Page 5

(Almost) One Year Later

Festive Foods was bustling, which was typical for a Monday morning at a grocery store. People liked to start their week off with a full pantry full of food, a symptom of our hunter-gatherer instincts. New week, fresh groceries, and it was our job to make sure their experience was a fantastic one. I was in my fifth year as store manager and at this point knew the store and my job like the back of my hand. I made a point to be on the floor as much as possible on busy days, to lend my staff an extra hand, but also for that valuable one-on-one time with our customers. That kind of relationship building went a long way.

“Mrs. Martinelli, how is Henry?” I asked one of the Monday regulars. Her dachshund had had knee surgery weeks ago and hadn’t been allowed to run or jump since. Last we’d chatted, he was going stir crazy, and as a result, so was she.

Mrs. Martinelli immediately directed her cart my way, already launching into it. Her face said it had been a saga, and with Henry Higgins, as she called him, it always was. “He’s just had it with me, Savanna, and I don’t blame him. He’s ready to get out there and terrorize the squirrels, but I’ve explained to him that patience is a virtue. He scoffs.”

“I bet. Are there any distractions?”

“I’ve gotten him a few busy toys, and that’s helped occupy some of his energy. Thank you for asking, by the way. Not many people remember Henry’s struggles.”

“Well, I’d been wondering. Oh, and we received a whole new shipment of those dried pineapple rings you love.”

“It’s a good day, then. Gonna grab some right away. I saw Linda Robinson on aisle four and she always hoards those rings. I’m gonna beat her to it and skip all the way there.”

“Aisle ten,” I said.

She whirled back, a thought hitting. “And I have to tell you, those rosemary crackers you recommended for my charcuterie party were such a hit.”

“Perfect. They’re a well-kept secret that shouldn’t be, you know? I buy a box every time I think about it.”

“You’re a gem, Savanna. Have a good day. Off to fight the pineapple ring battle. Linda better look out.”

“Linda’s feisty. Be careful. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do.” She returned to her pineapple ring mission. “Woman with a cart! Coming through!”

I spent another half hour on the floor, greeting guests and checking in with my employees. Three full-time and a handful of part-timers. Morale seemed to be high, which was always nice to see. I wanted the store to be a bright spot in the day for everyone who came through, not just the customers, and did what I could to be present and a good listener.

Maya, one of my full-timers, was the youngest on staff and also taking classes twice a week at the local college. “Jason asked me to dinner when I was swiping his eggs.”

Anywhere else and that would have been a weird sentence. In a grocery store, and with Maya, it made all the sense. I folded my arms and grinned. Jason was the mayor’s son, and she’d obsessed about him for months. I knew Jason’s favorite shirt. The different versions of his smile. I was aware of how often he was absent on Thursdays. The two of them had a chemistry class together and apparently had a little of their own.

“You could be Mrs. Mayor’s Son, Maya. I love that for you. Is this dinner happening?” We were in the midst of a lull and stood near the registers where we most often would shoot the small-town breeze.

“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I froze,” she said, green eyes wide. “I told him I’d have to check my work schedule.”

“No, you don’t. I clear you to dine with Jason. Tell me when and we’ll cover your shift if you’re on.”

“Yeah, we will,” Henrietta called from her register. As the senior cashier and a woman in her sixties, Henrietta had been with the store for over two decades and had seen it all and wanted you to know it. “I’m not busy that night. I’ll put in the time in the name of young lust.”

“We haven’t scheduled anything yet,” Maya pointed out.

Henrietta shrugged. “I’m not busy any night. It’s just my life to not be busy.”

“Text him and tell him you’re in,” I said, with a soft touch to her shoulder.

She stared me down with fiery intensity. “You really think I should take this leap?”

“Maya, he’s all you talk about. What Jason wore to class. How maybe, when he smiled at you, it meant he really wanted to kiss you. This is your chance to find out.” I knew a little something about longing to find out and used it to usher young Maya forward on her quest to find love.

“Okay, okay. I’m gonna do it. But”—she held up an emphatic finger—“I’m gonna wait an hour.”

“That’s fair,” I said. “Whatever you feel most comfortable with. You be super vibey. Low key. Isn’t that what the kids do these days instead of chill?” I wasn’t low key. I had no rizz. I barely understood what the words meant.

“Eager is not your friend, sweet girl.” Henrietta nodded in agreement. She was the romance novel reader in our group, with an ever-changing stack in her employee locker at any given point. The saucy kind, too. “Wait two. Make him squirm. I just read a book by Genevieve Haughton and her heroine played hard to get half the book and it paid off in really hot spades.” She fanned herself. “As in naked spades.”

