Chapter Sixteen
Luke
I almost say “no” when Margot asks me to take her to dinner the next night, calling me when I’m debating tossing her phone number. It’s not that I’m not into her. It’s just, in the clear-headed light of day, away from the booze and the plunging neckline, I wonder if I’m ready.
I’m not a saint, don’t get me wrong. I, like many men, can appreciate a good body when I see it. I’m human. The thought of washing away the memories of Lila with a drunken night of wild sex and fun times is tempting. But I’m not that Luke anymore. I’ve got this crazy thing now called guilt I’m susceptible to.
So, even though Dean and Evan think I’m crazy, I swear the next day I’m not calling Margot, that the kiss we shared was just a one-time thing.
A damn nice one-time thing, but nothing more. Margot Lane wasn’t the type you called back, I convinced myself.
I guess I was right because the next day, she called me.
And, to my surprise, I found myself agreeing to let her pick me up at six.
I greet her at the door with roses, jeans, and a T-shirt. She told me to dress comfortably. She’s taken the lead on the date, which feels odd.
She’s wearing micro-short shorts that show off a lot of thigh, and a plunging neckline again. I clear my throat, handing her the roses.
“Why roses? So expensive. Next time pick wildflowers,” she says, and I’m momentarily stunned. She takes them from me, and I follow her out the door. “Thank you. It was sweet. But come on, we’re going to miss all the good stuff.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, wondering if I’m dressed right.
“The fair in Colverstown.”
“Oh. Never been.”
“Are you kidding? It’s only the best fair in the entire state.”
I smile, watching her talk animatedly as we head to her truck. “Best lemonade and funnel cakes ever. Plus, I’m a sucker for carnival games. Are you going to win me an awesome prize?”
“You know they’re rigged, right?”
“You know that’s only what men say who aren’t man enough to win them, right?”
She grins at me as I climb into the truck. She tosses the roses on the dash as I situate myself. Her hair is long and straight again, and I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to run my hands through it, to yank her mouth close to mine, to kiss her again.
I stop myself. I try to tell myself I’m getting ahead of things. I don’t know her. Who knows what she’s like.
Then again, I let my mind keep going. Maybe it doesn’t have to be this deep love connection. Been there, done that. Maybe fun and sexy and passionate is what I need.
We start driving the half-hour trip, and Margot is alight with conversation. She talks about her childhood and asks about mine. She talks about her cat named Lola and shows me pictures on her phone at a red light. She talks and talks like she’s got nothing to hide, like she has no censor.
I can barely get a word in, but when I can, I ask, “So what made you settle down here in Oakwood?”
She shrugs. “My roommate at the time, her name was Candy, decided to come here from Florida. She met some guy online who was living here, so I decided to come on a whim.”
“So you just picked up and moved across the country?”
“Why not? I was young, and it sounded like an adventure.”
I shake my head. “You know most people wouldn’t do that, right?”
“I’m not most people. I told you I’m different.”
“I’m beginning to think I like different,” I say, looking over to appraise her. She smiles back.
“Good. I was hoping you would.”
We finish the drive, Margot singing loudly to a Pink Floyd song that comes on the radio and making a list of things we just have to do at the fair.
***
My second kiss with Margot Lane happens at the top of the Ferris wheel, a picture-perfect moment after we’ve eaten a ton of funnel cake and lemonade. The September night air has a bite to it, a chill suggesting we’re easing into autumn, the clear sky giving us a gorgeous view of the constellations. There’s a giant stuffed cow between us—I proved my masculinity on the ring toss. The kiss is slow and sensuous this time, Margot’s hand planted on my jaw, keeping me close. Not like I’d be going anywhere anyway. When she pulls back, her eyes are warm and hungry. I feel all sorts of things I haven’t felt since….
“I think I’m falling for you,” Margot says. I’m shocked. It’s so soon for an admission like this. Most girls are more guarded with their hearts.
“You barely know me,” I respond, not wanting to shoot her down but wanting to know where she’s coming from.
“I know enough. I knew it when I first saw you on that stage. We could be good together, Luke Bowman.”
I sigh, looking out at the skyline for a second, taking it all in. I think about the depth of the words she doesn’t even realize. I think about how not so long ago, it was my mouth uttering similar words to a woman who is now in my past, or at least should be.
“Margot, I— You should know I just ended a relationship I’d been in for a while. It was pretty serious. I still—I’m not—”
“Shhh…,” she whispers, putting a smooth hand over my lips. I look into her eyes, still seeing the lust there. “It’s okay. We’ve all got a past, Luke. We’ve all got someone we’re not quite over. But maybe I could help with that. Maybe together, we could find a new version of serious. No pressure, just the present. Just you and me and whatever we’re feeling. I know your heart’s not 100 percent mine yet, but I’m okay with that. Explore with me. Live a little. Be adventurous. Because otherwise, what’s the point of all this, you know?”
