“Not feeling it.”
“It’s some girl, isn’t it? Not one of your hookers. A real girl.”
“Right. Because the others aren’t real girls.”
Mario dropped his stick on the table. “You know what I mean.”
I didn’t feel like telling him anything. “I’m going to head out.”
Two girls ran up to our table. “Are you leaving?” asked a blonde with the shortest skirt imaginable. “Can we have your balls?”
I could tell Mario was about to say something stupid, so I jetted through the crowd and toward the door. I had no interest in the women, or in Mario’s fumbling attempt to chat them up.
“Gavin! Hold up!” Mario darted through the maze of tables and players. “Damn, she’s got you wound up like a clock, whoever she is.”
The sudden quiet and cool of the night air calmed me considerably. I headed for my Harley and threw a leg over.
“Man, you’re like a different person tonight,” Mario said, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets.
“It’s nothing.” I grappled for something to say to deflect the conversation and get me home. “Still haven’t figured out why Bud moved me up to mechanics.”
“You paid your dues, bro. You worried you can’t cut it?”
“Nah. I can figure most things out, and I got the rest of you guys to ask.” The gravel crunched beneath my boot.
Mario kicked at the curb. “I think you should call up one of your girls, for real, burn off a little steam.”
My anger flared again, but Mario didn’t know anything, so instead of blowing up, I just kick-started the Harley and yelled over the motor, “Yeah, will do.”
Tomorrow was Sunday. I didn’t know Corabelle’s work schedule, but I was betting that if she worked today, like I had, she didn’t have to tomorrow. I’d figure something out, something so perfect she couldn’t turn it down. I knew her. I could make her come around.
Chapter 26: Corabelle
The bed was a crazy reminder of what happened last night.
I sat on the corner, picking up the sheet I’d yanked off Gavin that morning. My legs were shaky after a crazy long walk through the valley, avoiding going home even after eight hours at work. I had the silly idea that Gavin would still be here on my porch, waiting, and I wasn’t up for seeing him again yet. I didn’t totally trust that he’d obey my text message to stay away.
But of course he wasn’t. He had a life. And that life had not included me for four years.
I slid down to the floor and peeked beneath the bed at the baby’s box. Other than packing and unpacking it when I’d come to San Diego, I hadn’t looked at it in years. Gavin had gotten me to open it one more time, and I needed to put the CD back in it.
The soft blue fabric had faded a little, the stars and moons and teddy bears floating across the lid. As I brought it out, my eyes pricked with tears. No matter how much time passed, this wound didn’t really seem to get any better.
I knew that on top of the baby’s things were memories of my last days with Gavin. The box was pretty large, almost a milk crate, and we’d had so little to put in there for Finn. So when I moved from our apartment to a dorm room in New Mexico, I added other stuff I wanted most to save. There was more in a box at my parents’ house, hidden in the bottom of my closet, but these were the most important.
I opened the lid and the baby’s blanket peeked out, the layer between Finn’s things on bottom and the scattered mementos of Gavin on top. I planned to just set the CD back on top, but the first item inside was a little scroll tied with silver ribbons. My nose ran as I slipped the ribbons off and unrolled the parchment paper.
Corabelle,
I know you said when we found out about the baby that we didn’t have to get married, but I want to. I have wanted to marry you since we went to your Aunt Georgia’s wedding and hid beneath the cake table when we were five, fingers sticky from sneaking frosting, always together, even when we were in trouble. Please say you’ll marry me. I know you don’t have to. I can only hope you’ll want to. That you’ll have me. And we three can be together for always.
All my love,
Gavin
The middle of the page was crumpled from when I first looked at it again, a few days after the funeral, when it was clear Gavin wasn’t coming back. I wanted to destroy everything then, all the memories of Gavin, all the things for the baby. And I had wrecked some things. The beautiful little mobile we made out of hundreds of butterflies cut from card stock was gone. I’d torn it from the ceiling and ripped it apart, sending the colored wings flying all over the room.
And the photographs. God, the photographs. I’d torn them, shredded them, flung them wall to wall. The drawings of the sea and our little school, ones we’d done as kids that decorated the baby’s room, all gone.
But I hadn’t gotten rid of this, his proposal. In the box still rested the red velvet case that held my ring, a tiny blue stone on a silver band, as by then we knew Finn was a boy. I set the letter back in the box and picked up the case, popping it open. The ring was loose on my finger now that I was no longer puffy with baby weight. I held out my hand, trying to remember what it felt like to be secure in Gavin’s love, to have never known any other way to live. I had zero doubts back then.
But he’d walked away. He’d said all these things to me, written them on paper, and still, he left. On the worst day. When I needed him the most.