Even Though I Stayed

Experiencing the peak of Autumn in the quaint midwestern town I’ve lived in for my entire life is usually just enough to make me want to stay— familiar faces from years past aren’t quite as enticing, but oddly comforting nonetheless.

In my grandpa’s pickup, I make my way down the paved road that proudly displays the town’s welcome sign: it greets the population of some 15,000 individuals that once felt like the whole world. As I drive, I’m surrounded by the marsh with the rickety bridges and the herons. I always notice the beautiful cattails in the pond that I’ve wanted to photograph for years— I’d heard the homeowners by the water would come outside and yell for you to leave if you stood too close to their property line, so I never bothered. I don’t seek out confrontational situations.

I drive past the first house I ever lived in which I moved out of when I was five; past an old best friend’s street where her dad lived once her parents were divorced; past the grocery store I worked at when I was fifteen where my grandparents would surprise me, coming down my aisle to buy a bag of candy and give me a hug.

I see the charming restaurants I liked to go to with my friends when I was younger and the storybook coffee shop in the center of town. I don’t have to roll down my window to smell the firewood whose smoke drifts out of the chimney or to recall the warm, enveloping smell of ever-so-slightly burnt coffee beans and the conversations I’d had on the patio in the back. I remember how often I cried and showed up hours late to school, and how that’s what it felt like to be 17.

The nights I thought were so beautiful at the time race through my mind: sprinting to our cars in the pouring rain, sleeping in tents and stargazing in some town an hour away, watching movies until four in the morning. Those nights - or mornings, rather - feel as vibrant as if they’d happened last week: it’s difficult to avoid these memories as I pass by my old friends’ homes on my way into town. It feels somber to see they’re as sweet as they ever were: some parents still residing there and some long since having left, and none that I keep in touch with. Even though I stayed, even though I see some of them around town, it’s not quite the same.

I park near the green so I can take a walk over to the clock tower. Crisp, golden leaves are falling gently through the air and the sky is a glassy shade of blue— a bit like an ice rink. Children run and scream joyously and I take a moment to enviously acknowledge their youth; their beautiful and necessary lack of awareness, the few years that separate them from building forts and playing tag to paying taxes, wishing those days would come back.

I consider the rest of my day and decide what to make for dinner, thinking of popping into the grocery store I worked at nearly a decade ago now. I’ll start by the produce section and wrap around the back, maybe picking up some squash and fresh pasta if they’ve got it.

I decide that tea sounds nice in the meantime and I have a scarf in the truck, so I bundle up and make my way into the coffee shop across the street. In the corner, I see a girl who was mean to me when I was 13: we do not acknowledge each other. I order a London Fog and the barista smiles at me, asks how my day has been.

“It’s been pretty good,” I say, “you?” I never know whether or not baristas would genuinely like me to share my two cents on the state of the day’s sun or rain, the errands I’ve got on my agenda, or to smile politely and ask them the same question in return.

I wait for a minute and I take my drink to go, opening the glass door with the bell on the top and twirling the paper at the end of the string on the tea bag around with my fingertips, avoiding the spiritual quote that is likely on one side. I start down the sidewalk and end up at the store shortly, leaves still swirling around me.

I find my way in and out in what feels like seconds: I’ve done this hundreds of times now. I make the walk back to my car and I wonder about the faces in the cars driving by: at one point, did they know me? Do they wish they did?

I’m back in my truck now and I toss my nylon grocery tote in the back. Turning my keys in the ignition, I notice it’s been starting up more difficulty than it used to and I’m on my way home. I’m back in three minutes, standing on my porch, holding my grocery bag up on my shoulder as I unlock the front door.

I grew up here with my grandparents, making snow angels in the front yard and bonfires in the back: I feel lucky to have inherited their tiny one-bedroom near the center of town after they passed. It would be difficult to go anywhere else, selling this place would pay my rent for a while or cover most of my mortgage in a slightly larger town, but the comfort in knowing it’s all taken care of here is challenging to get past. All in all, I’m happy here. I could use a few more friends, but I’m certain they’re still out there.

I set my oven to 350ºF and I slice my squash slowly into rings, adding them to the sheet pan that sits out on top of my stove. I top the squash with several twists of ground black pepper, some brown sugar and sprigs of fresh thyme and let the oven come up to temperature. I wait for the squash rings to roast for about 30 minutes before turning on the burner and boiling some water; adding my fresh pasta and cooking for a few minutes. I drain the pasta, swirl it around in a pan of butter and lemon zest and just a little cream. My squash comes out of the oven a perfect hue: golden brown, with toasted pieces of thyme decorating the edges. I add it all to a shallow serving bowl and make my way to my living room.

