The Romantic Pact

by Quinn, Meghan

“How have you lightened the mood?” Hutton asks. “You’ve just been a blubbering mess.”

  “Can you blame me? Look at him.” Uncle Paul chokes up. “He’s become a beautiful, handsome man.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter, as I stand and then pace the living room. “What’s this trip supposed to prove? How is this supposed to help in any way?”

  “He wants you to get lost, experience life, and find yourself on this trip because it’s where he found himself. It was important to him, and even though he couldn’t go on the trip with you, he will be there in spirit.”

  “Think of it as a chance to reconnect with him. To have those few stolen moments you didn’t get.”

  “How could I possibly steal moments with him? He’s gone,” I say. God, this whole thing is irritating.

  Mom turns to Dad and says quietly, “It’s not the time, Porter. He’s not in a good place, and I don’t want to send him across the world like this.”

  “He’s a man, Marley. You have to let go at some point.”

  “If anything, dude, just get drunk in Germany.”

  Dad shoots Hutton a look. “Not helping.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that might not have been the best comment.” Motioning to me, Hutton says, “Strike that last suggestion from the record.”

  “You know what? I need some fresh air.” Snagging my phone from the coffee table, I stuff it in the pocket of my shorts, slip on my sandals, and head out the back door.

  Mom chases after me.

  “Crew,” she calls again, her voice breaking.

  From the steps that lead down to the beach, I stop and look back at her.

  “Just know, I love you so much, and whatever you decide, we’ll be here for you.” And then she reaches for my hand and places a folded piece of paper in it. “From Pops.”

  * * *

  The waves crash into the wet sand, setting the soundtrack for my melancholy mood.

  Usually, the sound of the ocean brings me peace, but for some reason, all it’s doing is heightening my anger, my irritation . . . my confusion.

  And the note from Pops my mom just gave me? It’s burning a hole in my pocket, begging me to read it.

  I can’t.

  Legs propped up, I lean my arms on my knees and lower my chin, when my phone beeps with a text.

  I glance at my phone that’s on a piece of driftwood and see that it’s a text from River in our friend group text.

  River: Anyone else want to die from boredom, knowing we won’t be reporting back to practice soon?

  Needing the reprieve from everything else going through my head, I type back.

  Crew: Trying not to eat my feelings.

  Hollis joins in on the conversation, pulling the smallest smile from me.

  Hollis: I’m going to lose my abs over break, I can tell already.

  River: As if you had a manly figure to begin with.

  Hollis: Fuck off.

  I don’t answer right away. Instead, I find myself staring at the phone, contemplating whether I should tell them about Germany.

  River: Crew, where are you? You’re normally coming in hot with a comment about owning the best body out of the three of us.

  Hollis: Kind of worried now.

  Crew: Sorry, just got a bunch of shit piled on me over here.

  River: Hollywood got shit on? This I have to hear.

  Crew: My Pops left me a trip to go on.

  Hollis: Damn, really? To where?

  Crew: Germany.

  River: And you consider that being shit on? I know we grew up differently, but, dude, that isn’t being shit on.

  Hollis: Hate to be insensitive, but he’s right. A free trip to Germany? What’s the problem?

  What is the problem?

  I lay back on the sand, not caring about it sprinkling in my hair or on my skin. At this point, I’ve worn the beach home so many times, it feels like a second skin.

  Crew: It’s a trip planned by my Pops. It meant something to him, and he wants to send me on it.

  River: So, you’re just going to sit on your ass all winter break and do nothing instead?

  Hollis: Germany sounds more fun.

  Just then, I hear footsteps behind me and catch Hutton with two Sprites and a bag of Funyuns in hand. I sit up and brush the sand out of my hair as he takes a seat next to me. He offers me the bag, and I take it and mindlessly stuff a Funyun in my mouth.

  “You should go, man.”

  I chuckle, but it lacks humor and fun. It’s almost a dry, sad laugh. “That’s what River and Hollis just said.”

