The Last to Let Go

by Amber Smith

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she answers for me.

  I feel closer to her than I’ve ever felt before, yet there’s this vast distance between us, all at the same time, with love and hate and everything in between. I want to leave her here the way she’s left us, but I also want to hold on and never let go. She’s like a stranger in this one way, but in another way she’s more real than she’s ever been, more alive than I’ve ever seen her. Not only my mother, but someone else, someone more than my mother could ever have been, someone bigger, more honest, stripped down in this way that’s raw and powerful and terrifying and fragile. She’s free now, in her way, somehow.

  AMENDS

  I TELL MYSELF TO be brave, be bold, be honest, one more time, as I press my finger against the glowing doorbell next to her front door. And after a pause I hear this muffled chiming from inside—ding-ding-dong.

  Caroline’s car pulls out of the driveway slowly.

  I wait. But no one’s coming. I ring the bell again. I hear footsteps. A girl answers the door. Not Dani. But I recognize her from the pictures in Dani’s room. Her sister. She looks different in person—shorter than Dani, more like their mother’s height. And her hair is long and flowing.

  She greets me with a “Hey, you’re not our Chinese food.”

  “Oh, no,” I say with a laugh. “I guess I’m not. Is—is Dani here? I’m Brooke.”

  She opens the screen door to let me in. “Yeah. I know who you are. I’m Tori.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I offer.

  “Same here, come in. Dani, you have a visitor,” she calls out over her shoulder as I step inside.

  “So, I guess your semester’s over?” I ask as we stand there.

  “Yeah, I got in yesterday, actually. We’re catching up on sister time. Movies. Takeout. You know.”

  I smile, hoping that one day it can be like that between me and Callie again.

  “Hey . . . ,” Dani says slowly, stopping abruptly as she enters the room, “what are you doing here?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt you guys, I—I wanted to see if we could talk for a minute?”

  Dani looks at Tori, who looks at me. “I don’t mind,” Tori tells us.

  “Okay, come on.” Dani leads the way through the house and up the stairs like she had that first time, except she doesn’t speak a word until we reach her bedroom. “Fine. I’m listening,” she finally says, turning around and crossing her arms.

  “I’m sorry,” I begin. “I’m so sorry about the way I acted, the way I treated you.”

  She stares at me—clearly, that’s not going to be good enough.

  “You were the first person to make me feel like I could be myself, that I could have a life that didn’t revolve around what everyone else needed me to be. And I don’t think I knew how to handle that.”

  I stop, waiting to see if she has anything to say. But she doesn’t.

  “I guess I wanted to keep you separate, outside of all the chaos. I didn’t want all the other stuff going on in my life to touch what we had. ’Cause it was so good. It was so good and I can’t believe I screwed it up, because all I wanted was to protect what we had.”

  She sits down on the edge of her bed and stares somewhere around my knees. I don’t know if she’s hearing me. If I’m being clear.

  “I was afraid,” I admit to her.

  “Afraid of what?” she asks, finally meeting my eyes, and I see all the hurt that’s still there, the pain I caused.

  I shake my head. “Of being honest, being happy. Afraid of letting you in. Afraid you wouldn’t love the real me, with all the drama and baggage.”

  “Well, so what’s changed now?”

  “Everything.” I hear a laugh behind my words. “Everything’s changed and . . . I would really love to have you back in my life, but really in my life this time.”

  There’s this unbearable silence.

  “Listen,” she begins, “we were about to do this whole sister movie-marathon, junk-food thing, so—”

  “Oh. Okay, I’ll—I’ll go.”

  “No, I was asking if you want to stay?”

  “I wouldn’t be messing up your sister time?”

  She shrugs. “I have her for the whole summer,” she tells me, a very small smile beginning to emerge. “But this doesn’t mean we can just pick up where we left off, you know.”

  “I know,” I tell her. I don’t think we could even if we tried.

