“I hope one day you can forgive me, because if sacrificing us is what it takes to keep you alive, that’s what I have to do.” I pull his ring—the one I took off my necklace earlier in the morning—from my pocket and drop it on the rolling table’s laminate top. It hits with a thunk that bites me like a slug to the chest. “I’ll always care about you, Jett, and that’s something you can rely on.” I spin toward the door, rushing into the corridor before more tears tumble down my cheeks.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The rideshare I called from the hospital dropped me off at the pier per my request. After standing in front of the post for what seemed like hours, metal nail file clenched in my fist, I just couldn’t bring myself to scratch off my name. I walked out of his life, but I won’t act as though we never existed.
My feet slap the pavement, the thuds playing percussion to the tree frog symphony in the fronds overhead. My sandals, clutched in my right hand, thump against my thigh as I walk down the road. The ocean breeze dies with each inland step, and the stray hairs liberated from last night’s braid glue themselves to my forehead.
Memaw’s car isn’t in its space. I whisper a quick thank you to the sky and sprint toward the steps. Diving under the covers and forgetting the sneer painted on Jett’s face sounds like an excellent plan, except for an odd stirring in my gut. One I haven’t experienced in over a year.
I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to hit something. Hard.
Fury swells in me like a tidal wave, gurgling up from my toes and threatening to blow my head off my shoulders. My therapist kept urging me to relinquish control, to let my emotions flow without barrier. She said I’d cry. I’d scream. I might even want to lash out. She never mentioned turning green, busting out of my clothes and morphing into some muscle-riddled monster.
I unlock the front door and slam it behind me as unholy hell erupts like a volcano. Fists clenched at my thighs, I stomp toward my room. My teeth are gritted with such force the back of my neck quivers, and ripples shoot across my ears. I kick the door, which swings open and hits the sheetrock with a thud. Papers blow off my desk and flit in front of my dresser before landing on the hardwood floor.
A navy shirt sleeve smooshes out the top of a closed drawer. I grab the silver handles and rip the drawer from its frame, turning it out on the floor. A mountain of long sleeve T-shirts accumulates on the rug, a massive target for a karate kick which sends a rainbow of cotton flying in every direction.
“Damn shirts! Stupid ugly ass shirts!” I ball a yellow one in my fist and hurl it at the wall, where it hits the “Memaw’s House” painting she’d hung above the bed. The frame dislodges and skids down the wall, momentarily sticking on my comforter before sliding behind the bed and onto the baseboards with a thump.
The flowered Dammit! Doll perches on the foot of my bed. Its “X” eyes stare at me. Taunting. Laughing. I charge forward and grab its skinny legs. “That’ll teach you to look at me like that, you little shit!” My voice breaks, surging forth through bouts of raspy breaths as I rail the doll against the mattress. Each strike ushers in a series of ghostly remembrances, memories I want cleansed from my brain for all eternity.
Thwack. The screech of slicing metal. Thwack. Noli-Belle’s shrieks. Thwack. Mama’s silence. Her open eyes that didn’t see. Thwack. Red and blue flashing lights and ear-piercing siren wails. Thwack. Dad driving off without looking back. Thwack. Jett’s car in pieces across the asphalt. Thwack. Him in the bed, connected to tubes and machines.
All because of me. Every bit of it.
I’m screaming. I don’t even know where it’s coming from, but it pours out of me like water from a spigot I can’t turn off. My lungs burn. My head swims with little skyrockets and stars glittering in the periphery. I stumble forward onto the mattress, the doll hurtling out of my hands and against the brass lamp on the side table. The lamp tips over and nudges the glass orb with Mama and Noli-Belle’s ashes off its walnut stand. It rolls over the table’s edge. The ashes swirled inside light up like crystals in the glint of the sunlight bleeding through the blinds.
Bam! It slams the wood floor and rolls about a foot along the rug’s edge, bumping into the book I’d been reading, which lays on the floor.
