44
I hate this ridiculous white dress. I sit down on a barrel outside the barn, and I’m sure I’m getting rust stains or worse on the back of it. If I disappeared right now onto the beach, I’d be like the apparition of the dead bride in some Victorian novel. I think of all the times in my life I’ve been a cliché. Tomboy little sister. Lovesick teenager. Reluctant twelve-stepper. Right now I’m the runaway bride.
I google him. Wyatt Pope. He has a Wikipedia page. This makes my head spin. People should tell you right away. How are you? Answer: I have a Wikipedia page. It says a lot. I scroll through. The words “Billboard Top 20.” So many times. On-again, off-again relationship with Missy McGee. For seven years. My Wyatt—and he is my freakin’ Wyatt—has been dating the biggest pop star since Madonna.
I am a teenager. Not the teenager I was, carefree and reasonably happy in my skin. I am a teenager from TV, feeling embarrassed and like I’m trying too hard. I’ve been trying to sneak my old boyfriend back into my life, like I can carry him down the aisle with me, tucked under my bouquet with my tissue. That person, as it turns out, is too famous to sneak anywhere.
I text my dad: Can you pick me up? I’m at the Owl Barn.
My dad pulls up just as Wyatt walks out of the barn. He stands there in his pink shirt, looking at me and then the car, like he’s trying to figure out his next move.
“You going home?” he asks.
I walk to the car and open the passenger door. Wyatt walks around to the driver’s side, where my dad’s leaning out his open window. “Need a ride, son?”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, and gets in the backseat.
My dad asks, “So how was it? Music any good?”
“I hope so,” says Wyatt.
“Yeah, it was good,” I say. “And you know what else? Wyatt’s a big star and he didn’t tell us because maybe we couldn’t handle it.”
“Of course I didn’t think that,” says Wyatt.
My dad turns to me. “Big star?”
“Oh yeah, Wyatt who wanders around strumming his old guitar and tinkering with engines, he’s a big secret success.” I turn around to the backseat. “You were never going to tell me you wrote that song? And that you’re dating fucking Missy McGee?”
He’s quiet.
“I had to google you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ah, you googled me. Finally.” He sits back and crosses his arms in satisfaction.
“Who googles people?” I ask.
“She was kind of in a twelve-step program,” my dad says. “Googling would have been a no-no.”
“Dad.” He concentrates on the road. I look out the window.
“Really, Sam, how could you have ever heard that song and not known it was about you?” Wyatt asks.
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know how that’s possible. Now that I know, I can’t unknow it, like when you find the hidden tortoise in the Highlights magazine and then it jumps out at you every time.
Wyatt leans forward so that his head is right between us. “I figured you’d reach out to me when you heard it. Like maybe it would count as an apology.”
“Ever try returning a text? It’s more reliable than sending a secret message out over the radio.”
My dad laughs, then turns to Wyatt. “Sorry.” Eyes back on the road.
“What about ‘Summer’s End’?”
“About you. They’re all about you, Sam.”
“Well I’m glad to have provided you with material.”
“What did you think I was going to grow up and write songs about? I’ve loved you my whole life.”
“Okay, now I’m uncomfortable.” My dad leans forward in his seat like that’ll give us some privacy.
“I even asked you about that song. I was holding your hand. Were you looking for a better time to tell me?”
“I wasn’t going to lay all that on you when you’re about to get married.”
“Well you did tonight.”
“I did, and I don’t know why.” He leans back into the backseat, and my dad lets out a breath. “Listen, I know it sounds creepy, like I’m obsessed or something, but it’s just that you were my big love. I write love songs, so I go back to that. But we’re all grown up and you’ve found someone else. It’s just a beautiful moment, like something you’d draw. I write songs about it.”
“I don’t draw anymore. ‘Moonshine’?”
“About you.”
“Wow.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my dad smiling. I’m not going to turn my head to confirm because that’s going to annoy me.
We pull into our driveway, and my dad shuts off the car. “Okay, well I’m going in,” he says, and quickly gets out. It’s quiet and dark in the car; no one’s put the porch light on. Neither of us makes any move to leave. I have nothing to say, but I’m not done. My heart falls when I hear him open the car door to leave. It’s three seconds of regret before he opens the driver’s door and sits next to me.
“Sam, look at me.”
I turn to him and feel like there’s the right amount of space between us. The gearshift and the cupholders are a barrier. Also the dark.
“It was really bad for me,” I say. “I was in therapy for a long time. I didn’t sleep for a year. And I lost a part of myself, the part that was true.” I can feel tears on my cheeks.
“You’re still you, Sam.” He’s looking me in the eye, and I believe that he sees what used to be there.
“I can’t believe you wrote that fucking song,” I say, and he laughs.
“I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“I just figured all young love feels the same. That at some point Missy McGee felt like we did.” I shake my head at the sound of her name. “You probably don’t call her Missy McGee.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m happy for you,” I say. “Your dream life and everything.”
Wyatt lets out a little laugh, the kind of laugh that comes out to keep the next thing you say from seeming sad. “Wrong girl, and I don’t get to perform. But the rest is pretty good.” He takes my hand in both of his, and I can barely see them in the dark. “I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’m ashamed of how broken I was. But we’ve both moved on. You’re getting married and I want you to be happy.”
It’s the right thing to say. He’s gently closed the door to the past, and we are now sitting here in the dark present. Yes, I’m getting married. I was still on Wyatt’s mind all those years, but as an idea of what love was, something to write about. Like a particularly delicious donut on a cold morning. You remember fondly just how it tasted on your tongue, but today you’ll order an omelet because you’re a grown-up.
He lifts a hand to wipe a tear off my cheek. I feel myself leaning in toward the smell of him and the feel of his breath right there, inches from me. “It’s ridiculous how much you want to kiss me,” he says.
And I laugh because, yes. There’s no point in denying it; Wyatt knows how to read every part of my body.
He smiles a tiny smile and takes both of my hands in his. “You mean the world to me, Sam, and I’m not going to do that to your life.”
I look into his eyes and feel the warmth of his hands in mine. I know this will be the last time, so I take it in. “If I’d googled you and called, what would have happened?”
“It doesn’t matter now, Sam.”