Page 138 of When Fences Fall
And maybe I did. Maybe I’d always known. He liked things easy. Predictable. Polished. And I was not those things.
I wanted to dance in grocery aisles. I wanted to write poetry in the margins of receipts and dye my hair when the seasons changed and laugh so loud it made strangers turn their heads.
But he wanted a woman who folded napkins properly and didn’t smell of diner grease.
So I tried.
I wore beige. I stopped interrupting. I laughed more softly. I stopped bringing home-baked muffins.
One night, months later, he took me to his father’s birthday party. The cream of the crop of the town were there.
I wanted to wear a new dress Grandma and I saw together. It was bright yellow with big red flowers and red lace on the bottom.
But I wore a navy dress with clean lines. I spent the evening smiling, hanging on his arm while everyone was talking about the town hockey star and his bright future. I’m not even sure they saw me because he never introduced me. I was just… there.
In the car ride home, I said something sarcastic about being a piece of furniture at that party, and Richard looked over at me like I’d spit in his drink.
“Do you always have to be like that?” he said.
I looked out the window. “Like what?”
“So opinionated.”
I didn’t answer because I already knew what that meant: too much. I was too much.
And still I clung to him because we had dreams of going into a big city and starting our real adult life there together.
When I got home, I opened my closet and stared at the row of beige and navy and muted tones.
I missed yellow. I missed the girl I used to be before high school. The one who didn’t ask for permission to be loud. The one who baked muffins just because she wanted to share something she made.
The whole town called us ‘sweethearts,’ and only now do I understand that Dick loved that. It suited his image of a perfect American boy. Until it didn’t.
He dumped me the first time right before the prom. I had to attend it with Roman, bless his heart. But I didn’t learn my lesson because I let him dump me not once but twice. The second—and final—time was about two years later, right before my move to Boston. While I thought we were dating, I was made the other woman because he married the mayor’s daughter, and I had to go on our adventures alone.
And now—standing in Jericho’s kitchen, watching him eat coconut-ginger soup I made without asking if he’d even try it, seeing him grunt and nod like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever tasted—I can’t stop thinking about that night in Richard’s car.
About how quiet it was. How small I felt. And how this thing with Jericho, whatever it is, feels like the exact opposite. Big. Loud. Unruly. Alive.
He lets me be who I am. And more than that, I think he actually likes that person.
46
Nora
I wake up to my phone buzzing on the nightstand. Normally, I’d ignore it, but the persistent vibration tells me it’s not just a text. I carefully extricate myself from Jericho’s arm, which is draped heavily across my waist. He doesn’t stir—the man sleeps like the dead once he finally lets himself drift off.
The caller ID shows Dick’s name, and my thumb hovers over the decline button. It’s 6:30 a.m. on my day off. What could he possibly want?
Curiosity wins. I slip out of bed and into the hallway before answering.
“Hello?” I keep my voice low.
“Nora.”His tone is clipped, professional.“We need to talk.”
“About what?” I lean against the wall, glancing back at the bedroom door.
“Not over the phone. Meet me in the Moons’ parking lot in thirty minutes.”