  “Did you read the note?”

  How does he know about the note?

  Hell, Hutton probably knows more about this trip than I do.

  “Not yet. Do you want to?”

  “Nah, man. You should do that. Maybe that will give you a form of closure, or something.”

  Closure. I still don’t really know what that is. I don’t want something that makes the death of Pops so . . . final.

  “I feel like I’m being forced to open a wound I’m not ready to rip open.”

  “Will you ever be ready? I know how much you miss him.”

  “No,” I say softly.

  Hutton cracks open the drinks and hands me one. “I’ve never lost someone important in my life, so I can’t quite relate to what you’re going through. But what I do know, from seeing friends go through the same grief, is that you’re going to have to face the loss of a loved one at some point. Maybe this shit season you had was a blessing in disguise. Maybe it’s given you a moment to gather yourself before the combine. We both know your last season isn’t going to be held that heavily against you. That if you clear your mind and show up, you still have a great chance. But you have to clear your mind first, man.”

  My phone buzzes and I glance down to see the preview of texts from Hollis and River.

  Hollis: Dude, you there?

  River: If I were you, I’d seize this opportunity. Take it.

  “Shit,” I say, rubbing my palm over my right eye.

  “You know I’m right.” Hutton bumps his shoulder with mine. “Look, I have no clue how a trip to Germany can bring you . . . peace or closure, but what if what Pops wanted comes true? What if it gives you a place to find yourself? To end up feeling grateful and not angry?” What I wish is that Pops had spoken to me about this. Told me these words rather than write whatever is in his letter. But at least he took the time to write something.

  “Yeah. I guess. Maybe you’re right.”

  “I’m always right.” He snags a Funyun from the bag. “You should know that by now. And when you text River and Hollis back, let them know just how right I am.”

  That makes me chuckle. “Never going to happen.”

  He scoffs. “Always depriving me of my glory.” And before I can respond, Hutton wraps his arm around me and pulls me into a hug, giving me a good slap on my back. “Love you, man.”

  I return the embrace, not ashamed of showing one of my best friends affection. “Love you too, man.”

  After a few minutes of silence and staring at the ocean, Hutton takes off toward the house to go to the bathroom. “I’ll be right there,” I say.

  When he’s out of sight, I reach into my pocket and pull out the note. Bracing myself, I unfold it and read.

  Hey Kiddo,

  Because I know you well, I know you’re probably angry at me and your parents for not telling you about my sickness. But I didn’t want you to lose focus on your goals. And you know what? I’m sad I won’t get to hug you one more time too, because you give the best hugs. I’m sad I won’t be able to sit beneath the oak tree with you one last time, sharing bad jokes and wise anecdotes. But I’m not sorry you’re not seeing me deteriorate. We had so many great times together, and if there is one thing I’m thankful for in my life, it’s you.

  Please go on this trip and enjoy seeing a part of the world I wanted to show you myself one day. Please open your eyes and see the bigger world through a wider lens. />
  Love you.

  Pops

  Chapter Two

  CREW

  “Did you get something to eat?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I say with a sigh into my wireless earbuds as I walk through LaGuardia International Airport.

  “And did you go potty?”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Not old enough for me to stop worrying.”

  I find my gate—Munich, Germany, written above the door. “You were the one who encouraged me to go on this trip.”

  “That was your father. I was willing to hold you to my bosom until everything was okay.”

  “I’m twenty-two, Mom. Being held to your bosom is far too disturbing in so many ways at this point.”

  “Marley, let the boy live,” Dad says in the background.

  “He’s flying across the world, so I’m allowed to worry,” Mom shoots back, and then her voice softens when she repeats, “Did you go potty?”

  “Nope, planned on wetting myself on the airplane.”

  “In that case, you’ll be thankful for the extra pair of pants and underpants I made you pack in your backpack in case you soil yourself. I’m always looking out for you, Crewy Bear.”

