Page 22 of A Night to Remember

“I remember,” he says with a small smile. “You wrote for the student lit review. There was at least one story I really liked… about a woman homesteader who uncovers a murder mystery? She was a great character. That painting in the living room made me think of her yesterday.”

“I can’t believe you remember that!” I laugh. “I barely remember it myself. I write different stuff nowadays, more fantasy and sci-fi.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Well, whatever genre you pick, I’m sure it’s good. I knew a couple of creative writing majors in college, and none of them could write as well as you.”

“Thanks,” I say, genuinely pleased. I haven’t shown my work to anyone outside my online critique group since college. I’m usually too shy to talk about it, even to my closest friends. It’s kind of lovely to receive a surprise compliment.

“You ought to let him read something, sweetie.”

I shoot a furious glance at Mom, but fortunately Gabe leans back in his chair and says, “No, no, I wouldn’t presume! I mean, I would be happy to, but I totally get that works in progress are private.”

I tip my head to consider him. Is this the same sleazeball who made off with my drunken friend after Steven O’Connor’s graduation party? The spoiled rich kid whose family practically owns this town, while mine can barely afford to live in it? Is he a psychopath, or a sweetheart? Can you ever really know for sure? I realize, though, that I have been enjoying his company in spite of myself. I have been so tense for weeks—years?—that I feel like an armadillo curled into a defensive, armored ball who is just now wondering if it might be safe to relax. But it isn’t, I remind myself. I still have every reason to be wary of Gabe Wilson.

“We got those papers you asked for,” I say, changing the subject. Gabe nods, wipes his fingers on a napkin, and followsme to my purse in the front hallway. I try not to stand too close to him as he looks through the bank records relating to the loan.

“Yep, just as I suspected. They never sent the preforeclosure breach letter. I started a letter—or you can write it yourself, you’re the writer—” He looks up at me from the papers with a smile on his lips, the first hint I’ve seen of the affable grin I remember. God, he’s still so cute. Why does he have to besocute?

“No, no,” I smile back, in spite of myself. “If you want a twenty-first-century update toParable of the Sower, I’m your girl, but you’d better handle this.”

“I’d be happy to. I’ll show you my draft when I’m done.” He hands me back the papers.

“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.

11

Gabe

I’ve writtenand printed out—secretly—a draft of Kayla’s letter to the bank, and now I don’t know what to do with myself. Mom and Lucy are downstairs with representatives of at least six of the fifteen families, hashing out the details of the Hungry Hearts dance. I definitely don’t want to walk into the middle of that. Almost absentmindedly, I open the desk drawer where I’ve stashed Gretchen’s engagement ring, right next to my old TI-83 calculator and some chewed-up pencils.

My friend Paul is right: I should sell the ring, or at least give it back to my dad, sohecan sell it. But I would rather have another fight with Adam about structural inequality than talk to Dad about my failure with Gretchen.

The whole experience of proposing and planning a wedding felt so unnatural to me, like a performance, which is more or less how our relationship felt, too. Gretchen and I were never a natural fit – I’m the kind of guy who wants to relax on the couch with a beer at the end of a long day, while she’drather get dressed up and take selfies of us dancing at Chicago’s swankiest clubs. But we’ve known each other all our lives. And when she sidled up to me at a crowded Halloween party during our sophomore year in college and started cracking wickedly funny jokes about how thongs and cat ears don’t really count as full-fledgedcostumes, I couldn’t help but laugh. She was fun to be around, and knew just how everything should go: where we should go for our first official date, when we should kiss, when we should move in together, and, of course, when I should propose. She made everything so easy.

I cared for her. I still do, in a way. But we could never talk as simply and openly as Kayla and I had during that high school basketball game. Looking at her and touching her was very pleasant, but it didn’t set my every nerve ending on fire the way my most casual interaction with Kayla had. That was teenage lust, I’d tell myself. This is grown-up love. Why, then, did it feel so depressing?

I thought that if Gretchen and I went ahead and got married, like everyone expected us to, things would shift between us. I’d forget about Kayla, Gretchen and I would connect more deeply, and all would be well. I wanted to get off to a good start by proposing to her quietly, at home, or maybe on a walk. I don’t like being the center of attention, and I knew that I would be able to express my feelings much better if it was just the two of us. But when I’d mentioned this, offhand, to the friend of hers who helped me choose the ring, she looked at me like I’d suggested Gretchen get married in a burlap sack. She went on and on about this being Gretchen’s first and only proposal, and didn’t I want it to bespecial? So I talked one of our law professors into surrendering his class to me for the day, filled the lecture hall with flowers and candles and had “Will you marry me?” projected onto the smart board when Gretchen walked into Advanced Contracts. The room had exploded when she said yes,many Insta-worthy pictures were taken, and Gretchen claimed, at least, that it was everything she’d always wanted.

After that, my life became a blur of engagement parties and engagement pictures and guest lists and color palettes. Gretchen was so busy checking out vendors (or so she said) that some days I barely saw her. Later I found out that she was already having an affair. I feel worse now about the actual betrayal than about the relief I felt when I realized we could finally stop pretending to have the perfect relationship.

I shove the ring back in the drawer with a sigh. Maybe I can leave it there and we can all forget about it, and someday give a second-hand furniture dealer the surprise of a lifetime.

As if the universe has sent him a sign that someone, somewhere, is squandering money that could be spent on booze, Paul sends me a text:

Hey dude, how’s the fam?

As expected. How are you?

Secretly hating my new job at Rothschild & Reed and questioning all of my life choices. Courthouse gig going okay?

Yeah, it’s pretty interesting, turns out. I feel like I’m actually make a difference

This is true. Over the past week, Mark and Nancy have gotten more used to my presence and have allowed me to do some actual work. The city attorney’s office covers areas of the law that I always thought were boring in school, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find how much I enjoy immersing myself in the minutiae of municipal regulations. There is so much going on beneath the surface in a small town, and I can’t help but feel a little privileged to be part of it.

We’re not supposed to “make a difference”, we’re supposed to make $$$! Didn’t you pay any attention in law school?!

Guess that’s why I flunked out

You didn’t flunk out, and you better not be getting too cozy in Kentwood. All the associate attorneys in my firm suck

---