Bittersweet Homecoming (24 page)

I snatch the stack of unsealed envelopes out of his hands and press them against my chest, over my heart. “You had my apartment cleaned without my permission,
and
you read my letters? That’s private, Anthony,” I practically growl.

Even though Anthony’s one of my closest friends, it’s wildly embarrassing that he’s read the letters meant for Charlotte. I was never going to mail them, but I’ve had too many feelings in my head lately. Physically writing out my thoughts was the only way to stay sane.

Instead of responding and defending his decision to invade my privacy, he’s breezing into my bedroom and pulling clothing off its hangers in my closet. I have no choice but to follow.

He holds up a black blouse in front of his chest and makes a face before tossing the item onto my bed, which has been meticulously made. “Your wardrobe is making me depressed.”

“If this is how you plan on cheering me up, it’s working wonders.” I flop down in the center of the bed and the fresh scent of laundry detergent billows up around me.

Anthony continues to raid my closet, tossing the discarded clothing on top of my reclined body. “Save that sarcasm for the ladies at Club Charlie tonight.”

“No, Anthony. I hate that place,” I whine. “The music’s obnoxious and the drinks are overpriced. And you know Kambria will probably be there.”

“Which is exactly why we’re going, and you’re going to look fabulous.”

“
I’m
the one who did the breaking up, Anthony,” I remind him, sitting up. “I don’t have anything to prove.”

“Not according to those letters you don’t.”

“I can’t believe you read those,” I complain. “Do you want to read my diary while you’re at it?”

“You’re just lucky I don’t know where that woman lives, or I would have mailed them to the North Pole myself. I was half tempted to address them to Sexy Blonde Bartender, Nowhere, Minnesota.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” he returns. “Either you’re an incredibly convincing writer, or you’ve got it
bad
for this girl.”

“They’re nothing. Just emotional fuel for the writing machine.”

He makes a noise that sounds both unimpressed and unconvinced. “Prove it.”

Club Charlie is within walking distance from my apartment, which is probably one of the only reasons why I agree to go. It entertains a mixed crowd, but most nights it’s largely a queer clientele. It makes me miss the laid back, low-pressure ambiance at Roundtree’s. This place has never been my scene, but after recently spending so much time at the hometown watering hole, the differences are even more dramatic.

Anthony leans across the bar, showing off more cleavage than I’ve got. He’s in full-on Drag Queen mode: tight sparkly dress, fake eyelashes, and skyscraper heels that would break my ankles if I attempted the look. Even though he convinced me to wear a dress tonight, standing next to His Radiance, I look practically butch.

“Hey cutie,” Anthony purrs to the bartender working our area. “Get me a gin and tonic. And this beautiful, rebounding lesbian will have a beer with the highest ABV you have.”

“Actually,” I interject, leaning over the bar to be heard, “can I get a brandy Old Fashioned, muddled?”

The bartender crisply nods. “Sure thing.”

“That’s an interesting choice,” Anthony remarks as the bartender begins to make what is sure to be a twenty-dollar drink. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you order one of those.”

“New Look Abby, right?” I deflect. If he knew the truth—that the drink reminds me of Charlotte—I’d get an earful.

“Cheers to that. And speaking of New Look,” Anthony leans closer so he can speak directly into my ear, “that mousey little librarian type has been eyeballing you since we got here.”

He points unobtrusively near the line for the bathrooms. I scan the small bunches of people until my focus stops on a girl with black framed glasses. Her bangs are bluntly cut across her forehead and the rest of her dark hair is pulled up into a ponytail. She’s cute, and she looks nothing like Kambria or Charlotte, which is a bonus. We briefly make eye contact before she turns and adverts her gaze.

“She’s probably looking at you, Miss Fabulous,” I dismiss.

“I can guarantee I’m not her type,” my friend retorts.

“I’m really not looking for anything,” I say, turning back toward the bar when my drink is placed in front of me. As I bring the well glass up to my mouth, I smell the familiar sting of alcohol.

“Does Miss Fancy Playwright have too many friends and can’t make room in her life for one more?” Anthony needles me. “Go talk to her.”