  “Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?”

  “Do you realize how much I love you?”

  “Yes,” I sigh, remembering the tears she shed this morning when she and Dad dropped me off at LAX. Mom clung to me for what felt like ten minutes until Dad pried her off me. She then texted me all the way up to my takeoff and then called when she knew I’d landed in New York. I had an hour layover, got off the phone to grab some food—went to the bathroom—and called Mom back to let her know I would be boarding soon. Pops sprung the extra buck and put me in first class for the trip from New York to Munich. Could not be more grateful for that since the flight is a red-eye and the seats in first class lie all the way down.

  From the overhead speakers, an airline attendant says, “We’ll now start boarding our first-class passengers for United 182 to Munich. Please proceed to our first-class line.”

  I see a line of people start to move toward the gate door and take that as my cue to get off the phone.

  “Hey, Mom, they’re starting to board.”

  “Oh . . . okay.” She pauses and I can imagine her trying to get herself together. “Well, I packed you some gum in the small pocket of your backpack, you know, in case you have to pop your ears. I know you always have to deal with that when flying.”

  I smile softly to myself. Of course she did. We’ve made the cross-country flight to New York several times a year ever since I can remember, and every flight, I always need to pop my ears. It became tradition that Mom bought me a new pack of gum for every trip.

  “What’s the flavor this time?”

  “Polar Ice. Figured some fresh breath wouldn’t hurt, and the mint will calm any nerves you might have.”

  “You saying I have stinky breath, Mom?”

  She chuckles and I can hear her tone grow lighter. “Not my Crewy Bear, freshest breath in the country.”

  “And I shit gold, too. Right, Mom?”

  “Twenty-four karats.”

  I laugh this time and then sigh into the phone. “Okay, well, I should get going. I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, baby boy. Enjoy yourself, you hear me?”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Call me when you land.”

  “Okay. And, hey, Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  I swallow hard and stare at the black sign, Munich digitally written in red. An adventure standing right in front of me, the unknown just over the threshold into an airplane. “Thank you, you and Dad, for pushing me to do this.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone. The seconds stretch, and I’m about to ask if she’s there when I hear Dad clear his throat. “Your mom is an emotional basket case.”

  “Porter,” I hear my mom chastise, making me laugh.

  “But you’re welcome, kid. Have fun and remember to text us, okay?”

  “Okay. Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you, my son.”

  I hang up and take a deep breath, staring at the picture on my lock screen. It’s a picture of me and Pops from a visit during Christmas when I was fifteen. I’m the definition of gangly with braces, Justin Bieber-flipped hair across the forehead, and a flannel button-up over a graphic T-shirt. I was all kinds of cocky, but in this picture, I’m showing nothing but innocence as I hold up a fish I caught ice fishing with Pops at the lake near the farm. Pride beams in his eyes as his hand grips my shoulder and he smiles at the camera, wearing a shirt I made him for Christmas one year.

  What the Herbert Hoover are you doing?

  I chuckle, distinctly hearing his voice yell out the phrase. He was known to swear by using presidents’ names, and when I gave him the shirt, he rolled over in laughter and put it on right away. It was his favorite shirt of all time. In this picture, it still looks new, but as time wore on, so did the collar and the hems, but he continued to wear it proudly.

  Smiling, I quietly say, “Ready for this, Pops?”

  It might sound stupid, and I might be imagining it, but in that moment, as I walk toward the gate with my boarding pass in hand, I can feel the firm grip of his large hand on my shoulder, guiding me.

  * * *

  I stick my phone in the console next to my head and adjust the headrest of my seat. Since I’m six-foot-four, I need it a little higher than the average person.

  And thank God for the legroom, because I don’t know what I’d do for seven and a half hours in the air if I was cramped back in the economy seats.

  Soft instrumental music plays overhead, blue lights line the tops of the baggage storage bins, and I hear the shuffle of travelers working their way down the aisle, eyes drifting from their boarding passes to the numbers above, checking for their seats.

