Except these were my feelings. I could admit that maybe my perception of the situation was wrong, but the sickening jealousy was real, and it wasn’t like it would all go away if I gave in and went back to him right at that moment. It wouldn’t change that he was still staying with Jenny.
So I kept walking. Behind me, Zac sighed. But he didn’t say anything else.
When I got home, I went to Joy’s room and dragged out her Carringham Academy yearbook.
As I sat on her bed, I opened the book to the index in back and scanned for Joy, then Jenny’s name. By yearbook appearances alone, they had nothing in common. Joy’s name in the index had one page number next to it—the one with her school picture. Jenny’s page numbers, on the other hand, ran into the next line. Jenny was on the school paper, played field hockey, and participated in several clubs and dance committees, including prom. I tried to visualize Zac in his tux, but that had been the spring of my freshman year, so off my radar. Besides, trying to conjure up a vision of Jenny and Zac’s prom photo didn’t make me feel any better, because invariably, it led me to wondering if they’d kissed. Ugh. I couldn’t predict what this week alone with Zac meant, or why Jenny Oliver worried me so much. Other than an acute case of jealousy.
Maybe my art movement should be titled, Envy. I was good at that. I could do a whole series of paintings in green.
Why couldn’t I let it go? Normally, I could reason away my disappointment. I knew how important the scholarship was for Zac. What was wrong with me? Why did I feel like I wanted to march over to the Anderson’s and barricade myself in Zac’s room for the week?
I pushed the book off my lap and picked up my phone. I scrolled through my contacts, stopping at Joy’s name. If there were anyone who would understand or who could make me feel better for going against the grain, it would be Joy. She was the queen of the no rules lifestyle. Or at least she was. Probably still was a little seeing as she moved to a farm instead of going to college.
But I didn’t call her, because she was so annoyed the last time I called. That was only a couple of days ago. Too soon, according to her.
Last summer, after she first left home, she’d called me whenever she felt like it, and I listened, but she couldn’t seem to do the same for me. Plus, after our last discussion, I realized I’d been the one initiating the calls the last couple of months. She wasn’t calling me at all. I didn’t get it. What was wrong with us? We were mostly fine as kids, but even when we fought, my mom used to make it all better by saying that family relationships were like the waves in the ocean. We could never really stop reaching for the shore (our family). We would always need to come back because we were forever connected, and not only via DNA, but by the moon, gravity, and the earth’s rotation.
Except my relationship with Joy was less like the waves in the ocean and more akin to walking on shells, or hot sand, while barefoot.
I flopped back on Joy’s bed, staring at ceiling. I swore I could still see the word love shimmering underneath the paint job. Joy had once written sonnets all over her walls and ceiling with a Sharpie marker. My dad had been furious over that mess. Although, I was the one who ended up painting over it after she moved out. It took six coats of beige to cover Shakespeare. But it was faint, barely there, like Joy’s current view on relationships.
What had she said? Love was like pulling off a scab? Something depressing like that.
But in a way, her whacked out reasoning had merit. I considered my own attachments. My parents. Joy. The art program. And now Zac.
Rejection was like yanking at an ugly, crusty scab.
Chapter 7
The Long and Abstract Road to Trip On or Thelma Buys the Farm, Lithograph in Two Panels
Chloe got to my house an hour early.
“Get up, sleepyhead,” she said, pouncing on my bed. “We have a road to start tripping on.”
I groaned, burrowing deeper under my comforter. “It’s too early. It can’t be ten already.”
“The sun has been up for hours.” She plopped down on the edge of my bed. “Trust me. I watched it come up.”
I folded back the blanket and focused on Chloe, blinking at the brightness streaming in my window.
Once in focus, I saw her haphazard ponytail—no longer centered, with hair askew. She wore a faded gray sweatshirt that ballooned around her tiny frame. I squinted at the logo and saw a soccer ball.
“Is that Taylor’s sweatshirt?”
Chloe started to roll her eyes at me, but then she collapsed backwards on my bed.
In tears.
“What’s wrong?”
“The swan . . . and she couldn’t remember . . . and he read the journals . . .” Chloe mumbled into my bed, her words lost in a sea of quilted cotton and her own sobs.
She rested her head on my leg but not before she dried her face on my bedding.
Who was this emotional wreck of a creature?
“Um, Chlo, are you talking about the movie you watched last night?”
She nodded, sniffing.
“And Taylor?”
Again she nodded, this time, along with a big, jacked up sob.
“But you said you were fine with the breakup. You said--”
“I know what I said, Grace.” Chloe sat up, throwing her arms in the air for emphasis. “But I’m not okay. I’m an emotional mess. I can’t stop thinking about him. I miss him.”
“I’m sorry.” I frowned, then squeezed her hand. I felt terrible for Chloe. Even though I didn’t know what it was like to break up with a boyfriend, I kind of already knew the early stench of breakup possibility with all the Zac weirdness. “You should’ve called me instead of watching sad, romantic movies.”
Chloe squinted at me, but she said nothing. Instead, she kind of deflated. “You’re right.”
My jaw went a little slack. “What?”
“You’re right. I think I’m experiencing PTSD.”
