You can’t ignore me forever, Trey.
Try me, I think. Then I drop my phone beside the cash register at Brightside Bakery and go back to sweeping the floor.
It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I saw Lisa Marie cruising the streets of Sturgis, and I still don’t know why she’s here. I assume she’s staying with her high school friend Valerie, since that’s where she always lands when she breezes through town, but I haven’t asked. I haven’t answered a single message. I don’t see why I should.
Except, maybe, to avoid the kind of barrage I’m getting right now. My phone keeps buzzing until Regina, who’s seated behind the counter writing signs for tomorrow’s specials, clears her throat. “Thought your friends knew better than to bother you when you’re supposed to be working,” she says with mock severity.
“It’s not my friends,” I say, leaning the broom against the wall beside a sleeping Al before grabbing my phone. I silence it and scroll through my mother’s follow-up messages.
How about dinner Friday night at Shooters?
I love that place.
My treat.
I’ll be there at six.
“Of course you will,” I say out loud. Shooters is more a dive bar than a restaurant, and Lisa Marie is all about the happy hour life.
Regina puts her marker down. “I know that tone,” she says. “What’s going on with Mom?”
“You mean Lisa Marie?” I scowl. “She’s here and she wants to get dinner.”
“Well, that sounds nice,” Regina says. “There’s nothing nice about it.” “What does Junior say?”
“Not much.” When I told Dad that Lisa Marie was back in town, he just pressed his lips together, like she’s not worth a bigger reaction.
“I know you’ve been burned, Tripp,” Regina says in a too-kind tone that I hate, because it means she feels sorry for me. “But maybe this time will be different.”
When my mother left home, she did it in stages. First she spent the weekend with Valerie, and then she moved into a motel on Route 6. She’d been gone a week when I decided to ride my bike there and convince her to come home. It was an October afternoon, crisp and sunny, and I remember feeling relieved as I pedaled along the narrow strip of road that passed for a bike lane. I just had to promise to be a better kid, and everything would go back to normal.
As soon as she answered my knock, though, all the hope drained out of me. My mother looked different, silhouetted by the dim lighting of her room. Her hair was up, and she was wearing more makeup than I was used to, but it wasn’t just that. The lines around her mouth had vanished, her eyes were brighter, and her shoulders were straighter.
She looked happy. Like leaving us was the best thing she’d ever done. Still, I’d gone there with a mission, and I was going to see it through.
Lisa Marie listened while I told her all the things I’d do differently once she came back. Then she took me to the vending machine outside and let me
pick my snacks—a Coke and a packet of Lay’s potato chips—before we settled back into her room, one of us on each of the twin beds. “Here’s the problem, Trey,” she said, “I’m kind of done with this whole mothering thing.”
I didn’t even know what to say to that. How can someone just be done? I was afraid to ask, so all I said was “But you’re a good mother.” I was about to open my potato chips, but I was nervous and accidentally squeezed them hard, crushing them.
“We both know I’m not,” she said as I hurriedly shoved the chips behind my back. It felt ominous to have ruined something she’d given me before I’d had the chance to enjoy it.
“I want you to come home, Mom.” I still called her that then; we didn’t enter the “Lisa Marie” stage of our relationship until she’d been gone a few years.
“I’m not going to do that,” she replied, and the certainty in her words chilled me. “Listen, Trey, you need to understand something.” She blew out a sigh then, long and deep. “I never planned on being a parent. I always had the feeling I wasn’t cut out for it, but Junior wanted a baby so much that I agreed to give it a shot.” Give it a shot. Like I was an unusual flavor of ice cream. “I’ve been trying my best, but this day-in, day-out stuff?” She shrugged. “It’s not for me. I’ve had enough.”
Eight years later, I still can’t believe she said that to a nine-year-old. Of all the things my mother has done to me over the years, being honest might be the worst.
The bell on the door jingles, and Al raises his head as a girl in a gray coat and slouchy black hat enters. She pulls off the hat, sending her auburn hair flying in all directions with static, and I realize with a sinking heart that it’s Brynn. When she suggested after Ms. Kelso’s meeting in the greenhouse that we should get together to start planning the layout for Mr. Larkin’s garden, I didn’t think she meant today.
