Long Way Home

Dina

Growing up with a big sister was kind of like having an entire closet full of things you wanted to wear, but never could. Like they were always just out of reach. But now that we’re in our twenties, the script has switched, and the odd time I call my sister, freaking out over what to wear, she tells me to come over and shop in her closet. That’s exactly what she does for me tonight, even though she’s not home. Thankfully, I still have keys from when I lived with her.

I settle on a pair of distressed medium-grey jeans, a black blouse, a long open cardigan, and heeled black ankle boots. I also found a black trilby hat that my hair wouldn’t have had a hope of fitting into if I hadn’t tamed it with a straightening iron. A glance in the mirror confirms this is a cute, sensible, bohemian outfit for a friendly night out.

Hollis was too swamped between her studies and co-op, but said if she has more lead time in the future, she’ll make it a goal to come. I guess I’ll see how tonight goes before I hold her to that.

I walk toward the venue, knowing it would be faster to cut through Alexandra Park, but it’s already dark, so I decide to stick to the busy streets. The detour to Angel’s house has added an extra three kilometres onto my trek, but it was worth it to play out my teenage fantasies, shopping in her closet.

My phone buzzes in my clutch, so I dig it out, careful to keep my eyes on the pavement. Heels are a rarity for me, so I need to be extra careful—especially now that there’s a dusting of snow on the ground that can’t decide if it wants to come or go.

Dickens: Want me to come meet you?

Dina: 10 min away. Just coming down Ryerson.

Dickens: Why are you coming that way?

He’s quick. Didn’t take him long to realize that’s the opposite direction from my house.

Dina: My sister’s place. Turning on Queen now.

I march down the north side of Queen Street with about 200 metres to my destination. Halfway there, a shadowy form that looks familiar walks in my direction. I don’t need to see him in the light to confirm it’s him.

The second he pulls me in his arms, I collapse against him.

“I’m sorry for being such a basket case.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, not really. But I’m going to work on it.” I lean back so I can look at his shadowed face. “It’s hard to focus on a blind future when the past is so clear. I’m not trying to be difficult.”

He tilts my chin to plant a quick peck on my lips, then focuses on my eyes. “I’ve spent a lot of time studying history, and one thing I know is that it always impacts the present and future. We can’t ignore it and hope it doesn’t. So, I won’t press you to talk about it, but know that I’m ready to listen if or when you want to.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. No, I don’t want to bring it up again. Most days I feel like I should just get over it because it was a long time ago. Plus, compared to a lot of orphaned kids, Angel and I didn’t have it so bad. So what if we lived with an aunt who tried to blow through our insurance money partying and bringing strange men home? Who cares that we’ve been disowned by our family because Angel decided enough was enough and got us out of that situation before we had nothing left? But it has a grip on me I can’t loosen. My past has shaped who I am, whether or not I want it to.

“Come on. Let’s get a drink to celebrate.” He turns toward the pub, his hand finding mine without searching.

“What are we celebrating?” I ask as we march forward, assuming he’s wanting to celebrate making it to the last phase of his PhD.

“The hopeless nerd getting to walk in with the gorgeous bombshell.”

“Which one of us is the hopeless nerd?”

Holden laughs but doesn’t reply. I guess he thought it was a rhetorical question.

We walk into The Grand Ol’ Lennox hand in hand, and he leads me toward his friends, who I presume are Sam—or Michael—and Phil. They both smile at me, but their expressions morph into knowing grins when they look at Holden.

“You didn’t tell us you were bringing a goddess.” The taller of the two guys with slicked back red hair stands and reaches his hand out. “What are you doing with a guy like him?”

“Ignore him. He gets stage fright and loses his manners.” The other guy reaches over to shake my hand next. “I’m Phil.”

“The comedian. Nice to meet you.” I take in the clean-shaven brunette. He doesn’t look like a comedian, but from what Holden has said, he’s quite funny. I look at the first guy to greet me and realize he didn’t give me his name. “Do I call you Michael or Sam?”

He gestures for Holden and me to sit, so we each take up one of the remaining chairs at the table.

“Everybody calls me Sam. Sometimes I forget my name is Michael until I have to fill out government forms.”

“That’s dedication to an on-stage persona. Like Slash. Could you imagine ever walking up to him and calling him Saul? Or calling Eminem, Marshall?”

Sam smirks at Holden. “She’s a keeper. She didn’t even hesitate.” 

Holden chuckles, pouring a beer from the pitcher. He looks at me and asks, “Did you read their biographies?”

“Yes, but I know their music, too.” I narrow my eyes at him before returning my focus to Sam. “What time does your set start?”

“I’ve got to warm up in a minute. I just had to meet the mysterious Dina Blake we’ve heard so much about.” Sam slides out of his chair and stands to his full height. He must be well over six feet. Yet, the most intimidating thing about him is the fact he has insider information about me, and I have none on him. He heads off with a promise to return after his set, leaving me, Holden, and Phil.