I drink down half of my Old Fashioned in one thirsty gulp. It burns on the way down, but I don’t cough and sputter like an amateur. “Fine,” I grunt. “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do tonight.”

Anthony slaps me soundly on the back, and the second half of my drink threatens to slosh over the rim’s edge. “That’s my girl.”

I linger longer at the bar to finish the rest of my drink and get a refill. Then Anthony shoos me away in the direction of the woman who has continued to sneak glances in my direction.

“Hey,” I greet.

She looks up from her drink. Her pink mouth is puckered around a plastic straw. The moment she sees me, she spits the straw out. “H-Hi.”

“I’m Abby.”

“Carlie.”

Her hand is wet from the condensation on the outside of her glass and her handshake is limp. I’m instantly unimpressed. I glance back toward the bar to where I’d left Anthony, but he’s already onto his next target. I see him smiling with too much teeth and unnecessarily touching the tattooed forearm of a tall man in skinny jeans. The object of his attentions is wearing a three-quarter-length cardigan over a t-shirt with a deep v-neck that shows off a spattering of coarse chest hair.

I’ve officially been abandoned.

“What kind of work do you do, Abby?” Carlie asks, making conversation.

Name. Occupation. It’s the same wherever I go. And those more versed in this game than myself are able to wiggle in what kind of car they drive and if they own or rent where they live.

“I’m a playwright. I write plays for the stage.”

“Cool. Like Shakespeare.”

“I guess,” I shrug. “I’m not a big deal or anything, so don’t get your hopes up.”

I’m always careful with how I introduce myself and how I make my money. These clubs are loud and miscommunication is easy. I don’t want to lead on someone who thinks I work for a movie studio and can get them a job.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I continue, “but this doesn’t really look like your scene.”

Her dark eyes widen behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “What do you mean?”

“You look like the kind of girl who’d be more comfortable in a coffee shop talking about Jane Austen or the Brontë sisters rather than dancing to EDM at the club.”

Her shoulders slump and her head falls forward, and I instantly regret saying anything.

“Damn it,” comes the quiet curse.

I rest my hand on the top of her shoulder and squeeze. “Shit, don’t listen to me. I’ve been a real jackass lately. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“No, you’re right. I don’t belong here.” I hear her sharp intake of air and her chin tilts back up. “My ex-girlfriend said I was boring. I guess tonight was to prove her wrong.”

“I’m really, really sorry,” I apologize again. “This isn’t my scene either. I just got out of a messy relationship and my friend dragged me here to cheer me up.”

She continues to stare into the bottom of her drink. The ice cubes are nearly gone.

“Do you maybe want to ditch this place and have a real conversation over coffee?” I meant what I said to Anthony earlier; I’m not looking for anything except for an excuse to leave this club.

“I don’t know,” she hesitates.

“I promise I’m not a psycho,” I say with a small laugh.

“I’m pretty sure that’s the exact thing a psycho would say.”

“Fair enough.”

Carlie stiffens beside me and makes an audible squeaking noise. “Oh no. My ex. She’s here.”

“Where?”

“Five foot, seven inch strawberry-blonde goddess who just walked in.”

I turn my head in the direction of the front entrance, but the club is too crowded and the lights are too dim for me to see anyone matching that description. It’s a wonder Carlie was able to notice her, but I sympathize with the heightened awareness that comes with a fresh breakup. I’ve been on the lookout for Kambria all night. We haven’t spoken since she left my dad’s house for the airport.

“That’s perfect,” I remark. “This is what you wanted, right? To have her see you out having fun and not being boring.”

She doesn’t seem to hear me. “Abby, will you do me a huge favor?”

I don’t have time to respond either way before she’s grabbing me around my waist and kissing me. My eyes widen, and I don’t exactly kiss her back, but she keeps her lips attached to mine until she’s satisfied her ex-girlfriend has looked in our direction.

She ends the kiss nearly as abruptly as it began. I lick my lips, tasting the orange juice and vodka of her screwdriver.

“I’m pretty sure your ex doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I note, “because a boring person doesn’t do that.”

Her laugh is light, and she ducks her head demurely. “Do you still want to get that coffee?”

