I was waiting patiently in the restaurant parking lot when I saw the red Chevy Cobalt pull onto the gravel driveway. I smiled. I remembered the glossy magazine cutout of the same car in yellow - alongside mementos from North Habersham Middle School - tacked to Cristen’s bulletin board.
She jumped out and we embraced. The headlights of a surrounding car caught the diamond on her left hand and sent glittering reflections across downtown Clarkesville. Arm in arm, we walked into the restaurant and took a seat in a corner booth where we could giggle and tell our most blush-worthy secrets without disturbing other diners - many of whom we recognized as mama’s coworkers or ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriends or retired high school football coaches.
“I’m more ready to be married than ready for the wedding,” she said flippantly, taking a sip from her water glass. Her phone flickered, and her smile was all too familiar…
Cristen was forever on the receiving end of love letters and phone calls from many a male admirer. The boys who frequented my basement for adolescent parties came to enjoy her vivacious confidence. She’d flip her silky blonde hair - I’d always believed in belonged in a Herbal Essence advertisement - and smirk and steal hearts…and then later, pillow to pillow, she’d tell me what their lips taste like and we’d narrow down the most promising of her male suitors.
But when Matthew, the man who’d seized her affections five years ago and sealed their future on one knee sought her out via text message during dinner, the joy in her eyes surpassed that which was evident when hundreds of boys were clamoring for her affections.
We ordered pizza, she and I. I remembered an afternoon when our dance company - as eleven-year-olds, we were junior members - ventured to a local, hippie-oasis pizza joint. Our fellow ballerinas ordered salads and vegetable plates, but Cristen and I ignored their disdainful stares as we tore into the greasiest of deep-dish pies…
Then, years later, in our Varsity cheerleading uniforms, stuffing our faces with five dollar boxes from Little Ceasars while we tied ribbons in our hair and fluffed our pompoms and grinned at any football player who happened to click by in his cleats in the hours before kickoff…
“What about you?” she asked. “What’s going on with you?”
“Well,” I blushed, my pink cheeks a product of disbelief and anticipation. “I found out last week that I, well, I got the internship!”
“Oh, Macy. That’s wonderful!”
We both remembered the white pleather trench I’d sported the Monday after Spring Break our 7th grade year; the cropped sweatshirts I’d paired with denim mini skirts when we were freshman; the graphic tees I’d snagged from thrift stores and worn under tousled blonde curls before we graduated. But this summer, I’d live in a world of shoes and clothes and cutting-edge fashion in the heart of one of the most prominent global apparel lines…and as one who’d been privy to my most far-fetched dreams over the years and loved me in the darkest days of my style evolution, she reveled in my excitement.
“I’ll leave the week before your wedding,” I told her. “But I’ll fly back from the city for it. Obviously.”
“And you’ll be here for my bachelorette?”
Then, we talked lingerie. White lace for the wedding night, black leather for the first evening of the honeymoon. Our discussion migrated to more personal subjects, as even though she’d been the most desirable vixen of our many friends growing up, she - like all good Southern girls are urged to do - had kept her purity in tact.
After lingerie, we talked liquor - laughing about that blurry December afternoon when we’d taken our first (and last) shots of whiskey from an Ancient Age bottle I’d knicked from Nana’s cabinet. After liquor, we talked local drama - who from our hometown had gotten pregnant or mixed up with drugs or into Ivy League schools.
“How’s your daddy?” I changed the subject abruptly - hating to ask, but knowing I should.
She forced a smile and looked past me when she answered. “They’ve given him months, but not years.”
Fondest memories of the soft-spoken man in the red pick-up, driving us up from gymnastics class or dropping me back at my house after spend-the-night parties invaded my thoughts. Mr. Eddy picking on his guitar on Cristen’s front porch; Mr. Eddy singing along with the ancient country song on the radio; Mr. Eddy, the carnival worker who’d set his sights on Cristen’s mom and refused to leave town without her hand; Mr. Eddy nursing tomato sauce for the famous “Eddy Spaghetti;”Mr. Eddy praying with the most ragged of God-fearing woman by the alter on Sunday mornings…
“I get sad sometimes, yeah.” her voice was hoarse. “I worry about mom. I get mad at God. I regret my kids will never know him…”
“But then, I wake up in the morning and I look at my ring and I remember: there’s still a good man in my life. And, well, maybe the best is still yet to come.”
Cristen’s optimism drew us together years ago, and allowed our friendship to transcend the struggles of growing-up and attending separate colleges. Her positive outlook is inspiring - it’s like a needed antidote in a world poisoned with the venom of “can’ts” “won’ts” and “nevers.”
When she took me to her and Matthew’s house after dinner, the luminescence of her outlook on life was as bright as ever. She walked me through, room by room. Any scuff on the floor or room painted a difficult color, she’d assure me she and Matthew would improve after they were married. The overgrown backyard, she envisioned a grill, patio furniture and a goldendoodle. About the steep driveway, she laughed and said that they’d be spending infrequent Georgia snow days safely inside.
“It’s close to our high school,” she said of the location. “And, God willing, that’s where I’ll get a job next year. And the hospital is only half-an-hour away and he’ll only work 3 days a week -“
She sighed. “It’s going to be perfect.”
When she asked me where I’d plant my roots after graduation, I could only shrug my shoulders.
“They said we’d talk job opportunities at the end of the summer.” I said, trying to keep the blaring hope from my shaky voice.
Her eyes widened. “You might live in New York City?”
I shrugged nonchalantly, but my imagination was already running wild. “Will you come visit?”
Even though she only responded with a wink, I already knew the answer. When we finished our visit and drove separate directions, back to our respective collegiate lifestyles, our futures were as different as any two could be. She had a house. She would be a wife in less than a month. She had every indication of a job. I merely had a city of dreams and opportunities and unknowns awaiting me.
Our past, we’d traveled hand-in-hand. Our future, we’d embark upon heart-to-heart.
Hug your daddies. Love your friends.