“Who is this majestic bundle of fluff?” she asks, holding out a hand to Al. He glances at Regina—Al is too well-trained to approach even friendly customers without permission—and springs up when she nods. He trots
toward Brynn and leans against her with his full weight, tail wagging. I’m surprised he doesn’t knock her over; Brynn is as tiny now as she was in eighth grade. “A wisp of a girl,” Dad used to call her. “With a big mouth.” Which might sound as though he didn’t like her, but he did.
“Hello, you’re beautiful,” Brynn croons to Al, vigorously rubbing his neck like she knows it’s his favorite spot. “Yes, you are.”
“That’s Al. The owner’s dog,” I say warily. “Look, I know you wanted to talk committee stuff, but I’m working, so…”
Brynn looks up and catches sight of Regina, who’s leaning over the counter watching us. “Hi,” she calls. “Are you the owner? I love your dog.” “I am. And he loves you,” Regina says. “Don’t be flattered, though.
He’s not picky.” Brynn laughs, and Regina glances between us like she’s waiting for an introduction. When none comes, she says, “You go to school with Tripp?”
“Yeah,” Brynn says. “In middle school, and again as of last week. My family moved away from Sturgis for a while, but we’re back now.” She gazes around, taking in the white subway tile, pale wooden tables, tasteful light fixtures, and framed sketches of baked goods. “This is new, right? Well, in the past four years at least. It’s gorgeous.”
“We opened two years ago,” Regina says with a pointed look toward me. “Looks like Charm School over there forgot his manners, so I’ll have to ask. What’s your name, hon?”
Brynn approaches the register, Al at her heels, and takes Regina’s outstretched hand. “I’m Brynn Gallagher.”
“Regina. Nice to meet you, Brynn. What brings you here? Coffee?” “No. Well, I’d love some, but I was actually hoping to catch Tripp for
this garden project we’re doing at Saint Ambrose—”
“Except I’m working,” I repeat, picking up the broom again and brushing it over the gleaming floor. “We’ll have to talk later.”
Too late. Regina’s already perked up. “Did you say garden project?” she asks, looking at me with dawning approval. “As in Mr. Larkin’s memorial garden?”
“Yes,” Brynn says. “You know about it?”
“Oh, I know about it.” Regina steps out from behind the cash register and plucks the broom from my hand. “The floors are clean. Take a break, Tripp, and work on your project with the young lady. What kind of coffee do you want, Brynn? On the house.”
“Really? Thank you, a latte would be great,” Brynn says.
Regina goes back behind the counter and fires up the espresso machine as Brynn heads for a high table by the window and hops onto a stool. She shrugs off her coat, pulls a notebook and pen out of her bag, and turns to see me still standing where Regina left me. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Brynn says, rolling her eyes. “Would you get over yourself and sit down for ten minutes? It’s not like I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.”
Fantastic. I was really hoping that would come up, and by really I mean not at all. But Brynn is back to rummaging in her bag as I take the stool across from her. “I was thinking we should have a mix of annual and perennial plants,” she says, pulling out her phone. “And things that bloom at different times of year, and some evergreens. So that it always looks nice, even in winter. Thank you,” she adds as Regina brings over her latte.
“Whatever,” I say, earning a hard look from Regina. “I mean, yeah.
Sounds good.”
“We could choose plants that have meaning,” Brynn says, head bent over her notebook. “Like forget-me-nots. Yellow tulips for friendship. Or rosemary, for remembrance. What else?” She looks up expectantly.
“I don’t know anything about plants,” I say.
“Well, it’s not like I garden in my spare time either,” Brynn says. “That’s why Google exists.” She takes a sip of her latte. “And experts. Is Mr. Solomon still the Saint Ambrose groundskeeper?”
“No, he retired. The new guy is only part-time, and he’s kind of an asshole. You could ask Mr. Solomon, though,” I say, thinking back to my run-in with him a couple of days ago. “He loves talking about that shit.”
“I could?” Brynn asks, eyebrows raised. “Because I’m a one-woman subcommittee?”
I suppress a sigh. “We could. He actually just asked me to stop by, so…”
“Perfect. Do you have his number?”
