Page 46 of Nothing Less than Magic
My phone rings, and I race inside, hoping it’s Lolly. Not Lolly, Austin. I don’t know how I feel about him calling again, but I answer it anyway.
“Hey.”
“Why are you out of breath?”
“I was outside and ran in to get the phone.” I hastily add, “I thought you were my sister. What can I do for you?”
“No need to be hostile, Chelsea. I was just calling to check in. No one’s heard from you, and I was getting worried.”
No one? It’s not like we have anyone in common. The only person I’m regularly in touch with is Ronnie, and she hasn’t been responding to me. I highly doubt she’s been talking to Austin.
“I’m fine. Great, actually.”And I’ve met someone.Knox.
“How’s your head?”
“It’s all good, Austin. Don’t you have a wedding to plan or a marriage to break up?” It’s a low blow; there’s nothing wrong with being a divorce attorney. It’s a necessary, even noble (okay, that’s taking it too far), profession. But for whatever reason, I feel like poking the bear, maybe even drawing a little blood.
“What the hell crawled up your ass? I mean, here I am, worried about you, making sure you’re okay. I don’t know what you’re so angry about.”
Can he really be this obtuse? I’m about to say, think about it, Austin, but figure it’s not worth arguing over.
“I appreciate your continued concern,” I say, trying to keep any hint of hostility out of my voice. “Everything is wonderful here. I’m relaxing, enjoying the lake, and taking trips to town. I finally made it to the parade and was sorry I missed it all these years, because it was fantastic.”
“Really?” He sounds doubtful.
“Really. You and Mary should try to make it next year.” I can’t help myself.
“Yeah, about that.”
He stops, and I hold my breath, fantasizing that he’ll say Mary’s out of the picture, that he can’t live without me, even though I’ve been living without him like a champ. It’s true. Since I’ve come to the cabin, I rarely think about him.
“I was hoping you’d reconsider Christmas,” he continues. “At the risk of sounding like a jerk, this week was my week. But you needed it, Chels. And I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’ve been able to recuperate there. All I want is for you to be healthy.” He says it like a) he’s a saint, and b) I’m two seconds away from being committed to a cuckoo farm. “But I think it’s only fair that we make up for the week I lost.”
“No problem,” I say. “You can have the cabin my week in January.” It’s arguably the worst month in Ghost. Cold, foggy, and often rainy.
“That’s not a fair trade. But we can talk about it another time. I didn’t call to fight.”
“Why again did you call?”
“I’m going to go now,” Austin says. “And I love you, Chelsea. I only wish you the best.”
He hangs up before I can say,Fuck you, Austin.
I’m sitting on the sofa, watching my third episode ofCurb Your Enthusiasm, afraid to go to sleep. While I wouldn’t call last night’s dreams nightmares, they were discombobulating, even disturbing. I can’t take a repeat performance. But the thing is, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. Every time they fall shut, I jolt upright, gulping in air as if I’m suffocating, and force myself to stay awake. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up without crashing.
That’s when I make a split-second decision to go for a drive. It’s not the least bit rational, but these days, I’m trying to be more spontaneous. Less myself, more Lolly.
It’s not as dark as last night. There’s a half-moon peeking down on me, lighting my way to the car. I roll down the window, figuring the cold air will give me a shot of adrenaline, or at the very least, keep me awake for hours to come.
It’s a gorgeous night, clear and crisp, the cedar trees particularly pungent, reminding me that winter is just around the corner. I take the country road, avoiding the highway. The deer are out in droves tonight, their yellow eyes glowing in the dark, so I lighten my foot on the gas. Luckily, I have the road to myself and can take my time. It’s a little eerie out here alone. But so calm and peaceful that there’s no reason to be frightened.
I drive without a destination in mind, going wherever the road leads me. It looks different at night. Less like bucolic farmland and more like enchanted forest. Different, but lovely.
I hang a right on a road I’ve never been before. It’s paved, and I believe if I follow it long enough, it’ll take me to a sandy beach on the banks of Bear Creek, just outside of town. It’s the right direction.
The beach is popular with locals and tourists alike because of its accessibility. Most of the river’s shoreline is rocky and rugged. Still, the rocks don’t stop the hardcore river rats from diving off the boulders into the clear, icy water below. As Uncle Sylvester says, “Some people don’t have the brains God gave them.”
I pass an outcropping of homes, some modest, others large and extravagant, like the million-dollar houses you see in Lake Tahoe faced in stone and glass. That’s how I know I’m near the river. I stick my face out the window to see what my nose tells me, to see if it picks up the scent of fish and fir and muddy flats. But instead of smelling it, I hear the rush of water in the distance.
