all on its own, but not anymore. Now it makes me wonder things.

“She had the money in the box, didn’t she?”

His cleverness delights me. He doesn’t ask how much, and I don’t tell him. Some of Lola’s secrets I want to keep for myself. I slide the rings off my index finger and pass them to him. “These were theirs. They were in the box, too.”

Oliver holds the rings up to the light before sliding them on the tips of two fingers. “It’s something,” he says, pensive.

“What?”

He sets the bands in my upturned hand. “Just to know they’re still together in some way.”

I tilt my head toward him, happy. “I like that.”

“What can I say? I’m a lyricist. I like my love stories mushy.” His hand rests next to mine on the roof.

“I never got to thank you for the song. It was beautiful.”

“I had good inspiration.”

I hold out Michael’s ring. “I want you to take it.”

“Why?”

“Because in a way, it feels like their story is our story.” I place it in his palm.

He closes his hand around it, weighing it as I did. “Their story didn’t have such a happy ending.”

“True, but she never regretted a minute of it, and I bet he didn’t either,” I say. “When I said the other night that I loved you”—his gaze remains locked, steady, on mine—“I meant it. I do love you. And I know we really just started to get to know one another, but I just . . .” I shrug.

“I know.”

The feel of his hand on the side of my face forces my eyes to close. His kiss is light but not hesitant. He knows I’m his, and I know he’s mine.

“You’re still not coming with me, are you?”

It’s easier to answer him this time. “No.”

He sighs deeply and pulls away, but the hand holding Michael’s ring stays pressed to mine on the roof. “Is that what the ring is for? A memento?”

I spin Lola’s ring around my finger. “It’s a promise.”

“To what?”

“To be together again.”

He looks away. I know it hurts Oliver that I can’t go with him, but I also know a part of him understands. A part of him remembers what it was like the first time he believed he could have everything he wanted. I know he doesn’t want to take that from me. He raps his knuckles on the tin of the gutter. “So what are you going to do now that you’ve given up on gainful employment?”

This is the hard part. This is why I asked if we could sit on the roof. I need to explain everything to him in the place where he used to dream. “Funny you should mention it. You know”—I pause, thinking of the right words—“I’m starting to think I’ve never really dreamed. I mean, I’ve imagined, and I’ve certainly spent a few hundred hours daydreaming about you”—I sneak a glance in his direction—“but I don’t know if those qualify as dreams.”

“What does then?” He cranes his neck, following a flock of black birds.

“I think a dream is something that makes you reach.”

“And what are you trying to wrap your hands around?”

“A life. One that scares me a little.”

His laugh is kind. He knows. “When will you be back?”

I lean on my elbows, enjoying the way the sun filters through the clouds. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll stay away as long as I need to.” I watch him nod and feel his little finger graze my leg. It’s such a small thing, but it gives me hope for what I’m about to ask. “I wondered if you’d wait for me?”

He leans back, next to me, lying down on the shingles. “Where’re you going?”

I turn and wait until his eyes are on mine, and smile. “Everywhere.”

“Do you have everything you need? Did you pack sunblock? You’re going to need sunblock in Spain.” My mother adjusts the backpack on my shoulder, digging through the pockets.

“Mom, I’ve got everything I need. It’s going to be fine.” Her eyes are nervous, scanning me head to toe like it’s the last time she’ll ever see me. I wrap my arms around her until she stills. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She buries her face in my neck.

“Jesus, Mom, she’s almost thirty. You’re acting like she’s off to sleepaway camp in Afghanistan.” Franny’s hands divide me from our mother. She gives me a quick hug. “Take care, little sister. Avoid the tap water, and if someone asks you to put something up your ass and walk through customs, just say no.” I don’t care how brave she acts—when she steps away from me, I see a glimmer of something wet in her eyes.

Tabby’s next. She bounces up, and everything bounces with her. Dex gives me two thumbs up over her shoulder. “Don’t forget you promised to be home for the wedding.” She’s strong for such a skinny thing. She practically crushes me beneath a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume.

I assure her I’ll be there, on time but tanner. My dad is all who’s left, and for whatever reason it’s hugging him that does me in. He pats my hair and waits until I let go first.

“You take care of yourself, sweet pea.”

“I will, Daddy, thank you.” Mom hands me a tissue as Franny quickly turns her back. I place my hand on her shoulder and listen as she sniffles, trying to compose herself. “Fran?”

“Yeah, what?” she says, her voice thick.

“Thank you. I don’t think I would’ve found the courage to do any of this if you hadn’t yelled at me and called me a loser.”

Her eyes are bright with tears, but she smiles. Then she shoves me gently toward the security line. “Stop being such a baby. Go, already.”

I wave good-bye once more after I clear security and retrieve my shoes from a white plastic bin. Whatever fear they may have over me leaving, I know they’re happy for me.

I make my way to the gate and take a seat near the window. I’ve been on a plane only twice in my life and never out of the country. I watch them race down the tarmac and lift into the sky as though it takes no effort to fly.

I pull the necklace from beneath my shirt. Lola’s gold band dangles off a new chain. I thought I’d wear it on my journey, like a talisman. Something to help keep away the doubt and keep me focused on what’s ahead. I hope Oliver’s wearing his, too. Wherever he is.

The plane is full of travelers. Some in sleek suits and others, like me, dressed for vacation. I pull the guidebook from the bag beneath my feet and flip open to a random page. An image of a stone path and hills sprinkled with purple heather takes up one side. I don’t know what’s going to happen or where I’ll be in six months. I’m just excited to finally begin.

I’ll be walking almost six hundred miles on foot during my pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. When you get there, you’re supposed to fall to your knees upon entering the Cathedral of Saint James, to show gratitude for the journey. In a way I feel like I’m starting this entire experience on my knees.

A woman, a little younger than me with braided black hair, takes the open seat beside me. “Hi,” she says, trying to shove her bag, which is much too big, beneath the seat in front of her.

“Hey.”

“Are you walking the Camino?”

I look at her, wondering how she knows.

She reaches down to pull at the white scalloped seashell attached to my bag. It’s the symbol of the pilgrim. A testament to the trials one must go through while walking the Camino. “I’ve got one, too.”

“Oh, right.”

“Are you starting in Spain, or are you taking the train to France?”

“Taking the train.”

“Me, too.” She settles back in her seat, excitement falling off of her in waves. “Are you with a group or are you going solo?”

I hesitate a moment before answering, not yet sure about putting my trust in strangers. “I’m on my own.”

“I’m joining a group there. We met on one of the Camino chat boards. You’re welcome to tag along if you like.”

I smile politely and look out the window. The plane begins to move over the black pavement beneath us.

We sit in silence through the safety check, pretending to pay attention when our minds are thousands of miles away. The speed of the jet propels me back in my seat. I close my eyes and touch the gold ring hanging around my neck. The picture of Lola is tucked into the pages of my book. I’ve decided to take her with me everywhere I go. She didn’t have an easy life, but she tried. I’ll keep her close to remind myself to do the same.

The light above the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign goes off, and my seatmate searches through a pocket of her bag, then pulls out a
Rolling Stone
magazine. She reads silently for about ten minutes, then gasps.

I turn to her. “Is something wrong?”

“My favorite band’s breaking up.”

Feigning interest, I lean back in my seat and watch the clouds swirl past the window. “Who are they?”

“Multitude. They’re indie. You’ve probably never heard of them.”

I touch my lips. And remember.