Page 19 of A Heart So Haunted
Unspoken words hovered between us.I wasn’t supposed to see you again.
“My parents did, to Charleston. I commute back and forth when work brings me here.” He unbuttoned his cufflinks and stuck them in his pocket, then rolled up his sleeves an inch. His forehead didn’t hold a single bead of sweat. “Last I heard, you were doing interior design, correct?”
I shifted in place. I knew he still followed me on social media—because I’d made a point to unfollowhim. I should have blocked him to avoidthis.
A tiny, faint flutter hit my stomach. But if I’d blocked him, he wouldn’t be able to see that I’d moved on. That I could live without him.
“I do,” I said.
“Your work is wonderful.” He cleared his throat. “If I’d realized, I would have hit you up. Maybe brought you onto a project or two?”
“I don’t think our clientele is the same—”
“I’m serious,” he said.
Ivan stood a head taller than me. I used to think that was so attractive. A football player, interested in little old me. The size of him, the athleticism, the screaming on the field when a down was completed or a touchdown scored.
The hand in mine while he taught me to drive a stick.
His fingers in my hair when he pulled me in for a kiss.
The blood in his neck when he flushed with frustration, only to console the moment with words and promises.
Both of us stood, staring at the other.
Finally, I said, “Well, I appreciate it, but I’m actually supposed to be back soon. I’ll see you around, Ivan.” His name on my tongue burned. I kept a wide berth as I stepped around the bench, and him, my eyes already set on my car.
I waited for his steps to follow—but they didn’t.
“I’m sorry about Cadence, Landry,” he called after me.
Just like with my mother, I didn’t respond. I just kept walking.
He knew. He knew about me being in town for Aunt Cadence, and yet he’d acted like he hadn’t.
I flipped through radio stations, eyes glued to the road. One good song before I got home. That was all I needed.
I didn’t have feelings for Ivan. Quite the opposite. I had feelings, but they weren’t the kind of feelings someone might have expected.
I used to have those: the butterflies, the hot palms, the unending smiles. I used to dream about ways to talk to him, pray that he would turn around in history class and ask for help, offer to study together, or look at my answers.
When those moments came, I built them up to mean something. I built them into a safe house, until I realized the house was burning, and the house had never been safe at all.
Stolen moments turned into moments stolen from me. “I love you,” turned into, “if you did, why are you looking at him?” when I hadn’t been looking at all. Compliments turned into insinuations. I was eitherasking for itfrom him, or I waslooking for itfrom someone else.
“Come in today for forty percent off”—it broke to static.Click.
I tried again. “In Hannowville, by t … he”—click.
My breathing grew ragged. Infomercial after infomercial. Each one settled on my nerves. I needed something else. They weren’t working—weren’t filling the emptiness correctly—
“Have—or a—ved one—”
A cloud of dust plumed like a kite as I pulled off to the roadside.
Hands shaking, I turned station after station. Click after click, nothing but static or a grating voice, then—a country station crooned through the speakers. I sighed and fell back in my seat, elbow propped on the door lip. I settled my temple into my palm as a harmonica started to whine. Better.
This was better.