“No, I think we translated,” I told Henrietta. I knew nothing about the games dating people played, preferring to be more of a straight shooter myself. Maybe my na?veté was why I hadn’t seen a ton of success in my own love life. Well, yet . I brought my shoulders to my ears at the prospect of that possibly changing with a very certain date approaching on the calendar very soon.

“Okay,” Maya said tentatively. “I think I’m gonna do it. But you’re gonna have to look at my outfit choices and tell me which is giving happy to be here but also don’t get too comfortable.”

“Easy enough,” I said with a smile. “I’m such an outfit pro. God, I wish people would stop pointing out how I excel at all things fashion. I mean, look at these brown boots whose brand I don’t remember.”

“They slay,” Maya offered.

I really liked these people. My friends. “I think that’s good. Gonna pretend, either way, because my ego demands it.”

I spent my lunch hour at my desk in the small office on the back wall of the store. I went over last week’s inventory shifts and put in the order for the following week. Tracking buying trends, especially how they related to weather patterns and changing seasons, was the most fascinating part of my job. For example, our lemonades and cold drink mixes sold much faster in the summer than in the colder months, and my ordering tendencies would always reflect that. In the midst of numbers, apps, spreadsheets, and orders, I tried not to hyper-fixate on the weekend ahead. When I did allow myself to imagine meeting Kyle on that bridge, it sent me on a daydream tangent, smashing my productivity like a gnat with no chance. Nope. I certainly wouldn’t think about the snacks I’d purchased for the roadtrip to Charleston, or the playlist I’d curated with the general thesis Good things are coming. No reason to dwell on the room I’d booked at the very same hotel where I’d met Kyle the year before. Or the suspension bridge we were scheduled to meet in the middle of in just five short days. But I was apparently powerless, because the excitement infiltrated my system anyway, elevating my heart rate and making me squirm in my chair with bonus, happy energy.

Kyle was near all I’d thought about for twelve straight months, and the possibility that maybe my own happily ever after was finally on its way.

“C’mon. You’re legit telling me that you’ve both kept your word and haven’t contacted each other even once?” Jonathan had asked the night before from the corner seat of my new perfectly beige sectional. It was too big for one person living alone. But you know what? Maybe that wouldn’t always be the case. At the very least, I could entertain more, now that I was embracing the space.

“No. I promise. There’s been zero reaching out either direction, which I admit was hard at first, but then I started to appreciate the romance in waiting.”

“It’s certainly a unique approach.” He squinted. “Not even a DM?”

I shook my head, enjoying his skepticism. “She has one social media account and doesn’t touch it.” I shrugged sheepishly. “I mean, I had to at least look.”

“Well, yeah, you did.” He sat forward, still incredulous. His hair, which he’d grown longer this year, flopped onto his forehead. I liked the way he used it to express himself. “How could you not? This whole thing is very hard to wrap my mind around. Guys would never do this. We don’t have the patience for delayed gratification. Kudos to lesbiankind.”

I laughed. “On behalf of the others, thank you for the nod. I happen to think good things are worth waiting for.”

He eased his feet to the side so I could take my customary seat.

“If this all works out, it might be a great story to tell one day.”

“It’s Instagram gold. You need a camera crew.”

“We’re not like that.”

“And if it doesn’t work out?” He was making a gentle point. I sighed. I tried not to think about the answer to his question too often, but the reality was a lot could go wrong. After a glorious weekend with Kyle a year ago, I knew we had the potential to be fantastic together. But that’s all I knew. A lot could have changed between then and now, and when I saw her, she might not be the same person. I hated that possibility and tried not to dwell on it. I’d waited too long, held on to so much hope.

When I’d returned home from Charleston last year, I wasn’t the same. I saw the world differently and found light in the most mundane tasks, wondering why that lettuce suddenly looked incredibly leafy green and gorgeous. How lucky we were to have lettuce! Kyle had done that for me, flipped the world sunny side up. As a side effect, I’d become exponentially more aware of the calendar, watching one day fold into the next as we rounded one holiday after another. But I also feared the moment I’d head to Charleston. The moratorium would be up and we’d see, once and for all, if Kyle and I were meant to be. In my heart of hearts, I was hopeful. Lies. I was way beyond hopeful. I’d clung to nothing but unaltered hope since the moment we said goodbye and held on to each other for far too long, my face pressed into her watermelon-scented hair. I’d not allowed myself to live in the memory of that weekend entirely, but I did take it out on occasion and revisit glimpses.