I drop to my knees and scramble to the orb, holding it close to scour the surface. Not broken. I clutch it to my chest as my eyes settle on something poking out from underneath the book jacket. The picture is stiff between my fingers, its front glossy with a sheen from the light that makes his green eyes sparkle more than ever. The inscription in black marker: To Cami. You Drive Me ______. XO, Jett.
Away. I drove him away.
It was the only choice.
The rage evaporates, and agony takes over. It’s as if a wild beast claws at my insides, begging for escape. I sink into the T-shirt pile, salty tears flowing at will. Rivers of them run toward my ears and drip-drop onto the rug. I clutch the glass orb and Jett’s picture to my chest. These are the only parts left of the people I love, people who now seem so unreachable.
Love. My breath catches as the thought races through my mind. Oh my God. Why didn’t I see it before? How could I not realize? I curl sideways and draw my knees to my chest, holding his picture close to my face. That square jaw he clenches when I’m trying his patience. The way his full lips flat-line when I meet him snark-for-snark. Those jade eyes that laser through me in a glance and melt all my excuses.
This is more than a summertime fling. More than some trivial distraction.
I’m in love with Jett.
And now, like everyone else, he’s gone.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“CJ?” Memaw’s voice, softer than usual and about an octave lower, follows behind the three small raps on my bedroom door. “Just a warning. I’m through with this knocking shit. I’m coming in.”
It was inevitable. She’d already exercised herculean feats of patience these last few days, giving me the time and space that I needed. She left food trays outside my door, and they’d remained untouched. Each time she brought one—and about a million times in between—she’d stand in the hallway, calling my name outside the door I’d kept shut and locked. But Memaw’s not one to be ignored for long, and obviously her patience has worn thin. The lock clicks open, the door creaking as she pushes it in.
My only response is to press my face even farther into the space between my pillow and the wall. My body curls into the fetal position. Her footsteps thump over the hardwood before the mattress depresses behind me, tilting my body ever so slightly closer to hers.
“Jenniston called. Twice. She’s worried about you. She’s worried about Jett. The boy cares about you, CJ. And you care about him. That accident didn’t change anything. It just scared you. Call him. Talk to him. Better yet, go see him.”
It’s an impossible request. Seeing him, hearing his voice, will only torture us both and make me want to change my mind. I know without a doubt my decision to end this is the best thing for Jett, even if he can’t see that right now.
I’m a coiled statue, willing my muscles to remain rigid. Memaw sighs and runs her fingers through my hair. Sad notes tint her voice as she whispers, “You came back to life this summer, CJ. You were resurrected. Don’t leave us again.”
The mattress groans as she stands, the heft of the coils springing back up behind me. A chill finds me in the absence of her warmth. I refuse to look back at her or acknowledge any of what she’s saying. My way is best. I have to believe that or else I’ve single-handedly destroyed my one fleeting chance at happiness.
Memaw pads back to the door, the tap-tap of her ring against the molding warning me of her frustration. “Silence is our enemy, not our friend. It solves nothing. It only makes things worse. You of all people should know this, CJ. You’ve lived it before. Don’t live it again.” She huffs out a breath and continues, “But it’s your decision. Make the right one.”
The right one. Nothing’s a guarantee. You have to do what’s best for those you love.
No matter how much it hurts.
My stomach sinks to my toes. There’s no other answer, but being in this town, knowing he’s so close, is torture. I can’t give in and plead for his forgiveness, no matter how the pain slices through my chest. So the only option is to leave—go far away and hope the aching subsides.
And suddenly, it all feels so final. We’re over. This summer’s over. This whole charade is over. I stand up, drag my suitcases out of the closet, and open them on the floor.
The morning sun peeks over the tops of the palm fronds. Light beams shoot across the front porch, weaving in through the cut-glass panel on the front door and scattering rainbows across the floor. Memaw left a few hours ago—one of her usual volunteer days at the conservation center—and I’ve been wandering through the house, looking at everything, remembering the good times, committing it to memory so I won’t forget when I’m gone.
Which according to my phone should’ve been ten minutes ago, but the rideshare driver is late.