“No. It’s not like we hang out. I just see him downtown sometimes.” “I’ll ask Ms. Kelso,” Brynn says, jotting a note. She taps her pen on the
table, pinning me with those unnerving eyes of hers. “So how’ve you been, Tripp? What’s new?”
“Not much,” I say.
She waits a beat, pen still tapping, before saying, “This is the point in our polite conversational break where you ask me how I’ve been.”
The corners of my mouth almost turn up, but I stop them. I’m not trying to encourage friendliness, here. “How’ve you been, Brynn?”
“Really good.” If she doesn’t stop tapping that pen, I’m going to grab it and throw it behind the counter. “Right up till the moment I had to move away from the high school I’ve attended for three and a half years and finish my senior year with a bunch of strangers.”
“We’re not strangers,” I say. “You know most of us.”
“Not anymore.” She finally puts the pen down, thank God. “I wouldn’t have recognized you if someone hadn’t pointed you out. You’ve changed a lot.”
“People tend to do that between the ages of thirteen and seventeen.” “Almost eighteen,” she says. “Next month for you, right?”
I nod. My birthday’s not hard to remember; it’s February twenty-ninth, which means I only celebrate the actual day every four years. The last leap year that Brynn was around, she gave me a travel mug that said Being My Friend Is the Only Gift You Need. I lost the top years ago but still use it to hold pens.
She sips her coffee, then puts it down before asking, “Is it weird, being part of the memorial garden project?”
“No.” I say it brusquely, since I don’t plan on talking about anything related to this project other than plants, but Brynn keeps going.
“It must have been awful, finding Mr. Larkin. We’ve never talked about it.”
Of course we haven’t. I made sure, four years ago, that Brynn and I would never talk again. But she doesn’t seem to care anymore that I
embarrassed her in gym class. If anything, she strikes me as kind of amused about it now.
“I don’t talk about it with anyone,” I say. “Not even Shane and Charlotte?”
Especially not Shane and Charlotte.
But I just shrug, and Brynn adds, “I have to admit, I was surprised to see you guys had become such good friends. Does Shane still take naps in the class coatroom?”
“No. Come on. We’re practically adults,” I point out, before honesty compels me to add, “He stopped fitting on those benches in ninth grade.”
Brynn laughs, almost spitting out her coffee, and I grin as I hand her a napkin. For a second it’s almost like we’re friends again, cracking up at her kitchen table over homework. Then she wipes her mouth and says, “So you’re an elite now, huh?”
My smile fades. “Jesus. Not you too.”
“I’m only repeating what I hear.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Saint Ambrose has changed a lot since middle school.”
“They’ll let anyone in now,” I say, and wow, that made me sound like a dick.
Brynn’s lips quirk. “How elitist of you.”
“Being an elite isn’t a thing,” I growl. Obviously. If it were, I wouldn’t be taking a long shot at a scholarship by making nice with Brynn Gallagher and talking about tulips.
Both of our phones buzz then, and I look down at mine. I’m having a party Saturday, Charlotte texted. Your presence is both requested and expected. I send a thumbs-up, and she adds, I’m inviting Brynn.
God damn it. Don’t, I text back. Charlotte replies with a bunch of question marks, and I add, She’s a pain in the ass.
Charlotte sends a shrug emoji. Too late.
I look at Brynn, who’s holding up her phone. “Charlotte’s having a party, huh?” she says.
“Yeah, but I can’t make it,” I say, rubbing the callus on my thumb.
“Me either,” Brynn says. “It’s nice to be asked, though.” She finishes her coffee and looks toward the counter, but Regina has disappeared into the back with Al. “Would you tell Regina I said goodbye, and thanks again for the coffee? I have to get a move on or I’ll be late picking Ellie up from her flute lesson.”
“Sure,” I say, relieved.
“I’ll let you know about Mr. Solomon,” Brynn says, dropping her phone and notebook into her bag before looping it over her shoulder. She puts on her hat, covering up her distracting hair, and adds, “Just one more thing.” Before I can respond, she leans forward until her lips are just inches away from my ear, and her breath tickles my neck as she whispers, “You’re a bad liar, Tripp Talbot. Always have been.”