This week was different, however.

We were scheduled to meet up on that bridge on Saturday, and now that the time was here, I allowed myself the luxury of uninhibited revisits to that time and what it meant to me. My heart squeezed when I thought about Kyle, how much I liked her, how worthy she’d made me feel. I wondered what her year had been like, how difficult the final throes of residency had been for her. Had she been looking forward to this weekend, too? Did she think of me? I entertained short fantasies about walking straight to her and kissing her again, holding hands in the park, spending long mornings in bed, discussing the headlines and getting to know each other at a slower, more luxurious pace. To my credit, happily ever after was a thought I reserved for down the line, but only because I wanted to be conservative in my expectations. The easiest way not to get hurt, after all. Because it was wholly possible she’d say she still wasn’t in a place to get involved with someone, or worse, she was already involved with an amazing woman she’d unexpectedly met. Her name was probably Ella and they would get married in France beneath the Eiffel Tower with plans to live the most exciting life. I had to be ready to hear her out and also realize I might not like the words.

I met Jonathan’s solemn brown eyes. He was worried for me, which was what Jonathan did. Neither of us had been dealt the best hand in life, and we looked out for each other. I swallowed and faced him. “Well, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll wish her well.”

“It’s a risky move, but I’m proud of you for going there and making it.”

I shrugged. “Kyle and I are just two people trying to make our way in the world. Maybe she’s already in love, maybe she has no room on her plate, maybe she’s a different person now. Who knows?” I sucked in air and pretended to check in on something on my phone. The stakes felt incredibly high, and it was so much easier to deflect.

Now, sitting in my office staring at inventory, I had only four days between me and my journey to that suspension bridge. I needed to keep my head down and focus on the here and now. The rest would sort itself out sooner rather than later. Who was I kidding? I threw myself back in my leatherette executive chair and grinned the happy sigh of someone with birds and hearts flying in a circle above their head. Four short days .

* * *

On Thursday morning, I let myself into Lindy’s house, correction, my Airbnb . I was still getting used to the sound of that. Wow. I did a casual walk-through a few hours before my next set of guests was scheduled to arrive. The complimentary bottle of cabernet was out, and I added my handwritten note. A small platter of assorted cheeses was nestled in the fridge with a welcome sign on a toothpick. Elizabeth and her odd jobs company were doing a fantastic job turning the place over between guests, even picking up the cheese from my deli. We’d struck up a reasonable deal, and the whole thing was now functioning like a well-oiled machine. I quickly checked the guest book I kept on the end table and saw that my recently departed tenants had left a wonderful note of thanks with some recommendations for future visitors.

Do not, I repeat, do not miss the oversized glazed donuts at Amazin’ Glazin’.

I grinned, because it was sound advice. With donuts bigger than my hand and a wonderfully messy glaze, no one would forget the little shop that could. They’d recently expanded their space, overtaking the dry cleaning business next door when it went out of business.

I climbed the pull-down ladder up to the attic, which was now only a quarter full of Lindy’s belongings, a work in progress. Each time I stopped by the house, I made it a goal to take one box with me to sort through. Today’s box had the word Rachel written in faded black marker. Lindy’s handwriting. I’d been sidestepping that box for weeks, unsure if I was in the right headspace to open it and handle and explore items that had once been my mother’s. Her hands had touched, if not treasured, the things in that box. My stomach flip-flopped with nervous excitement. Today felt like the right day. I scooped up the box and carefully carried it down the ladder, protective of the contents inside and how sacred they felt.

I waited until after dinner, a huge blackened chicken salad, to explore the box. “All right, Mom. You and me,” I said quietly, as I placed it on the table in my kitchen. There were so many odds and ends crammed inside that I took my time, to not overwhelm myself. A small makeup bag, still with a few lipsticks inside. Surreal. A couple of romance novels that looked like they’d been read multiple times. I smiled and pressed one of the paperbacks to my chest—a girl after my own heart. This was fun, getting to know my mom in a whole new way. Several trophies and certificates she’d won over the years. One for entrepreneurship in high school, making me wish Lindy was here so I could ask for more details. My mom was a businesswoman at seventeen? I loved it. At the bottom of the box, I found several basic-looking file folders. The first one contained a hodgepodge of paperwork: her birth certificate, greeting cards from my grandparents and Lindy, as well as a handful of photos from her college years. I loved going through them, my eyes welling with wistful tears as I took in her youthful, smiling face. Everything in me wished I’d had the opportunity to know her at the age I was now, that she’d know me, as well. What would she think of my job? Of Jonathan? Would she attend Pride parades at my side? There was no question. I knew she would have.