My room is restored to its original design, only the “Memaw’s House” picture, the Dammit! Doll, and the long-forgotten strappy, blue dress Memaw tried to force on me remain as any indicator I’ve been here this summer. That this had been my home, if even for just a fraction of a lifetime.
The bedroom door clicks shut as a car horn blares from outside, and I rush to the living room windows, sweeping the curtains back to get a better view. A tan Subaru idles in the driveway. I fling open the front door, signaling I’m on my way, and pull my bags across the threshold onto the wooden-slatted porch. When they’re safely stacked by the steps, I pause inside the foyer once more. A thousand memories flood in and sting my eyes as I flip the brass handle lock and pull the door closed for the last time.
It’s best this way. There is no other choice.
I turn around, not noticing the driver who’s made his way to the porch to help with my bags, and slam face-first into his chest.
Hippie James. Mr. Sausage himself.
“Is Bessandra here?”
“What are you—” I start, then realize this must be the second job I overheard James telling Memaw about. Great. Of course I’d end up executing an incognito escape and wind up with Memaw’s boyfriend as my getaway driver.
He scrunches his eyebrows together, a look of disappointment clouding his eyes. “I got the call for a ride at this address. I kinda thought Bessandra might be playing a fast one on me.”
I don’t even want to think about what kind of “fast ones” they’ve been playing. “Sorry to disappoint, James. It’s only me.”
He grabs the two large suitcases and starts down the steps as I tote my duffel and laptop case. “Your Memaw didn’t tell me you were taking a trip,” he hollers back over his shoulder.
“She doesn’t know.” He stops at the car and whirls around, his mouth hanging wide. “She’ll find out soon enough. But not from you.” My voice is forceful, strong. “Understand?”
James shakes his head, sitting my bags by the trunk, and scratches the balding patch on his head. “You’re putting me in a bad position here. Bessandra and I have gotten closer, and I can’t—”
“Take this.” I hand him a twenty-dollar bill. He’s right, but I’m not asking him to lie outright to Memaw, just to leave out the fact he’d been here today. A lie by omission, I guess. “Get a bottle of wine and come back here tonight. She’ll need you.”
“Hush money?” he asks, staring at the bill.
“Something like that.”
“CJ, I can’t.” He tries to shove the money back at me, but I cap my palm over his.
Our eyes connect, mine pleading for his understanding or at least his cooperation. “Please, James. I have to get out of here. I have to.”
He nods, shoving the money in his pocket, and begins loading my bags in the trunk. I open the door and slide in the backseat. I probably could get away with sitting up front, but forcing conversation isn’t tops on my to-do list right now.
James slides behind the wheel, looking at me in his rearview mirror. “Where to?”
I glance at my phone, tapping the map icon on my search return. “The closest Greyhound station, which looks to be in Walterboro.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, throwing it in reverse and backing out of the driveway. I turn around in my seat, watching Memaw’s house disappear. When it’s gone, I press my face to the side window, and the town slips by in a blur. So many memories, now nothing more than a whir of yesterdays sliding from view.
James stops near the first beach access to let a large group cross the four-lane road. In the grocery store’s parking lot ahead, Jett’s racing trailer is parked at the curb. Banners extend from it to every light post on the lot while large speakers pump out music for gathered onlookers. In the middle of it all, sitting at a long brown table, is Jett. He’s dressed in his racing gear, signing autographs and posing for pictures with Rachel and Trévon at his side. Their cars are parked catty-cornered to the table and fans mill around, checking out the engines underneath the hoods.
Tears spill down my cheeks, streaking toward my chin before dropping off onto my T-shirt in big wet blotches. Watching him disappear from view is an impossible task. The pain rips through me, and I reach for the door handle. Squeezing hard, I fight back the inclination to hurl myself onto the asphalt and run toward him. Right when the battle seems too much to bear, the road clears, and James hits the gas. Jett gets smaller and smaller, fading away from my life and into obscurity.