I flip through every streaming service I’m subscribed to and nothing looks exciting. I’m convinced I’ve seen everything decent— maybe it’s time to revert to some classic 90’s movie that I haven’t rewatched in the last few years.

I land on an old Julia Roberts film that seems like it will have a happy ending and I eat my dinner, realizing halfway through that a glass of wine would go well with this: I have a bottle in the fridge, but I’d rather sit somewhere other than my own sofa. It’s 6pm and I have a slow day tomorrow, so I decide I’ll walk a couple streets over to a bar on Center Street when I'm done.

It might not come as a surprise that this is one of the few bars in town, aptly named The Wine Bar. I will say that it’s quite cozy and they’ve really figured out the mood lighting: you enter on the street level and take a winding staircase down into the basement, and you’re met with only a few other folks keeping to themselves in the candlelight.

I finish up my pasta and take one last bite of my squash before tucking the leftovers away in a glass container and setting it down in the fridge. I make my way to the bathroom and add a spritz of perfume to my wrists and a subtle mauve color to my lips. I throw my scarf on around my neck, lace up my boots and lock up as I head out my front door.

It’s cold and it’s dark and the dim streetlights are accompanied by the first of the twinkling Christmas lights that must have been recently strung around the green. Year after year, it looks magical and it’s hard not to feel childlike while taking it in. I notice a few figures in the doorway of the bar as I get closer; they disappear down the stairs by the time I make my way there.

I’m greeted with a gust of warm, cedar-scented air and that golden light I love and I wind down the stairs. I take the first table for two that I see and I pull my scarf off, surveying the room to see who’s in tonight: no one I recognize. I pull out the menu and land on a glass of skin-contact wine from Northern California. The server politely takes my order and doesn’t bother to ask for my ID. I can’t tell if this makes me feel old or if it’s simply a classic slow-night-small-town move.

A minute goes by before my glass arrives and another before I notice a vaguely familiar silhouette walking in from the back, maybe from the private room around the corner. Our eyes meet at roughly the same moment and she smiles, offering an olive branch before hesitantly walking toward my table near the entrance.

“Hi, how are you?” we both ask at once, a bit breathlessly.

“I’m good,” we say, stumbling over each others' words.

“I’m glad,” I nod, quickly, hoping to move past the initial tension. Seeing someone for the first time in seven years or so and glazing over the time lost with the highly descriptive “good” has never sat well with me, but it’s comfortable because we all do it, and launching into a narrative of how we’ve actually been unfortunately isn’t as acceptable.

“It’s been ages, where are you living?” She’s still out of breath, all wrapped up in a puffy coat.

“I’m here, what about you?” I rush through the words, maybe a bit more enthusiastically than I mean to.

“I’m in Boston, I spent a few years in Seattle but I was ready for a change. It’s good to see you.” She nearly interrupts herself to say so and I notice familiar smile move across her lips. I can tell she isn't attempting to brag about her life or make me feel inferior for opting out of moving around the country after school, and it does feel good to see her too.

“Likewise, what are you up to?” I imagine she’s visiting family, back for a few days.

“I’m helping my mom sell some of her things and start packing: she’s moving up to Maine next month to be closer to my grandparents. We wanted to put a yard sale together before the snow starts.”

“You’re here for a while?”

“A few weeks, yeah. I leave on November 21st.”

It was October 28th.

“Nice to know.” I nod, overly aware of the fact that I nodded a few minutes ago, wondering if she’s noticed I’m acting nervous.

“Yes,” she let out a gentle laugh, “nice to know. You’re here alone?” She takes off her coat and starts to settle in.

“I am, you here with your family?” I look over her shoulder, half expecting her brother or sister to appear at the bar.

“Not tonight. Just wanted to come in for a glass of wine.”

I watch her glance around the room, perhaps to prove that she did indeed show up alone.

“My plan as well. I saw you come from the back and wasn’t sure if you were in the private room.”

“I was attempting to have a smoke in the parking lot and it wasn’t working out too well because of the wind.”

“Ah. I see.” I pause, fully unsure of what to say next.

“You interested? We can block the wind for each other.”

“Sure.”