It’s one thing to know Holden mentioned me to his sister. It’s another to know he’s been talking about me with his best friends. I don’t get the impression he’s talked about me in a bad way, but for all I know, Phil and Sam could be excellent actors. It’s unnerving when I know so little about them.

After fifteen minutes of surface-level conversation, Phil excuses himself and disappears backstage, too.

“They seem nice,” I say before taking a sip of my fruity cocktail.

“Yeah. They are.”

Before he can say anything else, the lights dim through the pub and brighten over the stage in the corner. Sam walks out, holding a guitar, and introduces himself. He wastes no time getting into his first song, which Holden informs me is one of his originals. Typically, he plays a mix of originals and covers. Judging by the reaction of the crowd, a lot of them know his music.

Holden and I make idle chitchat, listening to Sam, sipping our drinks. I wonder where Phil disappeared to right as Sam finishes one song and Phil walks out on stage. Both of them wear smiles that have me eager to see what’s happening next.

“What is this guy doing?” Holden stares at the stage, anxiously spinning his near-empty beer glass.

“You guys know my friend Phil here,” Sam’s low timbre states through the speakers.

The crowd cheers and applauds Phil, who takes a dramatic bow.

Sam continues, “Our other good friend, who you may know, Holden, is in the audience tonight, and he reached a special milestone this week. He’s two-thirds finished his PhD.”

Again, everyone cheers, including me, making Holden smile and blush. He covers his face with one hand, still gripping his beer in the other.

“Anyway, Phil and I wanted to do something special for him tonight to celebrate. So, this one’s for you, man.”

It doesn’t take more than two beats to recognize the tune they’re playing. Holden and I both burst out laughing, listening to Phil and Sam sing the intro to Pretty Fly for a White Guy—Phil is alarmingly good at the high part. Sam shreds his guitar and starts singing, creating his amazing rendition of the song.

My face hurts from smiling, and I keep stealing glances at Holden, whose facial expression mirrors mine. We both lose it when Sam replaces the lyrics “go on Ricki Lake” with “go with Dina Blake.”

When Sam finishes the song to a lengthy applause, my cheeks are frozen in a smile. I haven’t laughed so hard or had so much fun in a long time.

That marked the end of Sam’s set, so he and Phil disappear behind the stage curtains. 

Holden slides his chair closer to mine and wraps his arm around my shoulder. He turns my head with a gentle hand on my chin and leans down to kiss me. “I love you, Dina.”

I choke on my own saliva when I attempt to reply. That elicits a coughing fit, so I take a sip of my drink to help. That creates more of a problem than a solution. I cough again, sputtering out some of my drink into my hand. My eyes are watering from suppressing another cough. In a panic, I stand so I can excuse myself to the washroom, but forget I’m wearing heels. Faster than I can blink, I crumple to the floor and a sharp pain shoots up my leg. If alcohol helps to dull the pain at all, I can’t tell.

“Ow!” I cry, then cough twice more.

Holden jumps from his chair and crouches down in front of me. “What happened? Can you stand?” He places his arms under mine and lifts me, but I can’t put any weight on my right foot.

“I think I twisted my ankle.” I scan the room and notice all eyes are on me. “This is so embarrassing.”

Holden manoeuvres me so I can sit on the chair, then he unzips my boot to inspect my ankle. His delicate touch on the tender spot is a contrast of pain and pleasure. I stare down at him as he checks for any damage with concern etched on his face. Knowing what he just told me and watching him study my ankle like a priceless piece of art moves me to tears.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Do you want to go to the hospital?” He stands in front of me, stroking my cheek.

I shake my head. “It probably just needs ice.” That was a half answer, but I don’t know what else to say. Nothing is really wrong, and that’s what scares me. It cripples me with panic, thinking that someone else will love me and disappear. It’s something I can’t articulate. Especially not now, in this bar, half drunk and injured.

“Let’s get you home.” He searches the bar for something when his eyes finally land on his returning friends.

I’m embarrassed to look at either of them after causing such a commotion on what should have been an important night for Sam. Holden steps forward to speak to them before they’re close enough I can hear.

The trio approaches me after a minute, all looking stressed and concerned.

“Let’s get you home, little lady.” Phil hunches over in front of me like he’s waiting for me to hop on his back.

Yeah, that’s not happening. 

“Um. I appreciate the offer, but you can’t piggyback me home.”

“For a strapping lad like myself, that’s not a problem, ma’am. We’ll take turns. I’m on the first shift, so hop on. Your noble steed awaits.”

I look at Holden, who looks like he’s trying not to vomit. He’s never looked so worried in my presence. Not even before his exams. But I can’t let him and his friends carry me home. Walking isn’t an option, either. And even if I take public transit, the bus stop is almost half a kilometre from home.

My bottom lip probably looks like it’s been through a meat grinder by the time I make my decision.

“Dickens, can you call a taxi?”