Unbreak My Heart

by Melissa Walker

  I nod and sniffle. There’s no point in hiding it now that I’m openly crying.

  “Fights come from relationships with great passion in them,” says Ruth.

  “That’s right,” George agrees. “You don’t get mad at people you don’t care about.”

  “Georgie and I have had some doozies.” Ruth puts her hand to her forehead like she can’t even bear to think of how bad their fights have been.

  I smile meekly. “Thanks … I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t sound sure,” says George. “Want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head no. Then I stand up quickly, realizing that I’m keeping a seat from the two practically elderly people who are kneeling near me. Something is wrong with this picture.

  “I have to—” I start. But then I remember that I don’t really have to do anything. I just want to get out of the sun, back to my tiny cabin, where I should have stayed all summer, listening to sad music and punishing myself rather than venturing out and hoping against hope that someone would see past the fact that I’m a lying, cheating, horrible person.

  Ruth looks at me with sympathy in her eyes. “Whatever he did, he’s a good kid,” she says. “We know James.”

  I nod again. But he didn’t do anything, I think. It’s me you don’t know.

  “It was my fault,” I say.

  “Nonsense!” George shakes his head. “You’re too sweet to be at fault.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “That’s what you think,” I say.

  “What could you have possibly done?” asks Ruth. “We know you didn’t run around on him—the only other boaters out here have one foot in the Senior Center.”

  I shrug and turn to go. They wouldn’t understand.

  “James had a hard year,” says Ruth, grabbing my arm. “I don’t know if he told you why his mom—”

  George puts his hand up. “Now, Ruth,” he says, “that’s not ours to share.”

  Ruth purses her lips but doesn’t finish her thought. She smiles warmly at me. “Whatever you fought about, he’ll come around.”

  “Thanks.” I take a step back toward The Possibility. “I hope so.”

  chapter thirty-three

  When I come out of my room later for dinner, I’ve decided something. I need to tell my family what happened too. Not, like, exactly—but I want them to know. I want it to be out in the open, even if it means them looking at me like James did today.

  So when Mom asks if there was something that upset me today, instead of saying no or shrugging it off, I just tell them.

  “I told James about the whole thing with Amanda from last year,” I say. “And he pretty much defriended me. Just like Amanda did on Facebook. But she didn’t defriend Ethan.”

  I’m not sure they’ll even know what I mean, but I can tell instantly that they want to try.

  “Clem, what is it that really happened last year?” asks Dad.

  I look up at him. His eyes are teacher eyes, the ones he gets around a student who’s in trouble. They’re understanding, but they’re also my father’s. How can I tell my father what I did? Do I even get what I did?

  I look at Mom. She nods, the same question on her face.

  Olive is staring down at her hot dog and beans.

  “I sort of fell for Amanda’s boyfriend,” I say. “We just kept getting closer and closer.”

  I tell them about the online chatting, the time we went to the movies, how we’d exchange glances at lunch and in history class. Dad even laughed when I told them about the Simpsons Civil War joke. He got it.

  It was nice to tell them; it didn’t feel terrible like I thought it would. We all ate slowly while I talked, and I could picture us with our hot dogs, mustard at the corners of our lips. It felt okay, but when I got up to the part about the drive we took, my mind was racing with what to say.

  “The day I got my license, Ethan and I went for a drive,” I say. “We ended up talking a lot, and almost …”

  “Hooking up?” asks Dad.

  “Not ‘hooking up,’ ” I say, embarrassed that Dad even used that term. It’s so weird to be telling your dad this. I don’t think if we were back home in Bishop Heights that I could ever tell him. “We didn’t do anything at all, except hold hands a little. But it felt like …”

  “You felt like his girlfriend,” says Olive. I look down at her and see that she’s totally caught up in this story, my story, and she’s understood me perfectly. I want to hug her.

  “Yeah. And when we got back to town and saw Amanda, she knew.” I drop my head and look at the table. All of our plates are empty, but no one has moved to pick them up. “She just knew,” I say again, quietly.

  “What was it that she knew?” asks Mom.

  “That we liked each other, I guess.” I don’t even know how to define it. “That we maybe wanted more.”

  “So Amanda broke up with him?” asks Olive.

  I shake my head no.

  “I’ve seen this a lot,” says Mom, frowning. “The man gets forgiven while the woman wears a scarlet letter.”

  Mom’s a lawyer, but she was an English major in college. She deals with tragedy through literature. It’s only sometimes helpful. Luckily, I’ve read that one.

  “Call me Hester Prynne,” I say.

  “Hester who?” asks Olive.

  “She’s the main character in The Scarlet Letter, Livy,” says Dad. “She has an affair while she’s married and becomes an outcast.”

  “But Clem’s not married,” says Olive.

  “It’s not a perfect metaphor,” says Mom.

  “Forget it, Olive,” I say. I glance down at the bun crumbs on my plate and wonder how to feel. What to do.

  “I’m worried about next year,” I say. “I don’t really …” I pause for a minute. “I don’t really have any friends.”

  A tear slips down my cheek, and the room is totally silent for a moment.