We’re in a pretty walkable neighborhood, so when we leave the club, we seek out an all-night diner on foot. It’s a nice night and we walk slowly, neither of us in a rush, but both clearly relieved to no longer be in the nightclub.

“My ex-girlfriend used to drag me to a different club nearly every night,” Carlie says, arms wrapped around her torso even though the outside temperature is warm. “I thought I’d like it better over time, or at least get used to it, but that never happened.”

“Kambria loved to go clubbing, too,” I say. “She said it was for ‘networking’ purposes.”

“Is that the messy relationship you just got out of?” she asks.

“Kind of.” I make a face. “It’s a long story.”

“It’s a long night,” she counters.

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure that after this story you won’t like me very much,” I reveal. “It’s not a flattering reflection of my character. How did you and the strawberry-blonde goddess meet?” I ask, detouring our conversation.

“I’m a barista, and she was the hot girl with the complicated coffee drink. I memorized her order after a few times of coming in; I guess she thought it was sweet or something,” she shrugs. “I should have known it wasn’t going to work out based on her coffee choice though.”

“Is there a connection between drink choices and personality traits or something?”

“Exactly. And in my experience, the simpler the better.”

I pause in front of a window display at a bookstore. The lights in the store are all turned off because it’s well after business hours, but the books in the window are lit up under spotlights. One of the featured books is a children’s picture book about an insect family. I don’t spy any fireflies on the cover, but I’m pretty sure this is a sign that Charlotte and Amelia have ruined me. I can’t even look at a cartoon rendering of a bumblebee without thinking about them.

Carlie stops when she notices I’m no longer walking beside her. “Everything okay?”

“I live around here,” I find myself announcing. “How about I make us some coffee there instead?”

No more writing children’s plays, no more books about fireflies, and no more drinking Old Fashioneds. I’ve got to do something to get them out of my head.

My apartment is on the eighth floor of a high-rise apartment complex. There’s not much of a view, the floor plan is minimal, and the rent is high, but the location is convenient and the doormen are all friendly.

“I have to admit,” I announce when we’re in the elevator. “I’m kind of intimidated.”

“Intimidated?” Carlie echoes. “Why?”

“I’m just realizing that you make coffee for a living. You’re probably into all those frou-frou coffee drinks with fancy foam designs.”

“I actually take my coffee black. Hot chocolate is about as frou-frou as I get.”

The elevator stops on my floor and the doors open. “I think I can handle that.”

I try to not psych myself out as we enter my apartment. I haven’t had a girl over since I got back from Grand Marais, and before Kambria it wasn’t like the girls were knocking down my door. But everything is tidy inside my place and it smells good, and I find myself actually indebted to Anthony for going to the trouble of having my apartment cleaned.

“Bathroom?” Carlie asks as we linger in the foyer taking off shoes and hanging up purses.

“Down the hall, first door on the left.”

While she’s gone, I find a playlist on my laptop for background noise, and I search among the lower cabinets to find the coffeemaker that I rarely use.

There’s a stack of unsorted mail on the kitchen countertop, taking up valuable real estate that I need for the coffeemaker. A quick glance tells me it’s mostly junk mail, but a card-sized envelope draws my attention. There’s no name in the top left-hand corner, but the handwriting is my sister’s and the return address is my dad’s house. Inside the envelope is a thick piece of cardstock with the words
You’re invited to a party!
printed in a black cursive font at the top. It’s an invitation for a grand re-opening of my dad’s store, which the text informs me has been renamed to Henry Family Handicrafts. I set the card to the side and make a mental note to call my sister in the morning. Something is happening in Grand Marais, and the invitation has me worried.

A second envelope is buried amongst the magazines and free mailers. It has no return address, but the stamp on the right-hand corner is covered in the postal code for Grand Marais. Inside, I find a single piece of notebook paper. It’s the kind that comes in a spiral bound notebook. It even still has the ragged edge from where it was torn out of the book.

I don’t recognize the handwriting, but after one sentence in, I realize whom the letter’s from:

Your dad gave me your address so I could thank you for the book. Amelia makes me read it to her every night before I leave for the bar, although at this point she could probably read it to me from memory. She also won’t let me fix the light on the front porch—the one that keeps flickering. She calls it our lightning bug light.