“Post…”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“How do you figure?” I thought PTSD was something that happened to people who went off to war, or some other seriously traumatic event, but Chloe was up on the head shrinking vocabulary. So I deferred to her.
“Taylor breaking up with me was such a shock that I shut down, as a protective measure. But now that some time has passed, those walls are thinning, and well, I guess I’m feeling the surprise of the breakup coupled with three weeks of suppression.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But that’s why I need this girls’ week. That’s why we need to go now. The sooner, the better. I need to heal.”
I stared at her. I’d never seen Chloe this emotionally distraught or this serious about something that was out of her control. She never said things like I need to heal. She just healed.
“I know you don’t get it, because you and Zac are so in love right now, but--”
“Actually, I think I kind of broke up with him last night,” I said, realizing the possibility as I said the words. Had I broken up with him? After a sleepless night feeling sick over Zac, it sure felt like it.
He hadn’t called or texted at all after I left his backyard. Then again, I didn’t either.
“What?” she asked with a sniff.
I filled her in on the sordid details.
“He called you a spoiled brat?” She sounded indignant. “He used those exact words? You’re not exaggerating?”
I shook my head. “He compared me to Lily.”
“That’s just wrong. You’re his girlfriend. Not Jenny. I don’t get why he needs her help anyway. So what if she got that same scholarship. His portfolio won’t look anything like hers. Besides, if he’s worried about money, he needs to go for volume. Start filling out tons of scholarship apps. Not spend a whole week perfecting one application with his old girlfriend.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say girlfriend. For sure, they went to prom, but . . .”
“So they didn’t date?”
“Well, he sai
d they did. I don’t know to what extent. We didn’t talk about relationships at all before. Not that I’d ever really had any to talk about. This sucks.” I dropped my face into my hands.
“I don’t get it. Last Christmas, Taylor’s cousins came in from Ireland, and he invited me to every dinner and every event. I kept insisting he spend time with his family, but he said he didn’t want to be without me.”
“Ugh.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t helpful.” Chloe put her hand on my shoulder. “None of what Taylor did should be noted. He’s a Neanderthal.”
Emotional Chloe was absorbing into logical Chloe. The world was righting itself.
Except for the business between Zac and me.
“Come on, Grace. Get up. Let’s get moving. We’re going to Thelma and Louise it right now.”
“Thelma & Louise? That’s the road trip movie you watched?” I stared at her. Sure, it was two women in a car, but the movie also had a very crazy, demented ending. “Seriously, you need to consult with me the next time you watch a movie.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were outside Chloe’s car, and I tossed my oversized duffle bag in the backseat next to her suitcase.
“I’m driving.” I grabbed the keys out of Chloe’s hand.
“What? Why?”
“I’m pretty sure I can’t trust you after that Thelma and Louise remark. You know they drive off the cliff in the end, right?”
“Whatever.” Chloe dropped into the passenger seat and flipped the mirror down only to pop it back into place and stare out the window.
I got behind the wheel, headed out of my driveway, and thought about Zac, of him kissing me, mixed with the spoiled remark, and my insides mushed into some heavy, caustic dread. Like kamikaze butterflies.
I pushed the memory away and focused on the road, but as we crossed Maple Avenue, I caught a glimpse of Higher Grounds, and Zac popped into my thoughts. Again. This back and forth struggle went on until I approached the on-ramp for the interstate. I had memories for Zac everywhere I turned.
“I can’t stop thinking about Zac.”
Chloe continued her window staring. “So…stop.”
“Okay and then what? Get PTSD and find myself crying in a bag of chocolate covered popcorn while watching a crazy themed movie marathon?”
“I didn’t eat popcorn with chocolate. It was Cheetos—and besides Love, Texas is not crazy. It’s basically the most romantic movie ever.”
“Love, Texas? Holy Godiva. Chloe, no.”
“What? I like when the movie sets up the hero’s death in the beginning. It’s not shocking, and I can focus on the romance.”
I glanced at Chloe, but she only shrugged, facing the passenger window as we passed a pasture of grazing cows.
“They sure have it easy,” she said.
“Huh?”
“The cows.” She pointed out her window, then focused on me. “Think about it. Their whole day is about eating grass. No boys or heartbreak or cracked movies.”
“Need I remind you of hamburgers?”
Chloe waved a hand, dismissing my question. “Those are milking cows.”
“That sounds fun. Eating grass and getting hooked up to a machine that pulls on your--”
“Okay fine,” Chloe said. “I was trying to cheer us up. What I really want to say is love sucks. Never fall in love.”
I snorted. “Now, you sound like Joy. Last time I talked to her, she was equating love and attachment with scabs.”
“I imagine she’s not in charge of putting the happy into Happy Hills?”
I held out a hand, palm up.
“Does she actually milk the cows at that farm?” Chloe asked.
“I don’t know. She mostly talks about planting and compost, stuff like that, as if it’s all some philosophical enlightenment section of a theme park. Better than home and her family, anyway.”
“Oh,” Chloe said, then we rode along for another couple of miles without saying anything.
“I asked Joy if she knew Jenny, but she didn’t.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Do you think Zac will show up at the beach at the end of the week?”