  The occasional whisper of how nice it would be to fly in first class drifts through the quiet cabin. Children ask their parents if they can have a snack. A father hisses at his kid not to touch people, and flight attendants welcome boarding passengers in German.

  Guten Tag.

  Hallo.

  Servus.

  “Oh, ma’am, you dropped this,” a familiar voice says. I glance over to see a woman with warm red hair cascading over her face handing the woman in front of her a pair of headphones.

  “Thank you,” the stranger says. “I would be bored without these.”

  “I totally get it. So would I.” The woman pushes a wave of red hair behind her ear as she looks up at the seat numbers overhead.

  “Hazel?” I ask, my heart tripping at the sight of an old friend.

  Her warm, caramel-colored eyes snap to mine, her face registering shock. “Crew?” A small smile pulls at her lips. She checks her seat number and then her ticket again and smiles even larger. “Would you look at that? Seems as though we’re seatmates.”

  “Holy shit,” I say as she takes a seat and beams at me.

  “How are you, Hollywood?”

  “Better now.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a hug.

  Hazel Allen.

  Born and raised in the neighboring house to Pops’ farm, this outgoing ball of sugar and spice was a staple of my childhood ever since I can remember. Her grandpa, Thomas, was best friends with Pops, and she worked on the farm from a very young age. Whenever I visited, she always made fun of me and my latest West Coast style as she strutted around in overalls, a tank top, and rubber boots. Her hair was always tied up on the top of her head, with a rolled-up bandanna around the crown to hold back any stray hairs.

  Down to earth, fun, and a jokester, Hazel was one of my best friends growing up.

  Pen pals.

  Long-distance friends.

  And of course, each other’s first kiss.

  When we pull away, Hazel lifts her hand to my face and presses her palm to my cheek. “God, you just keep getting more and more handsome.”
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  I chuckle.

  “And this scruff. Now you’re really looking like your DILF of a dad.”

  “Can you not refer to my dad as a DILF? It really creeps me the fuck out.”

  “Ahh, but he is a hot piece of dad ass. Sorry.” She shrugs, sets her backpack on the floor, then turns in her seat to face me. “When my Grandpa told me about this trip, I had an inkling you might be my traveling partner, but I wasn’t sure.” She takes my hand in hers. “God, I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Haze,” I say, taking in her rosy, freckled cheeks and the way her hair softly falls over her forehead. Thank you, Pops. How easy it will be to travel with one of my best friends.

  Eyes softening, she asks, “How have you been? I saw your season . . .” She winces.

  “Yeah,” I huff out, staring down at the way her small hand fits in mine, the callouses on her fingers from all the hard work on the farm reminding me just how different our lives are, despite a lot of the variables being the same. “Wasn’t my best show on the field. Just wasn’t in it mentally.”

  “I can understand that.” She squeezes my hand and then says, “But we’re not here to talk about all of your interceptions, and I mean all of them . . .” When I glance up at her, she’s smiling a Julia Roberts smile. I poke her side and she laughs, her head falling back as she pushes my hand away.

  “How have you been, Hazel?” God, I’ve missed this girl.

  “Oh, you know, just living the life out on the farm. Got caught up in some mourning, ate way too much pumpkin pie this past fall. Did you get your fair share of pumpkin spice lattes?” She nudges me. “I know what a basic bitch you are.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I had a few.”

  “A few? I remember senior year in high school when you were drinking one a day. At least, that’s what you wrote to me. Then again, it has been almost four years . . .”

  “Has it?” I ask, knowing damn well it’s been nearly four years since I’ve really seen her. Since . . . hell, since I ran from her. Sure, I technically saw her at Pops’ funeral but I wasn’t in the right head space to talk to anyone.

  “Clearly you haven’t been counting.” She lets out a sigh and then slaps on a smile. “Enough with the catch-up, we can do that throughout the trip. We’re here to celebrate Pops.”