We leave our glasses behind and I follow her across the room, a few middle-aged women glancing up at us as we wind past the mostly-empty tables. She opens the door to let me out and I’m met with a gust of cold air and I try to reign my hair in, tugging it back around my face. She takes out her lighter and laughs about how there’s still not a chance we get a flame going, though it was optimistic of us to think so.

“Why don’t we finish our drinks and go back to my house? I’m a couple minutes from here.” I surprise myself as I offer up this suggestion so casually.

She raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, “Sounds good to me.”

Like little kids, we watch each other laugh as we retreat into the bar mere moments after having stepped out and return to my table. She whisks her glass away from the bar where she must have left it before running into me.

We take turns talking and sipping, catching each other up on the state of our lives and how we’re slowly forgetting the friends we once had.

She insists she grabs my check and I insist she doesn’t, but she offers up the point that I’m having her over and it’s only the polite thing to do.

I pull on my heavy wool scarf and she grabs her puffy Patagonia coat and gestures for me to lead the way. Back up the winding staircase and back through the iron front door, I tell her we can cut across the green. We walk under the endearing Christmas lights and feel the brisk air brushing across our hands.

We’re back at my place in no time and she recalls that she hasn’t been here since we took photos in the backyard before a school dance when we were sophomores and how it’s crazy that it’s been a decade.

“Do you still see anyone from high school? Hayden? Olivia?” She asks as I unlock the door.

“Surprisingly, no. I guess it got challenging having less and less in common. After they got married, I couldn't quite relate, and I was honestly tired of being a third wheel. But no hard feelings on either end, I never expected to stay lifelong friends with them. You?” I gesture toward the sofa and she collapses on the linen cushions.

“I feel the same way. I used to see a few of our old friends - Stef, Alex, all of them - when I’d make it home for Christmas or in the summer, but we grew apart, too much time elapsed: you get it.”

“I do,” I say, “it feels really sad sometimes. I guess that’s because there’s some sense of morality equated with keeping friends and staying in touch with people from the past. It’s like they hold us accountable to who we once were and we’re better people because we don’t ‘move on’ to new people so easily. You know?”

“Exactly,” she nodded, “it’s not conducive to growth when we feel like they know an antiquated version of us and won’t understand that we can’t stay fifteen forever… Seems like you’re just about the same, though.” She says this with a smug smile and I know what she means.

“Logical and level-headed?” I prod.

“Something like that.” It was silent only long enough for me to anticipate her filling the space with words I’m sure she’d wanted to say for a while.

“I know it’s been what feels like forever. But I’m sorry, I really am. I should’ve said it sooner. I guess I knew I’d run into you someday, I should have texted you. I want you to know that I let everyone else's judgements get in my way - things were so different, then - and it was all a mistake on my part.”

I consider my response. She cuts into the silence again and I don't feel like it needs to be said:

“I wonder what would've happened if I’d taken us seriously.”

“I appreciate the apology but you don’t have to say these things, I’m sure we would’ve drifted different directions in college. You know how those things go.” I don't mean to diminish her apology, but I've moved on and assumed her actions never came from a place of malice.

“I should’ve been there for you with your parents gone and your grandparents getting older, it couldn’t have been easy. I’ve wanted to tell you that I’ve thought about this for a long time and I was so stupid.”

“Thanks for saying so, I guess I agree." I smile. "In all fairness, it’s hard to hold a grudge over someone so many years before their brain is fully formed,” I'm wanting to say a little more that I’ve been sitting on for years now.

My parents left me with my grandparents when I was five because they wanted to work as travel missionaries for a while: they were evidently convinced it was their calling. My grandparents stopped hearing from them when I was eight— this was the late ’90’s and they’d had one cell phone between the two of them and addresses that were changing all the time. My grandparents sent letters each week, hired investigators, spoke with the organization they’d been with day after day without any luck at tracking them down.

Of course they've always known where to find me and they’ve never come back, so it’s safe to say I’m not holding my breath. If they’re okay, they don’t want to be found and if they’re not okay, it’s closure that I’ll likely never get: it’s certainly closure that neither of grandparents got. It’s been 18 years and I adjusted to it quickly as a kid: my grandparents were so sweet and did their best making my childhood enjoyable for me.

Naturally, all of my friends had a full set of parents, whether divorced or together, they had some sort of relationship with them and couldn’t fathom being in my situation.