It’s a rambling monologue coming from a flighty girl with an obvious tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve. It’s from a girl I barely know anything about, who might not be completely sincere in her words and actions. Somehow, though, sitting at the top of the Ferris wheel rocking gently in the warm breeze, it makes sense. It all clicks.
Maybe I’m just afraid of serious after what happened. Maybe I just need a break, or maybe I just need someone who in no way, shape, or form reminds me of her.
So when Margot leans again to kiss me and the Ferris Wheel starts up again, I keep kissing her this time, knowing with each second our lips are together, I’m more and more hers.
I’m more and more glued to this wily girl who isn’t going to be easy to keep a hold of… but somehow, that’s comforting to me.
***
A few weeks of late night walks and coffee dates, and I’m sold on Margot. A couple of karaoke dance nights and trips to the club and dancing in the fountain at the park, and I’m also sold on the fact she might be the death of me. She is everything Lila isn’t. She’s the wild to Lila’s rational. She’s the carefree to Lila’s plotting. She’s the crazy and sometimes obnoxiously chatty but super sexual woman I’m getting more and more attached to.
As the weeks go on, I’m convinced she’s not Lila and never will be. But right now, it feels good.
So in the first weekend of October when I reclaim my annual gig at the Oakwood Fall Fest, Margot squeals with delight at getting a front row seat. Things are different this year. I’m different this year, and my relationship is definitely different. But I’m excited to look out and see the vivacious, sing-out-loud Margot in the seat.
My music’s shifted this month too. I call Margot my muse, but she thinks the word sounds too stuffy. Whatever she is, she’s livened up my music. There’s a new edgy vibe to it, a new life. Even Evan thinks the songs sound pretty good and “less depressing.” I think he also just thinks Margot is hot as hell—but who wouldn’t?
“You ready?” the lady in charge of the festival asks as I stand off to the side of the stage, waiting for Banjo Bill to wrap up.
“You bet,” I say, pumped up to play, even though the crowd is thin in front of the stage. Families and Oakwood residents mill about from stand to stand, buying cotton candy and lemonade. It’s a small venue, but it’s one of my favorites. It’s nice to play to a crowd where you know the faces.
I step out to the microphone, ready to start the first song. I see Margot animatedly waving from the seat up front reserved for her. I smile as I start the first song, singing right to her. Looking up for a second, though, someone else catches my eye.
Actually, three someones.
I keep singing, but I barely hear the words. My eyes are glued on the sight in front of me, beyond the reaches of the tiny crowd gathered.
It’s her.
Lila.
She’s standing in the middle of the street fair in an orange sundress, leaning on his arm.
A tall, skinny man I’ve never seen before says something to her, and she throws her head back and laughs. He’s holding Henry’s leash, and the three look like the picture-perfect family out for a September stroll. Standing on the stage singing my song, I feel my chest tighten. Suddenly, it’s not Margot I’m staring at, thinking about.
It’s her. It’s them.
When I finish my song, I take a second to soak in the applause. I think about what song I’d planned on singing, the one I wrote about Margot. I turn to see her clapping animatedly. I smile. Inside, though, I know no matter what she says, this isn’t okay. It isn’t okay that I should be thinking about Margot but I can’t stop staring at my ex.
But I can’t stop wanting Lila to notice me. I can’t stop wondering why she isn’t even looking, why it’s like I don’t exist. She’s so drowned in the world of Mr. Tall and Handsome, she doesn’t even see me up here. How many Oakwood Festivals did she sit right here, front row, and listen to me sing? How can she not notice?
On a whim, I change it up. I pull out an old song.
I play the song she always loved, the one I wrote about her.
I play “Under the Streetlight.”
It works. She freezes, presumably midsentence. Her hand falls to her side, and she turns to face the street. I stare at her, and she stares back, two hearts that have lost each other seeing each other for the first time in a while. I sing the song right to her, forgetting about Margot and the crowd. For a moment, everything fades and it’s just Lila and me again, two souls in the middle of a crowded street. I wonder if the song is taking her back to the first kiss, to the first time, to everything else. I wonder if this song is enough to remind her that we were, at one time, good together. I wonder if it makes her miss me like I’ve missed her.
I wonder, above all, why I have this need for her to remember.
There’s a silence for a while, a frozen moment. She doesn’t seem to move, to breathe.
When I sing that final note and the crowd claps, she doesn’t. She stares for a long moment, still frozen. Then she snaps out of it, pulls on the guy’s arm, and leads him away, Henry in tow. She walks away, down the street, as I stand on stage staring at the empty space that once held her.
I don’t know why, but this time, seeing her leave, it hurts even more than the first time.
I realize now, no matter what, I don’t think I can get Lila to remember who we were together. I don’t think we can ever be us again.
No matter how much I tell myself I’m moving on or how sexy and perfect and wonderful Margot is, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop looking at the empty space in the crowd wondering why Lila can’t be there. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop looking for her.
I don’t know if I’ll ever let go of “Under the Streetlight” or the feeling of knowing she was once mine and isn’t anymore.