Reminders of Him

Even if it slipped out by accident.
Ledger straightens up and then locks his truck. “I better get inside; the
parking lot looked packed.”
He never said what he left to go do for several hours tonight, but I
have a feeling he was doing something with Diem. But he could have also
been on a date, which unnerves me almost as much.
I’m not allowed to be in my own daughter’s life, but whoever Ledger
decides to date gets to be in her life, and that automatically makes me
jealous of whatever girl that ends up being.
At least it won’t be Leah.
Screw her.

---

Roman brings a crate full of glasses to the back and sets them by the sink
for me. “I’m heading out,” he says. “Ledger said he’d give you a ride home
if you don’t mind waiting. He’s got about half an hour of shit left to do.”
“Thanks,” I say to Roman. He takes off his apron and tosses it into a
basket where all the other employee aprons have ended up for the night.
“Who cleans those?” I don’t know if that’s supposed to be my job. I’m not
even really sure what all my job entails. Ledger wasn’t here to train me
throughout the night, and everyone else kind of pointed out things here and
there that I could do, so I’ve just been doing everything I can get my hands
on.
“There’s a washer and dryer upstairs,” Roman says.
“There’s another level to the bar?” I haven’t seen any stairs.
He points at the door that leads out to the alley. “Access to the stairs is
outside. Half of the space is storage, the other half is a studio apartment
with a washer and dryer.”
“Do I need to take them up and wash them?”
He shakes his head. “I usually do that in the mornings. I live there.”
He pulls his shirt off to toss it in the basket just as Ledger walks into the
kitchen.
Roman is shirtless now, changing into his street clothes, and Ledger is
staring straight at me. I know it looks like I was staring at Roman as he was
changing, but we were having an active conversation. I wasn’t staring at
him because he was momentarily shirtless. Not that it matters, but it
embarrasses me, so I turn around and focus on the remaining dishes.
Roman and Ledger have a conversation I can’t hear, but I do hear it
when Roman tells Ledger good night and leaves. Ledger disappears back
into the front of the bar.
I’m alone, but I prefer it that way. Ledger makes me more nervous
than comfortable.
I finish my work and wipe everything down for a final time. It’s half
past midnight, and I have no idea how much longer Ledger has until he’s
finished. I don’t want to bother him, but I’m too tired to walk home, so I
wait for the ride.
I grab my stuff and push myself onto the counter. I pull out my
notebook and my pen. I don’t know that I’ll ever do anything with the
letters I write to Scotty, but they’re cathartic.

---

Dear Scotty,
Ledger is an asshole. We’ve clarified that. I mean, the
guy turned a bookstore into a bar. What kind of monster
would do that?
But . . . I’m beginning to think he has a sweet side
too. Maybe that’s why you two were best friends.
“What are you writing?”
I slam my notebook shut at the sound of his voice. Ledger is removing
his apron, eyeing me. I shove my notebook into my bag and mutter,
“Nothing.”
He tilts his head, and his eyes fill with curiosity. “Do you like to
write?”
I nod.
“Would you say you’re more artistic or more scientific?”
That’s an odd question. I shrug. “I don’t know. Artistic, I guess.
Why?”
Ledger grabs a clean glass and walks over to the sink. He fills it with
water and then takes a sip. “Diem has a wild imagination. I always
wondered if she got that from you.”
My heart fills with pride. I love when he reveals little tidbits about her.
I also love knowing someone in her life appreciates her imagination. I had a
vivid imagination when I was younger, but my mother stifled it. It wasn’t
until Ivy encouraged me to open that part of myself back up that I actually
felt like someone supported it.
Scotty would have, but I don’t even think he knew I was artistic. He
met me at a time when that part of me was still in a deep sleep.
It’s awake now, though. Thanks to Ivy. I write all the time. I write
poems, I write letters to Scotty, I write book ideas I don’t know that I’ll ever
get around to fleshing out. Writing might actually be what saved me from
myself.
“I mostly just write letters.” I regret saying it as soon as I say it, but
Ledger doesn’t react to that confession.
“I know. Letters to Scotty.” He sets his glass of water on the table
beside him and then folds his arms over his chest.

---

“How do you know I write him letters?”
“I saw one,” he says. “Don’t worry, I didn’t read it. I just saw one of
the pages when I grabbed your bag out of your locker.”
I wondered if he saw that stack of papers. I was worried he might have
peeked, but if he says he didn’t read them, for some reason I believe him.
“How many letters have you written him?”
“Over three hundred.”
He shakes his head in disbelief, but then something makes him smile.
“Scotty hated writing. He used to pay me to write his reports for him.”
That makes me laugh, because I wrote a paper or two for him when
we were together.
It’s weird talking with someone who knew Scotty in a lot of the same
ways I knew him. I’ve honestly never experienced this before. It feels good,
thinking about him in a way that makes me laugh instead of cry.
I wish I knew more about Scotty outside of who he was with me.
“Diem might grow up to be a writer someday. She likes to make up
words,” Ledger says. “If she doesn’t know what something is called, she
just invents a word for it.”
“Like what?”
“Solar lights,” he says. “The kind that line sidewalks? We don’t know
why, but she calls them patchels.”
That makes me smile, but it also makes me ache with jealousy. I want
to know her like he does. “What else?” My voice is quieter because I’m
trying to hide the fact that it’s shaking.
“The other day she was riding her bike, and her feet kept slipping on
the pedals. She said, ‘My feet won’t stop flibbering.’ I asked her what