  Then Dad clears his throat. “Clem, I know it looks very dark right now. But you don’t have to dwell on this. The heart wanders—it’s part of being young. You know who you are, and we know who you are.”

  “I’m not sure I know who I am,” I say. Because it’s true. How can I have any idea who I am? All I have to go on are my past actions, and this thing that I did last year, it was terrible, even though it’s so hard to put my finger on.

  “Want me to tell you?” asks Olive.

  I look up at her, and I guess something in my eyes says yes, so she goes ahead.

  “You are the big sister who braids me,” she says. I glance at her near dreads.

  “I’m about to become the big sister who forcibly washes your hair,” I say.

  She reaches up and touches her matted curls protectively.

  “You can drive stick exceptionally well,” says Dad.

  “You think so?” I ask.

  “Without question,” he says.

  “You love to read in the sun, just for fun,” says Mom.

  I smile at her, though I’m about to get cheesy chills from the self-help session I feel starting up.

  “You can tie the perfect knot for any given situation,” says Olive.

  “You record your life in that journal,” says Mom. “You may write a book one day, if you want to.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Mom the English major doesn’t give that kind of compliment lightly.

  “You do the best Little Mermaid jumps,” says Olive.

  “You listen to music that really means something to you,” says Dad.

  I feel my stomach unclench a little bit. I let my shoulders relax. I think about the song that James gave me, “Clementine.” I take a deep breath.

  “Are we making you cry yet?” asks Olive. Then she starts to giggle, and I reach over and squeeze her tight.

  chapter thirty-four

  Two days later, I’m hanging on to my family’s kind words, forgiving myself a little more. It feels good, but I can’t deny that James is on my mind too. We docked at the next marina, a
nd James and his dad were due in yesterday, but Dreaming of Sylvia never showed up. Now we’re about to leave again. What if James isn’t going to forgive me? What if I don’t see him again? There’s only one week left of summer.

  Okay, I’m more than getting worried. I’m full-blown panicking.

  The only way I can get in touch with James is by radio, and I haven’t gotten up the nerve to ask Mom and Dad if I can call him on the official Tombigbee Waterway frequency. Besides, it’s not like I can make it a private call. It’d be like calling a guy who may hate you on speakerphone, and he’d be on speakerphone too.

  I keep imagining myself sounding totally needy.

  “Uh, James, where are you?”

  “Clem, I never want to talk to you again. I can’t be with a girl who would hurt her best friend like that.”

  My mind is not a very forgiving place.

  I look down at my hands—my fingernails are bitten down to nubs. I have to do something.

  “Dad?” I ask, poking my head into the nav station while he fiddles with the gauges before we push off.

  “Yes?” asks Dad, not looking up from his panel.

  I glance at the radio. “Never mind,” I say, my insecurities bubbling up again.

  “Clem!” Olive grabs my hand as I slink out of the nav station. “Let’s walk outside. The sun is setting, and Mom says we can see it sink into the water from the other side of the dock.”

  Watching the sun set into a river is one of the best things in the world. One day I want to go all the way to the west coast so I can see it happen over the real ocean, but for now, smaller bodies of water will do.

  I nod at my sister and follow her off the boat, grabbing two folding deck chairs from the under-bench storage area.

  Down a few slips on the dock, we spot Ruth and George sitting with matching silver sun catchers under their chins.

  “You guys should use sunblock!” says Olive, folding her hands across her chest. She always has the rudeness—or is it courage?—to say what I don’t.

  Ruth smiles at us, not bothered.

  “Honey, we’re old,” she says to Olive. “Something else’ll get us before skin cancer does!”

  I can tell that Olive is about to object, but then she gets distracted.

  “Hey,” she says. “Did you change your boat’s name?”

  I look to where she’s gesturing and see the words True Love in elaborate script on the hull. Faintly underneath it, now that Olive has pointed it out, I can see that the boat used to be called something else. That isn’t unusual—people buy used boats and rename them all the time—but I see George look sideways at Ruth. She gives him a small smile and nods.

  “We did indeed,” says George. “She used to be called Linda.”

  I raise my eyebrows, and Ruth giggles. She looks my age for a second.

  “Georgie’s old girlfriend,” says Ruth.

  “Girlfriend?” says George, mock indignantly. “She was my wife for thirty years!”

  “Until I came along,” says Ruth.

  “That’s right, honey,” says George, leaning over to take her hand. “Ruthie and I—we were meant to be.”

  “True Love,” says Ruth, pointing to the boat’s name.

  Olive grins.

  I want to ask if Linda died, or if they got divorced, or if Ruth and George had an affair. I guess George sees the questions on my face, because he says, “Linda lives in Boca Raton now. I hear she has a new boyfriend.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I can think of to say.

  Olive and I wave at them and keep walking to the edge of the dock, where we set up our chairs to watch the sunset.

  “That was funny,” she says, adjusting her legs so they don’t get pinched by the plastic seat.

  “What?”

  “How George left Linda for Ruth.” Her voice rises excitedly.

  I lean back in my chair, not saying anything.

  “Do you think he was married when they met?” Olive asks.

  I shrug. I’m curious, but I’m not sure I want to talk about this.

