By Way of Accident

by Laura Miller

  I guess in my case, it was without.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It’s Me

  I make my way down the bank of the creek. It’s been a month since my trek to Nashville and then to Memphis. I walked in my graduation and was handed a piece of paper—not even an eight-cent diploma, but a five-cent piece of copy paper. My mom and dad and sister and Tim and his family were there. We had lunch afterward and then went back home to celebrate.

  Two weeks later, I got my first real job. Turns out, that piece of copy paper was worth something after all. And while that real diploma was floating around somewhere in the mail system, I became a newspaper reporter for the Courier in Washington, a couple towns over from my hometown. But even though it’s only a couple towns over, it couldn’t be more different than where I grew up. Washington is what people where I’m from call the big city, mainly because it’s got a Bob Evans and a Walmart.

  I write life stories for the paper. Well, that’s what the boss calls them anyway. I call them obituaries. It’s not a hard job—not like baling hay or anything. People are usually more than willing to talk. And while I’d rather not spend my entire career on the obituary line, I do love my job, and I’m happy to have it. The Courier is the largest paper around here. And I would have started sweeping floors there if I had too. Thankfully, though, I didn’t. They were hiring despite the economy—and maybe even just to spite it as well; newspaper people tend to have a sick sense of humor. Either way, I applied, and I got the job. It probably helped that the editor who hired me was also a Mizzou grad and a former farm boy. I’ll be damned if that dang grass hay got me my first job. Either way, I got my first story in the paper yesterday. While eighty-five-year-old Charlie Valor’s curtain was closing, mine was just opening. Funny how that is. But that was yesterday. Today, it’s just me and this old creek at the edge of what used to be my grandpa’s farm. I never thought I’d miss baling hay, but I do sometimes. And I miss the days when I’d come here afterward. This place just sings home to me. I was always at peace here, either fishin’ or coolin’ off. But that was before I met a brunette with a fiery sense of life, I guess. Then, instead of peaceful, it turned adventurous. And I didn’t mind it a bit.

  I force out a sigh, right as my eye catches on something resting on a rock near the water. I scoot down the bank some more and hesitate right before picking it up. It’s one of those ponytail holder contraptions. I twist the orange rubber band around my fingers. It could be anyone’s, but it makes me think of Brooke. When her hair was down, she always wore one of these around her wrist.

  I breathe in and sit back against the grassy bank with the ponytail holder thing still wrapped around my fingers. There’s a slight breeze in the air. I close my eyes and laugh to myself when I think about her being in the wind. And I might never see her again—I’m realizing that a little more every day—but I’ll always be able to feel her here. I take another breath and let her soak into my skin a little more before I finally decide it’s time to get up and start making my way back home.

  My truck is parked on the slab. I climb into it and start her up. Then I rest my elbow on the ledge of the open window right before I maneuver my way off the uneven concrete, hit the dirt and then eventually make it to the paved, two-lane road. I drive for a couple miles before I’m passing Mrs. Catcher’s old place. But something in the yard makes me hit the brakes. I can’t believe my eyes. I’m completely stopped in the middle of the highway staring straight into a For Sale sign. Mrs. Catcher joined Mr. Catcher in the sky about a year ago now. The town mourned her passing for several days, and then life went back to normal again. But I still thought about her and this old house that Brooke once lived in every once in a while. And now, it’s for sale. I throw the truck into reverse, and I make my way down the narrow gravel driveway. I stop at the sign and take down the number. I haven’t got a penny to my name to put down on this little house, but all I know is that I’ve got to have it.

  ***

  It’s a Wednesday. It was a normal day at work—a normal day of questions that usually involve: Tell me what Grandma was like? What story did Grandpa like to tell? What memory best sums up his life? I ask the questions, but I still think it’s strange that our lives are supposed to fit into fourteen inches are less. That’s all the space in the daily paper I get. It’s all the space I get to tell a story about a life that spanned nearly a century. Sometimes, I feel as if I can write every word a daughter or a son or a grandson tells me and still not capture a life well-lived. Words are great, but even I can admit they have certain short-comings. No word can ever give justice to a smile from a man who never smiled or to an old woman who gives up her seat on the bus to a soldier who lost his leg fighting for his country. And I’m still convinced there’s no word out there for the feeling you get the first time you ever hit home plate or bury your first dog or muster up enough courage to tell a girl you love her.

  I finally get to my apartment. It’s a one-bedroom, and it’s only a couple miles from work. It’s small, but it’s my own, with my own couch and my own TV and my own microwave. That’s about it, but at least, it’s my own. I notice a note taped to my door. I figure it’s probably from my neighbor. She’s got a kid, and every once in a while she asks me to babysit him for a couple hours so she can go grocery shopping or run errands. She knows my mom, so I guess I’ve sort of inherited her trust. I like the kid. He’s got a story for everything. I can’t make heads or tails of it most of the time, but that doesn’t seem to slow him down one bit. I guess to him, it all makes sense.