I opened the second folder and dropped my brows. The papers inside were all the same. A thick stack of handwritten letters she’d saved from what looked to be my dad. I skimmed the first. They were figuring out their summer schedules, apparently, during their college years. I flipped through the thick stack of pages, paragraphs upon paragraphs from him, pouring his heart out. He was telling her he loved her. I felt the warmth spread out in my chest. I snuggled into the soft part of the chair. He wanted to be there for her. He’d raise her child as if it was his own. Record scratch. I sat up. Rocked. Hold on . What child? I set the page on the table and blinked at the wall with my framed daisy photos. A whoosh of nausea descended like a lightning strike. I swallowed and rushed back to the page, infused with adrenaline, my eyes searching the words, but the letters failed to make sense in their order. Nothing did. “Okay, just hold on a second,” I said to the empty kitchen. “Pause. Breathe. Look at the dates.” The sound of my own voice helped center me and calm my scattered thoughts. I went back to the letter and found the date, which was just seven months before I was born. I didn’t have a long lost sibling. They were talking about me . The letters were one hundred percent from my dad, which meant only one thing. “He wasn’t my biological father,” I murmured. The colors I’d meticulously picked out for my home began to fade from the edges. The panic was replaced by a strange, and almost welcome, numbing sensation. The buzzing sound in my ears was less helpful.

“I think I need wine,” I said, continuing my streak of speaking out loud to no one. It’s apparently what I did now. “And maybe a pet so I don’t have to launch into soliloquy to an empty room. A sweet puppy to lick my face and tell me that this didn’t exactly change anything. Fuck.” I slid my hand into my hair and gripped as hard as I could, the physical pain taking center stage over the mental anguish for a much-needed moment. “He was still my dad. Right? Dammit. He still raised me for every second we were together on this Earth.” I poured a hearty glass of cab, stared at it, thought better and added even more. “Hell, in the letters, he was an absolute supportive gem. So, what’s the problem?” I took a long swallow of wine. “Except that you’re not at all who you thought you were.” I stalked back to the table, harnessing new determination. A fire stirred within, born of a need to know and a sense of betrayal at having not been told. Had Lindy known? I couldn’t imagine her keeping something this important from me. I was up again and moving. My father was not related to me by blood, which ushered in a question I had yet to consider: Then who the hell was? Who was the man I shared DNA with? The idea that I potentially had a living parent out there about knocked me over. I was an orphan. In fact, that status had become an integral portion of my identity, my plight in this world. But it wasn’t necessarily the case? No. Another gulp of wine. I put on loud music, whatever Alexa picked out for me, and walked circular laps around my kitchen. My watch notified me astutely that I’d hit my steps for the day and more. Damn right I had. “Thank you,” I said pointedly to it, because it felt like the only friend I had nearby.

Now what?

I was scheduled to drive to Charleston in two days to meet up with the potential love of my life, and my place on this Earth was just run over by a Mack truck. What was I supposed to do now? I wanted to call Jonathan but I also didn’t want to say all of the words out loud because doing so might make them real. With a deep breath, I returned to my kitchen table once again and started reading, consuming every detail. If I knew everything, I could figure this thing out and put myself back together again. If desperation had a name, it would have been Savanna. There had to be a hundred letters, all one-sided, of course. I’d never know for sure what my mother wrote back, but there were clues. She wanted to move away from Dreamer’s Bay and start somewhere fresh, and he’d agreed. That made sense. They’d apparently gotten married several months before my birth and were planning on getting jobs and making a go of it. They’d sorted out the details back and forth, professing their love and excitement for a time they could fully be together. It was actually incredibly romantic, and I took comfort in that part, using it to soothe what felt like a gut punch. I headed to their wedding album that I’d stashed in the drawer of my end table. I exhaled in satisfaction when the dates on the back of their smiling, happy wedding photos confirmed the timeline I’d established from the exchanges. After they’d married, the letters stopped, which made sense. After poring over every word, I sat back on the couch and blinked at the empty room, floating back to the present. My eyes were full of gravel. It was after midnight, and I needed to be back at the store before the sun was up. The thought nearly made me weep.

I didn’t waste time with pajamas, allowing the cool sheets to press against my skin as I let go of my thoughts, hoping, somehow, someway I’d wake up to discover this was all a dream.