  “Well, do you think Linda hates Ruth? That they had a big falling-out and he blew her in the dust?”

  I laugh at my sister. “I think you mean left her in the dust, or blew her off,” I say. “Why didn’t you ask them if you’re so curious, Livy?”

  She sits back in her seat. “Maybe I will.”

  We watch the sun get lower and lower in the sky. The last minutes of a sunset go by in a heartbeat. One moment the sky is brilliant gold, and the next, blue darkness descends, with just a hint of rosy glow to show you where the sun once was.

  The reflection of that pink shimmer is still shining on the water when Olive says, “I guess I don’t think it matters—they’re so happy together.”

  I look over at her, and she’s looking up at me for confirmation.

  “You’re right, Livy,” I say. “If ‘true love’ and ‘meant to be’ are clichés to be used, Ruth and George are the people you’d use them about.”

  When we get back to the boat, I make a call on the radio. I think we get through to Dreaming of Sylvia, but I can’t be sure. There’s a lot of static, and I can’t tell if it’s James or his dad who answers. You’re not really supposed to ramble on the radio—it’s for quick communication. So here’s what I say: “James, it’s Clem. I’m what’s real.”

  The next morning, there’s a soft knock at my door. I’ve been awake and had my iPod on for an hour or so, but I’m not brooding. I made a new playlist, one that even has some upbeat songs on it. I’ve been writing in my journal, too, in colored pencil. I’m sick of black ink.

  “Come in, Livy,” I say.

  But it’s not Olive.

  “Oh,” I say, sitting up on my bed and closing my journal quickly.

  “Your mom let me in,” says James. He runs his hand through his hair and then rests it in his shorts pocket.

  “Can I … ?” he asks, gesturing toward the bed.

  “Sure.”

  He closes the door behind him and sits down next to me on the bed. That would be weird in a normal room, but this cabin is pretty much door, bed, drawers, and one foot of floor space, so it’s okay. Besides, I want him this close.

  He’s got a mint in his mouth. I can see him working it around his cheek, and he smells good, like morning sunshine and soap and peppermint.

  “I’m sorry I freaked out the other day,” he says. “It’s just—”

  He doesn’t finish his thought, and after a long moment of silence, I say, “I know it was probably shocking to hear that I did that.”

  He smiles at me sideways. “Seeing as how I thought you were perfect and all, right?”

  I half grin back. “Right.”

  And it’s funny, because I still feel as bold as I felt last night making that radio call. I know James maybe came to tell me he can’t be with me, that he isn’t up for dealing with someone who could betray a friend like I did, or that he could never trust me after what I confessed. But I’m not afraid, no matter what he’s here to say.

  James looks down at his lap. “So there’s more to the story about my mom leaving.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “She kind of left with this other guy,” he says. “Our neighbor, actually.”

  “Oh.” Oh.

  “So I have this weird thing with, like, cheating,” he says.

  I bite my lip. “Most people have a weird thing about cheating,” I say. “That’s why it’s called cheating.”

  “Yeah.” James looks up at me. “But I realized that what happened with my mom doesn’t really have much to do with you.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I mean, what you did was not cool.”

  “I know.” I rush in to defend myself. “I just wanted—”

  James puts a finger to my lips. “Let me finish.”

  I look up at him hopefully.

  “I mean, you should not have let it go on for so long,” he says, not fully letting me off the hook. “But it
happens.”

  “It does?” I ask.

  “On TV, way worse stuff happens every week,” he says. “If your life is like a CW drama, you and your friends should be back on track by 10 p.m.”

  I smile again. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Thanks for telling me.” He laughs a little bit. “Also, thanks for calling yourself a heel—that was classic.”

  “Huh?”

  “On the radio,” he says. “Isn’t that what you said? ‘I’m a heel.’”

  “No!” I shake my head. “I said ‘I’m what’s real,’ you dork! Like what you said to me when you gave me the drawing.”

  James’s mouth opens wide into a huge laugh. It takes him a minute to recover before he says, “That is so cheesy!”

  I swat him on the leg. “You thought I called myself a heel? Who even says that?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, still smiling. “I thought it was hilarious, though. I thought you were trying to make me laugh to get me out of my own judgmental mindset.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, I’m glad it worked.”

  “So I guess whatever happened with you and your friends last year doesn’t have much to do with us.”

  I love that word: us. It’s the best, most simple, most incredible two letters ever put together. He puts his hand out on the bed between us, palm open. I take it and twine my fingers through his.

  And we’re in my cabin with the door closed, remember? So next comes the kissing.

  After a few minutes (okay, maybe an hour) of making up, James and I go above deck and spend a little while hanging out on the bow of The Possibility as the sun rises in the sky.

  Amazingly, my family seems to have disappeared for the time being. I guess we’re not leaving the marina today.

  I snuggle up against James as he leans back on the open hatch.

  “I have a game,” he says.

  “What kind?”

  “Corny boat names,” he says. “I’ll start—Nauti Girl.” He spells it out for me, and I laugh.

  “Okay, I’ve actually seen Knotty Buoy.” I say. “As in K-N and B-U-O-Y.”

  “No way—that’s terrible!”