  I pull the note off the door and notice it’s not in my neighbor’s handwriting. But the handwriting does look familiar. For some reason, though, I can’t seem to place it even as my eyes go to following over the words on the pink piece of paper:

  Hi Riv,

  It’s me. I’m in town, and I heard you were here too. I’ll be working on some things at the coffee bar on 8th and Walnut all day tomorrow. I thought maybe if you have time you could stop by and we could catch up. It would be nice to see you again.

  There’s a heart at the bottom of the note where there’s supposed to be a signature. There’s no name.

  My heart drops to my stomach. Is it Brooke? How did she know where I lived? How did she find me? I’m lost in my thoughts when I realize I did just find her a month ago, so I reason it’s possible.

  I fall back on my heels and read the note one more time. And I stop on the last line: It would be nice to see you again. I think about the letter Brooke wrote me—the one I thought she hadn’t. I think there’s still an ounce of hope left in me from it.

  “Tomorrow,” I whisper, and at the same time, I can’t help but smile. After all this time, I’m going to see her...talk to her...tomorrow.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I’ve Missed You, River

  I spend almost an hour getting ready—enough time to where now I feel as if I’m a damn girl. But I think I look okay. I stare into the mirror and wonder if she’ll recognize me now. I was about fifty pounds lighter the last time she saw me, and I’m not sure I had a muscle to call my own. My hair has grown darker, and most days, including today, a permanent five-o’clock shadow fills my jaw. I’ve got on dark jeans and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I watch my chest rise and then fall in the mirror as I stare at the reflection staring back at me, hopin’ it’s good enough for her. Then when I get tired of looking at myself, I grab my phone and my keys and head out the door.

  ***

  My hands are shaking when I go to open the door to the coffee place. I try to find her through the window first, just to help ease my nerves a little. I feel as if it’s always easier when you can spot your target first, as opposed to being the one with an X on your back. But the windows are too dang tinted to see anything on the inside. Hell, she could be looking back at me, and I wouldn’t even know it.

  I rally up my courage and charge straight through the door. My heart is racing out of my chest. I’ve waited nearly ni
ne years for this moment.

  “River.”

  I hear my name, and I freeze. It’s a girl’s voice, but it’s not Brooke’s.

  I turn and spot the origin of my name in the corner of the shop. I feel my heart stop, and it takes everything in me to restart it again. It’s Amy.

  “You came,” she says, standing up from the little table.

  She comes closer to me and wraps her arms around my neck. I think I’m still in shock, so it takes me a second to return her embrace.

  “Here,” she says, pulling away and clearing a computer and some paper from the little table. “I’ve just been finishing up some stuff.” She stops and looks up at me. “No big rush on it though.” She smiles then and sits down before eying the seat opposite of her.

  I take her silent cue and guide myself into the chair.

  “It’s been a while,” she says.

  I swallow. “Yeah, it has,” I agree.

  She looks happy and a little nervous. “You look really good.”

  “Thanks. ...So do you.” I say it purely out of habit. I think I’m still just a little jolted, so I really haven’t had the chance to assess anything more than the fact that it is Amy—not Brooke—who’s sitting across from me.

  “I ran into Tim back home, and he said you were working here in Washington, and he gave me your address,” she says. “And I work just down the street actually.” She points to her left, which also happens to be the wall of the coffee shop. “Allen’s Printing. I work in their graphics department.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying my best to force a smile. I am happy to see her. I’m just a different kind of happy than I was expecting to be.

  There’s a pause in the conversation, but she works quickly to fill it. “I heard you work at the Courier.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. “Just started.”

  Her smile grows a little wider. “I’m glad you came.”

  I nod my head and consciously force the corners of my mouth higher up my face.

  “I feel really bad about the way we ended things back in high school,” she goes on.

  I want to remind her that she ended things, not me, but I don’t.

  I shake my head and shrug it off. “It was high school, Amy. Don’t worry about it.”

  I notice her chest rise and then dramatically fall.

  “I know, but I shouldn’t have... We missed out on so much time we could have had. It’s not really what I wanted...”

  “Amy,” I say, interrupting her. “It’s old news.”

  She lowers her eyes before looking back up at me with a half-smile. “Me time is overrated.”

  I laugh. I could have told her that four years ago.

  “You know,” she goes on, “I was going through some old photos the other day, and I found a couple from our prom. Did you know Grant wore jeans and a tuxedo tee shirt?”

  This time, I laugh a hard, honest laugh.

  “You knew that?” she asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. It was his way of ‘defying tradition.’” I make air quotes with my fingers.

  She lowers her head and grins to herself. “I never noticed.” And very soon, we’re both quiet again, but Amy was never one for the quiet, and within a few seconds, she’s breaking the silence. “Maybe I didn’t notice because I was too busy staring at you.”

  I don’t usually blush, but there are times I come close to it, and this would be one of those times.

  “I’ve missed you, River.” Her voice is soft as she rests her hand on mine.

  I don’t move. I just stare at her hand on mine. Then I look up and notice her—really notice her—for the first time in four years. She’s still pretty—that girl-next-door kind of pretty. She’s still got her long blond hair and blue eyes and that shy smile. I wonder for a second how she didn’t get snatched up in college. Because while she might be a little demanding at times and she very seldom knows what she wants, a guy would be lucky to call her his.