Chloe swiveled away from her window. “Are you going to talk about Zac and Jenny the entire week?”
“That’s bitchy, Chloe.”
“Well, I think we need this to be a girls’ week, not talk about our stupid boyfriends, ex or otherwise. But I’m starting to think that every day we’re down there, you’re going to wonder if Zac’s going to show up. You might as well drop me off at your sister’s farm. Otherwise, this is going to be the most depressing spring break ever.”
“Depressing? You want to talk about depressing? You’ve been practicing your fifty yard stare out the window for the last half hour.” My nostrils flared.
“Actually, you know what’s depressing? Watching you give up on your dreams.”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You may have fooled everyone else, but I know you’re feeling terrible you didn’t get into the art intensive at CU.”
“I’m over that.”
“Bullcrap. You think I didn’t catch the fact that you also didn’t sign up for an art class when you put in for next year’s classes? You’re afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes. Afraid. You’re afraid to admit you really want it. Afraid to pursue it. Afraid of what everyone will think if you do it and fail again.”
“Wow. You spend three weeks denying your sadness over Taylor and, now that you own it, you think everyone else is in denial, too?”
“Because you are.”
“You go on with your bad self. Think what you want.”
“I will.”
“Fine.” I squeezed the steering wheel so hard, I envisioned the car crying mercy.
Silence. I was pissed, but she didn’t seem to care. In fact, she continued her stupid, roadside gazing.
“You want happy? You want unafraid?” I asked.
Chloe barely glanced at me, but when she did, it was enough for me to catch her rolling her eyes. “Whatever, Grace.”
“Oh, I’ll show you whatever.” I flicked my left blinker on.
Then I turned into the dirt drive between the highways, the space reserved for police cars and emergency vehicles, and made a U-turn. This was an emergency.
Chloe’s hand pressed against the dash, holding on as I made the slightly haphazard detour.
“We’re going to Happy Hills,” I said, not even looking to Chloe for approval or argument. Instead, I flipped on the radio. Loud.
Chapter 8
A Landscape of Nudes (and Gnats), Oil Paint on Burlap
I dropped my duffel bag on the cot. The tiny frame groaned in protest, but I didn’t move. I didn’t want to face Chloe. There was no denying my impulsiveness.
What have I done?
I stared at the wall of the also tiny cottage situated at the back of the farm’s property. Cottage was being generous. It was a bare bones one-room camping house. Designed for one, maybe two people.
And as many insects as could fit. I waved away the cluster of gnats that took up residence near my nose, eyes, and ears. They wanted entrance, like some miniature aliens looking for a host. Ew.
Chloe sighed behind me, but she also stayed silent. After all, it may have been my execution that got us there, but it was her suggestion.
“Okay, here’s another one.” My sister pushed a second narrow cot through the door. Joy had been unusually surprised to see me, in an almost excited way, that I didn’t want to disappoint her by getting back in the car and driving the rest of the night to the Outer Banks. Spontaneous visits were better than regular phone calls. Duly noted. Joy butted the cot up against the foot of mine and stood back, assessing her work. “There.”
“Thanks,” Chloe and I said in unison, and I finally looked at her. We both managed a sheepish smile.
“This is going to be so much fun.” Joy planted her hands on her hips. She had a new tattoo.
It was the letters L and V, stacked, on the pinky side of her left hand. I started to ask her about it when a shadow fell across the floor of the cottage.
“What’s going to be so much fun?” a male voice asked from the doorway. I turned toward the door, but with the angle of the sun, all I could do was blink.
“Reed.” Joy reached an arm out to the guy standing at the entrance. “Come meet my little sister and her friend.”
Reed stepped in, immediately dwarfing the already tiny room.
Now I knew why my sister was so distracted at Happy Hills.
Joy smiled. She stood in the middle of the one room, full of energy—not unlike the swarms of gnats.
“You have to show Grace the goats,” Joy said to Reed. “And the pigs.”
“Yeah?” His voice had a bit of a drawl. For some reason, when he talked, warm pancake syrup came to mind. Maybe because Reed was theoretically attractive, in a roughened country singer sort of way.
“Do you want to see the goats?” Reed maintained eye contact with me, which was direct and disarming, while also managing to appear as if he were laughing somewhere on the inside. His dark hair was short-ish, the edges curled up some, giving him a boyish charm—a charm that completely warred with the rest of his manly self. And here I thought my sister’s motivation at the farm was her newfound passion for agriculture.
No wonder my sister considered my weekly phone call a disturbance. She was too busy with Hot McDonald.
“What’s so funny about goats?” I asked, surprising myself. I didn’t intend to pluck the question from my random thoughts and actually ask it.
He shook his head, shooting me a half smile. I couldn’t help but match his expression. Maybe he was also a nice guy, which was something that could only be good for my sister. Or maybe he was the source of her love is a scab speech.
“I’ve got weeding to do,” she said. “Reed, why don’t you give Grace and Chloe a tour of the farm?”
“I’m exhausted.” Chloe flopped onto the cot. “Sleep problems. Another symptom of PTSD.”
The Art of Second Chances Page 6
