I don’t get much sleep.
The brochure for the home in Omaha lays spread out on the table. I stared at it for so long I memorized all of the paragraphs, talking about aerobics classes and bingo nights. It looks like a nice place—everyone has their own small little bungalow and porch and front yard. There’s a community doctor, one of the best in the country, and other people like Grams. It doesn’t look like a terrible place to be, but it isn’t home. It isn’t this blue-vinyl house on the corner of Corley and Goldenrod. The Perezes don’t live next door. The bingo hall isn’t in the town hall.
It’s not home.
The next morning at work is the worst. I’m so tired I can’t even fall asleep. That’s the worst kind of tired, when you’re so tired you aren’t anymore. Heather doesn’t talk to me at all this morning, probably because of what happened yesterday with Mike. I’m sure she got a kick out of it. Instead, she rearranges the Skittles selection in the back for four hours until lunch.
“I’ll be back in thirty,” she calls, which she’s never done before. She usually just leaves. I don’t know what to say in return, so I just don’t say anything, and I wait until she’s out of sight before I wander to the Skittles aisle. I grab a handful of red bags and dump them in the blue-bagged Skittles, but it doesn’t bring me the joy it usually does.
So I put the Skittles back the way I found them.
The bell above the door chimes as I finish redoing four hours of Heather’s life, and I round the aisle to the front.
A flash of blue hair.
The clip of boots.
My heart skips.
LD flips the Open sign to Be Back in Five! She dumps a greasy bag on the counter and calls out to me, “You’re not off the hook yet but I’m willing to negotiate.”
I step out from behind the aisle sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. My jaw begins to wobble. Oh no—oh no, my eyes are stinging.
She gives me a helpless look, and suddenly I’m running down the aisle and fling my arms around her. I bury my face into her bony shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I cry. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m s-s-sorry.”
“Shhhhh.” She rubs circles on my back. “I know. I know. Dad told me what happened.” She sets her chin on my head. “I’m so sorry.”
“I m-m-made her cry,” I sob into her shoulder. “I h-h-hurt her. I d-didn’t mean t-to. I d-d-didn’t.”
“I know. I know.”
I don’t have to tell her the rest of it because she already knows. She knows I’m torn because I want to give up the rest of the time I have with Grams to make sure she’s happy and comfortable, but I know I can’t. I’m not that good of a person. I’m not that patient, I’m not that kind. There’s a bitter part of me that hates it here. And I’m afraid that someday I’ll hate Grams because of it, too.
We stand there for a long while. I listen to her heart thrum and thrum, a steady cadence, a march of time. Our breaths draw together, inhale, exhale, and I concentrate on that instead of all the thoughts in my head, hoping that someone else can decide my life for me. That someone else can take the reins for a moment—a second—and let me ride shotgun.
“Thank you,” I murmur, looking up at her. “I’m a horrible friend and I don’t deserve you. You’re brave and at least you try—you try. I feel like I . . . I feel like I haven’t even done that.”
“Oh, Ingrid.” Her face, sharp cheekbones and soft eyes, are a constant in my life when everything that’s supposed to be constant begins to fall away. She was always here—even now, when Micah’s gone and Billie’s gone and Grams is going, she’s here. She bends down and presses her plum-colored lips to my forehead.
“You’re so much braver than me,” she whispers against my hair. “I never auditioned.”
I don’t understand at first. Never went to what? I pull away, rubbing the tears out of my eyes. But then I remember our argument in the diner. “But y-you said you bombed it?”
“I was scared.”
“That you’d fail?”
“I was afraid I’d get in.” She rests her cheek against the top of my head. “I was afraid to leave.”
I unfurl myself from her, giving her a curious look. “But you’ve been wanting to leave forever.”
She looks away, somewhat ashamed. “I went to the audition. I had on my cute little black dress—the scoop neck with the sequins across the bottom, paired with my favorite teal Prada to match Vincenzo”—the name for her violin—“and oh were we a sight. It was the best day of my life, I thought. So I sat in the audience, and I listened to my peers play their auditions. I critiqued their concertos and their bravados. I sat through countless Vivaldis, Mozarts as flamboyant as the deaf bastard himself.”
“It sounds like your kind of place.”
She tilts her head. “Was it? I began to ask myself. Did I fit in here with these maestros? And I didn’t know, love. I couldn’t see a gangly girl from nowhere Nebraska sitting up on that stage, no matter how hard I tried. I couldn’t imagine how my music would sound against theirs, my Green Day against their Gustav Holst. We’d clash, like hot oil in water. I’d bubble and fizz and . . .” She laughs, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t understand, would you? You’ve never had reservations. You’ve always had your sights set just beyond that radio tower.”
My shoulders stiffen. “What does that mean?”
“It’s the tallest point, isn’t it? You’re always looking just beyond it. You’re fearless. You’d kill to leave if you could—and here you are, willing to stay for your grandmother. And I had the chance to leave and I . . . I just sat there when my name was called. I didn’t move. I listened to concerto after concerto and wished I were anyone besides Lorelei Darling.”
The disgust in her voice makes me flinch. I take her hands and squeeze them tightly, and lowers her eyes to meet mine. “But you don’t want to play Mozart and Vivaldi the rest of your life, do you?”
“I could’ve left town. I could’ve . . .”
“You could’ve taken the easy way out,” I fill in, “and the LD I know never takes the easy way out. You’ll get out of here on the heartstrings of David Bowie and Glenn Frey, not some ancient musician in a wig.”
“They did have pretty nasty wigs,” she agrees.
“So let’s eat these greasy fries and figure out some other way to get you out of here—on your terms.”
“And you?”
I smile. I try to make it earnest. I try to smile without regret; push my own hesitation deep down in my stomach, because this part of my life isn’t about me. It’s about her. LD. The bravest, most beautiful girl I know. I squeeze her hands tightly. “I’ll follow you on Twitter.”
We laugh and break apart.
“Now,” I say, “let’s start brainstorming on how to get you and Vinchini—”
“Vincenzo,” she corrects.
“—Out of here.”
“With a little practice, I’m sure I could give him another go.” She tears the greasy bag down the side to reveal a plate piled with soft, gooey fries, cheese, chili, chives, and bacon. Lots of bacon. I grab a fry and let it melt in my mouth, savoring the flavor as it curls against the back of my tongue.
While it doesn’t soothe my soul, it’s the next best thing.