Page 55 of Strange Love

“Jesus, Landry, can you try to take up less room?” I ask, jostling my elbow against his for any spare inch.

“I can’t, Delzy,” he says with a shrug, “just suck it up, Man.”

The announcer greets the crowd as we elbow and punch one another. Landry slaps me on the back of the head, knocking my ball cap off, and some adults in the nearby area shush us as one returns my hat with a disapproving stare.

The band members sit in a semi-circle, with Sarah at the front in her designated first chair in the clarinet section. Her fingers move over her instrument, pouring all her energy into each note. I remember when we were younger, and she would always have a reed in her mouth, obsessively sucking on them and leaving them all over her house. It was truly disgusting.

In front of the clarinets sits Sascha, in the flute section, wearing a white dress and minimal makeup that surprisingly softens her usually sharp features. She wears an intimidating facade, but I’ve learned she is fiercely loyal to those she cares about.

Ivy and Kerri share a laugh, drawing my attention to my girlfriend and her new friend. I don’t know much about Kerri besides what Ivy told me. She’s new to the area and moved here from Texas. She’s a big farm girl who spends most of her time with horses, chickens, and who knows what else. Landry can’t look away from her, which I suspect is part of the reason he agreed to come tonight. Seeing how he is about as big as a horse, they’d make a good couple. I laugh when the joke comes into my head and make a note to burn him with it later.

As the final notes of the concert fade away, Sarah and Sascha decide to go home. Surprisingly, Kerri agrees to let Landry take her home.

After we all say our goodbyes, Ivy and I are left alone, and as much as I want to relive our steamy encounter from the other night, I don’t want to give her the wrong impression. So instead, we drive around town aimlessly, sipping on Big Gulps and eating junk food from 7-11. But then, an idea strikes me. We turn onto the highway and head for the familiar streets of my old neighborhood.

I can’t explain it, but something inside me yearns to bring Ivy to the trailer park where I spent my childhood. She’s opened up to me about her struggles and experiences, so she deserves to know about this pivotal place in my past. When I shared our destination with her, she practically radiated enthusiasm and interest in anticipation of learning more about me.

We drive through the industrial area on the outskirts of town, with towering factories looming on both sides of the road. The once-familiar streets are now gritty and run-down, with graffiti covering every available surface. It’s been years since I’ve been back, but seeing this place with fresh adult eyes reveals its true nature as a desolate dump. My stomach churns at the memory of arguing with my mom about staying here, realizing now how wrong I was to assume I knew what was best at thirteen years old.

“So this is where you grew up?” Ivy asks, her voice free of judgment and filled with genuine curiosity.

“Yes, this is my hometown,” I reply. We drive along the main street, passing by familiar sights that bring back childhood memories. I point out my elementary school, and we continue to the small building that houses the ice rink where I first learned to skate. Though it’s closed now, Ivy’s eyes light up at the sight, and she remarks how she can imagine a younger version of me gliding gracefully on the ice.

We approach the old neighborhood, and nostalgia washes over me like a warm ocean tide. Memories flood back to me of playing in these streets with my childhood friends and walking home every day from school, our backpacks heavy with textbooks and homework.

We do a slow lap around the trailer park, passing by familiar sights - the rusty playground, the small convenience store where I used to buy Pixie Stix and Big League Chew, and the narrow road lined with rows of rundown trailers. I point out the small mobile home my mom and I shared, now looking more dilapidated than I remember. The peeling paint and crooked shutters give it a haunted feel, as if it has been abandoned for years. The landlord was never one for upkeep or repairs; nothing has changed. A feeling of sadness floods my chest as I realize that this place will always hold a special place in my heart, but it will never be the same as it was when I was a child.

Mrs. Lyonne’s old trailer looks better than I remember. The once beaten-up structure looks more inviting, its exterior painted a crisp white and trimmed with a deep green. The porch where Mrs. Lyonne used to sit and wave at me every day has been transformed into a charming outdoor space, and a pristine white picket fence encloses the entire thing. It’s bittersweet to think that she’s gone, but I’m grateful that whoever had taken over her home was giving it the care and attention it deserved.

Ivy tilts her head, her expression innocent and curious.

“Should we walk around?” she asks, looking at me with wide, hopeful eyes.

I shake my head, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“Not in this area,” I reply, my tone tinged with caution. “It used to be rough during the day, and now it’s probably gotten worse, especially at night.”

“Got it." She nods, but her smile doesn’t falter. As we drive back toward home, she reaches out and lays her hand gently on my thigh, a reassuring gesture that comforts me.

“So, what are you planning to do when we graduate?” she asks, her tone conveying the weight of the question. I haven’t addressed this topic before, not wanting to dampen our time together with looming uncertainties.

“Well, it’s unlikely that any NHL teams are looking to pick up an eighteen-year-old, no matter how good he may be,” I say with a playful wink. “So, for now, I plan to play for a top university and hopefully get drafted into the pros.”

Her lips curve into a smile as she nods in understanding. “Do you have any specific universities in mind?”

“I do,” he says. “There’s a few good programs I would like to attend and coaches I would like to play under. One is the University of Minnesota, and the other is Boston University. Each one offers opportunities for both academics and hockey.”

Ivy exhales, likely doing the same thing I am, mentally calculating how far both places are from here. We’re still months away from that happening, so I force those thoughts out of my head.

“What about you? What do you want to do?”

Her face softens as she confesses, “I have no idea. I’ve spent so much time trying to get through each day that I haven’t had the freedom to think about the future.” She pauses, her eyes filled with longing. “There are things I like to do, though,” she says wistfully.

My interest is piqued, and I press, “Like what?”

A small smile tugs at the corners of her lips, “I like to write. I like children.”

A warmth spreads through my chest as I imagine Ivy working with children, her tender heart guiding them toward their dreams.