  “You know, Amy...” I stop because I just realize I might regret what I’m about to say. I take a second and look into her eyes, and then I force out a long breath before I continue. “We had a fun four years.”

  She seems to relax a little. “We did,” she agrees. And then she gives me one of her signature coy smiles.

  My eyes fall shut, and I have to force them open again.

  “What’s wrong, River?”

  Her lips quickly turn straight, and she narrows her pretty blue eyes on me before taking her hand back from mine.

  “You seeing someone?” she asks.

  “No.” I shake my head. And just like that, her smile returns. She really is a sweet girl. I’m out of my damn mind for letting her get away the first time. Yeah, she can drive ya nuts, but she can also make ya pretty damn happy too. And I’m well aware that this would be the moment to take my revenge—tell her I want to date other people but remind her that maybe I’ll want to get back together with her some time down the road when I feel like it—but I know revenge is never as sweet as they say it is. And besides, it wouldn’t be the truth.

  “Amy, I’m an idiot for thinking this, but I just don’t think we’d ever work the way two people are supposed to work.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest before she brings a finger to her lips. “I didn’t really picture this going this way.”

  I take in a breath and let it go. Then I sit back in my chair, and for the first time, I notice how full the little coffee shop is. “You know, Amy?” I rest my eyes in hers. “When I walked in here, I really didn’t picture this going this way either. But I guess you just gotta take what life throws at ya.”

  “River.” Her hand returns to mine. “I never stopped thinking about you. I’m sorry for what I said back in high school. I was selfish...and stupid. But...” She pauses before she continues. “I’m still in love with you, River.”

  Her words hit me hard—throw me off-balance. And I realize fast that the last girl who told me she loved me was...her.

  “I love you, River.” She says the words with more conviction this time. And her eyes soften even more.

  Am I still in love with this girl? Am I still in love with Amy? She’s beautiful, and she’s sweet, and she makes me feel like a man—like I can protect her. But do I love her?

  “Let’s start over, River.”

  I still haven’t said anything. I’m just staring at her from across the table. But hell, I never thought I’d be here again. I really did think her line about getting back together again someday was just a bunch of bullshit. And maybe it was. But whether it was or it wasn’t, she’s still here today, asking nicely for a second chance. And hell, I just might give it to her. It wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve ever agreed to—not even close. I could start over with Amy. And I could probably even love her again too. My lips twitch up, and I automatically lower my eyes before I lift my face to hers again. “Okay, Amy Calloway, let’s start over. We’ll start as friends, and we’ll see where that takes us.”

  A slow smile crawls across her face, and she squeezes my hand.

  “Your scar.” She reaches up and touches her first two fingers to my cheek. “I remember that scar.”

  I lower my eyes and laugh. “If you wouldn’t have been so dang slow gettin’ out of that pond,” I remind her, “I wouldn’t have this scar.”

  “Me?” she asks, indignantly. But then her eyes light up, and she points a playful finger at me. “I saved our clothes, Mister, so you didn’t have to drive me home in your boxers.”

  “I assure you, you would have been much worse off if you wouldn’t have grabbed those clothes,” I say. “Jim and Rick Calloway would have skinned your pretty little, half-naked self alive.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, they would have gotten to me right after they had hunted you down. And I’m pretty sure you would have had a fate worse than mine.”

  I nod my head. “That’s definitely true.”

  “Who were we running from anyway?” she asks.

  “Tim.”


  “What?” I think she says it louder than she meant to say it. She looks around and then shrinks down in her seat. “Tim?”

  I just nod. “Yeah, it was Tim.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her lips together. It looks as if she’s trying to hold in a laugh. “No!” she exclaims. “I think I always just assumed it was your parents.” She stops and tilts her head to the side. “If I would have known it was just him, I never would have run.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” I agree. “That little dipshit!”

  “So, Tim’s the reason you tripped?” she says. “He’s the reason you have that scar? Does he know that?”

  I shake my head. “No, I never told him about it.”

  She stares into my eyes. It looks as if there’s a permanent smile on her face now. “I had fun that night. Even if we never actually got to the skinny-dipping part, I still had fun.”

  “Me too,” I agree. “It was worth the scar.”

  We both laugh. And then we laugh about high school, about college, about the past. And then we laugh about the present too. We laugh until our stomachs hurt. And I laugh away the hope I held onto as a boy. I laugh away the childish dreams I made alongside a creek long ago. I laugh until I can’t feel a set of green and gray eyes on me anymore. But then eventually, Amy and I stop laughing, and gradually, I feel those green and gray eyes return to me—as if they’re begging me not to let her go just yet.

  “River.” Amy’s stare settles on mine. She’s more sober now, even though I can still see the crazy happy behind her blue eyes. “It’s funny how life doesn’t always work out the exact way you think it’s going to work out.”

  I consider it for a second, and then I nod. “Yeah,” I agree.

  I watch her pretty lips slowly turn up. “It’s funny too that sometimes it does...work out exactly how you thought it would,” she adds.