As an adult, I don’t subscribe to the religion that took them away from me and I don’t search for any divine meaning in the loss. I understand that there was nothing I could've done to prevent this and I feel better being at peace with it.

“I don’t want you to feel like you should have focused on our relationship because you felt bad for me. Maybe high school was the chapter we were meant to exist in, if you will. No offense.” I give her another earnest smile.

“I understand. I don’t think that’s what it would have been, to be honest. I think I was always confused at how unbothered you seemed given the circumstances, and I probably I expected you to want to be consoled or to spend more of your time searching for answers.”

“Because that’s what you would have done if your parents dropped off the face of the earth in the middle of elementary school?” I’m serious, but it comes off a touch sarcastic.

“Yeah, I imagine so.” She raises her eyebrows, genuinely considering the situation. “I’m sorry. I’ve thought about you, I still think about you. I wish I’d made better decisions.”

I nod, resigned. “Do you want a drink? Smoke?”

“Both.”

I walk into the kitchen and grab my rolling papers and flower from a shelf, sitting down at the kitchen table to roll a joint. “Wine’s in the fridge,” I call into the living room.

She appears after a second, apparently already on her way. Pulling the bottle from the fridge, she makes herself right at home and finds the glasses in the first cupboard she opens. I watch her pull the cork from the bottle— it’s slightly wedged in as I’d been drinking from it the day before.

“So what brought you into the wine bar this evening?” She looks friendly, albeit sly, pouring wine and sounding like a mix between an inquisitive waiter and an old friend teasing me, which is ultimately what she is.

“The desire to leave my living room.”

“But she just couldn’t stay away.” She’s smirking now.

“It seems that way.” I change the subject, “So, Boston? Do you like it there?” I’d never heard much good about that city so I was truly curious what a generally good-spirited girl like her was doing there.

“No, I don’t,” she laughs as she says this and keeps going, “I’m planning on moving in the New Year. Waiting for my lease to wrap up and then I want to go literally anywhere else. I’m tired of the East Coast, I'm not trying to live anywhere too hot, so I think I’m left with Oregon, maybe Northern California? Maybe here for a bit while I think about it? I want to road trip out and stay a few weeks before I make a decision this time.”

“Jumped in too quickly on Massachusetts?”

“Yeah, I took a job and didn’t think the rest through, but I can work from anywhere now. What are your plans?”

“I’m happy here, wouldn’t mind a change though. I have a hard time thinking I’d ever sell this house and not be able to come back to it.” I sigh.

“That’s fair.” She nods, again, not making me feel like I should take a risk or try something new like a lot of people do without knowing all of the details.

I’m lighting the joint when she asks me what my work is like in the spring.

“Arranging flowers for a couple of weddings, the bulk of my work starts in the summer.”

“You could join me on my road trip.”

I wonder if she’s kidding. “Seriously? You and me, thousands of miles together in a car?”

“I’m already going, the invitation stands. I think it could be fun.” She takes a knowing sip of her wine.

“You’re not asking me because you’re drunk?”

“I’m genuinely not even close to being drunk, but maybe I’ll change my mind when I am.”

“We’ll see,” I’m laughing, coughing lightly. I pass the joint to her and take a sip of my wine and I watch her brush her shoulder-length hair out of her eyes.

“You can think about it, you don’t have to let me know tonight. And I’ll be here until next month so maybe we can see each other again to make sure we’ll enjoy the long term proximity.”

I’m feeling much more open to the idea than I expected myself to, given how recently it was presented, and given the fact that I didn’t expect to see anyone I even remotely knew tonight.

We spend the rest of our time together finishing off the bottle, talking more about old times, future dreams and how her family’s doing. Three a.m. rolls around and she says she texted her sister, asking her to pick her up.

“She’ll be here in five,” She rubs her eyes and tucks her hair behind her ears, sprawled across my sofa. “Haven’t had a night this late in so long.”

From the floor I say, “Me either. Glad we did.”

“I’m glad I saw you.” She thinks about it, sitting up. “I’m really glad this happened. When can we do this again?” She looks very sincere.

“How’s this weekend?” I ask, knowing very well what I want to say next. “This spring?”

She perks up, “You want to?”

“I think I do.”

She glances at her phone, rolling her eyes, “My sister’s here. Feels like high school.”

“I’ll walk you out,” I’m grinning, taking my turn to rub my eyes.

“See you soon.” She stops in the doorway, hesitating, headlights dancing over the strands of her hair.

I smile, “I’ll see you soon.”