That doesn’t last long, because I’m soon pulled into a dream. A dream connecting a daydream that swam through my mind mere weeks ago when standing on the exact bridge.
I am running to the river toward a stone bridge mounted up high.The bridge sits in anticipation, as if waiting for footfalls to be heard against its hardened trail.
I feel something wet against my face. There is no rain. I touch my face, and my hand comes away damp. Tears. I don’t know why or for whom, but I’m crying.
I brace myself at the railing of the bridge, finding my shoes grasping at the rounded stones to raise myself up to the top of the ledge. I look down, knowing this river will surely pull me in at first contact with the muddy water, but I don’t think it will do what I want without some help.
I hear movement on the bridge and look to my left. A man is running toward me; screaming, but his face is blank. It all comes back to me.
It’s always him. Over and over, wrecking my heart like it means nothing. If I live anymore in this world knowing what I know and seeing what I’ve seen of love or lack thereof, I will slowly lose both my soul and my mind.
One is not meant to know these things, and that is why I jump. But before I do, to make sure it is a death that sticks. I take a small blade from my dress pocket and move it deep into each of my wrists. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing could hurt as much as my heart does at this moment, knowing all that I do. And that is all I remember, because I know that is where my life ended.
I wake a hot mess of sweat. My heart beating through my chest. I have never had a dream like that. It felt so real. A forgotten memory—impossible, since the me in that dream never made it out alive.
One detail stands out, though. As the blade made its way into each wrist, my mind’s eye caught a glimpse of something familiar on my ring finger. A ring that sits alone in a box on my dresser drawer, just inches away from where I lay in bed now.
22
NEW AND OLD FRIENDS
RACINE 1978
Old feelings of bubbly girlhood rush back with the way Lollie is dolling me up, reminiscent of being back home. Ashton is pacing by the door, already ready to go. Why are some men always in such a hurry? It’s as if they think time will explode if their needs aren’t met within the instant of them developing.
I watch Ashton pace back and forth and Lollie, slowly pinning up my hair as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. A sentiment we share for the time being until I realize she is doing this on purpose, making him anxiously wait for us out of spite.
The games between these two are next level since their arrival here. It’s always been tense between them, but never like this. I decide to take matters into my own hands.
“Alright, I think I look good enough, Lol,” I say with a start and sit up from the small wood vanity, brushing the wrinkles out of my dark green mini dress.
Some of the long bangs that Lollie just pinned back in a half-do messily fall back around my face. I don’t miss Lollie tipping her eyes to the ceiling and then looking at Ashton. He sends an equally annoyed grin her way.
These two know the best way possible to get under each other’s skin. If I didn’t know how much they fluster each other, I would think they were secretly getting together behind closed doors. I cannot imagine that happening, with their history.
With a nudge in the right direction, I manage to keep them from killing each other and get them out the door.
The bar is a vibe. Its atmosphere pulses with music and sweat and something that feels like enchantment. The air flows freely, full of trumpets and sax blaring a bluesy song, along with its patrons swaying to the sensual tune.
Lollie and I don’t miss a beat and head straight to the bar. The giggles still have the best of us, and we take a few shots before making our way to the table Ashton saved for us. This is the bar we said we would meet Cher in, but I have yet to spot her amongst the crowd.
Lollie has to all but scream at me on top of the music. It’s so different from our bars back in Detroit. No underlying melancholy hidden within hazy plumes of cigarette smoke. No, this place feels like a million shooting stars landed in this room and radiated their magic into every musician, bartender, and occupant. Alive is how I feel, and also right at home.
I watch as Lollie slides a drink to Ashton, and he takes it. The man who never drinks. Good. It’ll be nice to see him let loose a bit. Although, knowing him, it’ll be one drink and back to playing bodyguard, but I’m grateful for his strait-laced way. And Lollie. Bringing me a calm comfort in this tumultuous sea of new.
We are about one drink in when I notice a shift in the air, and I catch sight of Que at the bar. It’s hard not to miss him, so I wonder how long he has been there. He has a drink in his hand and must feel my studying eyes. He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine.
Before, in the basement, there was vulnerabilitythere. That’s not what lies within them now. He is calculating in the way he looks at me. He winks, and from where I sit in the pink velvet booth, I swear I see his iris catch moonlight like a mirror.
Cher walks up beside him and finds where his glance lingers. Immediately she smiles and makes her way to our table.
“There you are! I hope you weren’t waiting long. Que was a pain to drag out here.” She says as she shimmies her way in to sit beside me.
I look to Que, who is now back to gazing into his drink at the bar, and I wonder how they are even friends. So completely opposite. But then, I guess so are Lollie and I. What is that saying they say about opposites?
Speaking of Lollie, her face is cool and collected, which may look fine to an outsider, but I know her. I can tell she is not thrilled with the fact that Cher actually showed up on the night out she invited us to.
“Oh, not a problem! We’ve just been enjoying this bar. It's so…” I say trying to describe it.