Up the road, Memaw’s Cabriolet is parked out front at the conservation center. She’s inside, pursuing her life’s devotion to charity work, never realizing she’ll be coming home to an empty house. She’ll never know how much this summer meant to me—how much she meant to me. She’ll be disappointed I couldn’t dig myself out of this hole and be strong like her.
On the left, the Johnsons’ market comes into view. The place where everything started. Bo works out back, unloading big crates from the back of a truck, while Gin sweeps the mat out front. They look happy, smiling and content, and that’s when the realization hits me. These people—no more than strangers three short months ago—have become my family. I love them, and the thought of not seeing them, not having them in my life, is another wallop to the chest. I’m in this backseat crying while they’re going on with everyday life. For them, nothing’s changed this summer. It’s like I’ve never been here at all. But for me—everything’s changed, and the deep ache clawing in my chest tells me running away won’t be able to counter the effects they’ve had.
I wrench my earbuds from my pocket, plugging in my music and escaping everything around me. Within a half-hour, James pulls into the Greyhound station, gets out, and opens my door before putting my bags out on the sidewalk.
“How much do I owe you?” I glance between him and my wallet.
He slams the trunk lid, walks over, and gathers me in a huge hug. “The ride’s on me, kid. Take care of yourself.”
I nod, struggling to hold back the tears yet again, and gather my bags as James slides back behind the wheel. He pauses, staring out at me. “CJ? Call your Memaw when you get where you’re going.”
“I will. And James?” I swallow hard, taking a deep breath to steady my voice. “You take good care of her, okay? She’s a handful, but she’ll be the best thing that’s happened to you since you got to Edisto.”
“Deal.” He smiles and slams the door, accelerating away from the curb. I watch until his taillights vanish then make my way to the ticket counter.
A lady in a blue and gray uniform looks up and smiles. “How may I help you today?”
“One, please, on your next bus to Greenville.”
I grab my laptop bag and step into the bus’s aisle, squeezing myself near the front of the forming line. With a pshhhh, the door folds open, and we all move forward. No one touches. No one even acknowledges the existence of others, unless to grumble about how the line’s moving too slowly, though it’s not directed at anyone personally. Ju
st another pissy observation to set afloat in the world.
The lady in front of me, swathed in a flowy tan cardigan (ridiculous since it’s pushing 100 degrees outside) catches the sleeve on the hand grip at the steps. She flails her arm wide and the sweater flows into my face as it comes unhooked. I swat it away, and that’s when I see him standing there, waiting with arms folded.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Dad?” The unloading zone turns to quicksand underneath my feet, sucking and gluing them in place. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing.” He grabs my elbow, shuffling me away from the disembarking passengers, whose not-so-quiet complaints about me holding up the line echo through the terminals. When we’re safely out of the way, his eyes dart between me and the others, who stare at our exchange as they walk from the steps to the baggage claim at the side of the bus. Part of me wants to scream—really belt one out—and draw the attention of the whole place, especially the city police officer standing near the ticket counter. It might create the diversion I need to escape from Dad and all his pathetic attempts to be some kind of a parent now.
Problem is, I don’t know where I’m headed. Leaving Edisto had been the priority. I hadn’t considered all the logistics of my plan. That and, despite my anger, I kind of want to hear what he has to say.
“Memaw called,” he continues. “The guy who gave you a ride to the bus station told her where you were headed.” Who’d have pegged Hippie James as a big snitch? So much for that hush money I slipped him.
“So she had her people spy on me?” I wiggle my fingers in air quotes for “people.”
Dad ignores the question. “You were making progress, CJ. What happened?”
My mouth drops open. Is he seriously standing here like Most-Concerned-Father-of-the-Year? “How would you even know? I haven’t heard one damn word from you all summer.” The venom-drenched words shoot out with little resistance. I hate we’ve been reduced to this, but at this point in time, our family’s happy memories are barely clinging to life in the farthest recesses of my mind. They’re so hazy I’ve even wondered if they ever really happened at all.
As Much As I Ever Could Page 22
