Page 51 of New River Gorge(ous)
Beck’s hand stills on my elbow, his warmth seeping into my skin. “It’s just what?” he asks, his voice rough.
I stare at the ground when I answer. “It’s just seeming less and less likely that I’ll ever find someone.”
I bite my lip as I look at him.
His brown eyes meet mine in a serious, piercing gaze.
“Brooke…” Beck begins, but I hold a hand up and interrupt him.
“No, Beck, I understand. You have a lot of things to work through, and dating isn’t going to be normal for you—but I don’t know what that even means. I just know that at the end of my life, I want there to be a whole gaggle of grown children and their gaggles of little children around me while I accidentally spit my dentures out when I blow out the candles on my one-hundredth birthday cake.”
In frustration, I wipe the rest of the tears away with my sleeve with more force than necessary.
Beck’s large hand lands on my other elbow, and he turns me toward him. He steps closer, his eyes locked on mine. “Brooke,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. “You’ll have that.” And then his lips brush my forehead. “Be patient with me?”
I’ve never met anyone like Beck, and the physical attraction is there, but more than that, there’s a brokenness he allows me to see. Paige’s words about being patient and the struggle being worth it ring in my mind.
My whisper floats on the wind as I let myself believe that Paige is right. Maybe I could have a future that looks like hers. Maybe it’s just make-believe. But I have to try.
“Ok.”
Meemaw
June MacCord is not without technological savvy. She has the Facespaces, the TicketyTockies, and the InstantGratification apps all ready to go. What June MacCord does not have, however, is the patience—and time—required to unfreeze the browser when it lags.
A brief wind gust, and suddenly, June MacCord is pressing the “add to cart” button relentlessly. Despite her determination, the number remains stuck at zero.
In frustration, June throws the phone away from her just as her granddaughter and her beau walk through the door.
June’s attention leaves the disobedient website and focuses on the couple in front of her. There’s something drawn in both of their faces, something that wasn’t there before they left.
Alarm bells blare in her mind. “What did you do?” She levels a glare at her neighbor. “Why is my Brooke upset?”
The neighbor sighs as the granddaughter turns to him. “I’ll handle it. I’m fine. Really.” The young man looks as if he doesn’t believe her, but he turns to leave anyway.
“Goodbye, Miss June,” he calls softly as he steps over the threshold and out of the house.
June turns her attention back to her granddaughter. “Tell me everything.” She pats the spot on the faded floral sofa beside her.
The granddaughter sinks into the couch and launches into her tale of dating woes.
June is so engrossed in the tale and consoling her granddaughter that no one notices when the phone sinks into the crack between the cushions and the back of the sofa. And neither of them notices that the “add to cart” button has unfrozen and is now in the hundreds.
June pulls her granddaughter in for a hug, and in the shifting of the couch and weight distribution, the side button to confirm the order has been pressed—twice.
27
Beck
I see tears fairly regularly. Pain does that to people, and people tend to avoid the E.R. unless they are in severe pain. I remain fairly unaffected by it. But now I need to add qualifiers, because Iamaffected by Brooke’s tears. Someone that vivacious should not be crying because of hopelessness about men, of all things.
Brooke’s dream of spitting out her dentures when she’s one hundred, in front of a huge family, is the opposite of what I’ve thought my dream is. The dream in which I am left alone, unbothered, and honestly, I never considered what would happen when I got older because I’d need people, and I do not want to need anybody.
Brooke’s vision has people in it that she loves. How is it possible to imagine loving people you don’t even know? People that don’t even exist yet, just far-off figments of an idea. It’s like that saying older folks are always offering kids when they ask, ‘Where was I when some event happened?’ and the older people say, “You were just a twinkle in my eye.” Was I seeing actualtwinkles in Brooke’s eyes? I don’t know, but something about this is clearly interrupting my typical thought processing.
My hands ball into fists as I walk up the driveway to my house. My lonely house. For so long, my house has been a refuge. A haven of peace after the fast-paced, high-stakes of an E.R. shift, and a place to hide after Addie. Today, the silence feels like a tomb.
Without meaning to, I find myself envisioning Brooke’s one-hundredth birthday party. I’m older than her by almost five years, so I’d be well over one hundred if I was there, but if I got to spend the rest of my life knowing Brooke, I’d be a blessed man.