  I get home from Dani’s that night feeling so full of something—gratitude, maybe? Hope? Or maybe a little bit of both. I open my bedroom window and climb out, making my way up to the roof. I take my phone out of my back pocket.

  Looking out over our neighborhood, I realize that this is the last time I’ll ever be up here, the last time I’ll ever see things from this vantage point again. I try to memorize it all. The moon is full and low in the sky and looks so much bigger, so much closer than usual, more gold than silver tonight. And I think about how the moon’s gravity affects the tides of the oceans, pushing and pulling at the water, and I wonder if it has a similar effect on people, too.

  I dial his number. It rings and rings—I expected nothing different.

  An automated message answers, telling me, in yet one more way, that my brother “is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.”

  “Aaron, it’s me. I promise I’m not calling to yell at you. I wanted to say that I’m thinking of you. And also . . .” I pause—I want to ask him if he’s looking up at the sky like I am right now, but I don’t. “You were right. I have to leave. And I am. I’m moving in with Caroline. Just wanted you to know. I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re doing better now.” I can feel my voice trembling, so I let the rest of the words tumble out quick and messy: “Okay, Aaron. Call me when you can. Love you, bye.”

  LETTING GO

  I SIT DOWN next to Callie at one of the old plastic tables outside Jackie’s. She’s reading a book, drinking a smoothie, letting the sun spill over her.

  “You’re not working?” she asks, taking note of my regular clothes.

  “Not today. Is that the mango one?” I ask her, gesturing to her drink. “It my favorite too.”

  She slides it toward me and I take a sip.

  “What are you reading?” I ask.

  She flips the book over to show me the cover: Little Women. “Getting started on summer reading early—I blame you for that,” she adds, trying not to smile.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I joke. “Hey, can we talk for a sec?”

  “Okay,” she answers uncertainly, setting the book facedown on the table.

  “You know, Callie . . .” I take a breath before continuing. “I guess I’ve been realizing that maybe I haven’t really been there for you. I mean, wanting us all to be together isn’t the same thing as us being there for each other. Does that make sense?” I ask. “I think I got confused about what was important.”

  She nods. “Yeah, I know.”

  “I wanted to tell you, I went to go visit our grandmother—Mom’s mom.”

  “What?” Her eyes go wide. “I thought she was dead.”

  “Why did you think that?” I ask, laughing.

  “Don’t know. Just assumed, I guess.” She pauses, pondering this new information, then asks, “What’s she like?”

  “Um . . .” I try to figure a way to describe her. “She’s kind of odd, actually. But nice. A good person. We’ve been talking, and I wanted you to know I’m going to move in with her.”

  She holds up her hands, as if pushing something invisible away from her.

  “No, no, I’m not asking you to go with me. But she wants to meet you.”

  She nods, listening more closely.

  “You know, she has a pool. Not hers, really, but at her building. It’s very blue. Shaped like an L. It has a diving board. And Caroline—that’s her name—she wants to invite you over to go swimming sometime.”

  Now she’s nodding and smiling.

 
; “Sound like fun?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and pauses before she continues. “You could finally teach me how to dive.”

  “I could,” I agree. “I will.” I wait a few minutes, let the silence settle things between us. “Well, I’m gonna go—I have to take care of some last things at the apartment. Pack up what’s left. Is there anything you want me to keep?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Okay.” I give her hand a squeeze and she lets me. “Later.” And as I look at her, I finally see how much she’s changed too, just like the rest of us.

  On the walk home—my last walk home—I think about how the spring suits Callie. It makes her brighter, like something inside of her is in bloom, something coming back to life. And maybe we’re all like a season in that way. If we are, then Aaron would be the fall—all fiery and fickle, complicated and beautiful in his own way, in this way that lets me forgive him for doing whatever he needs to do to keep going. And me, maybe I’m most like the winter. Maybe I need that stillness, as much as I’ve tried to fight it. I need it like oxygen, that quieting of the world around me, so I can finally listen to myself.

  Mom and Dad. I think they’re both like the summer. And maybe that was the problem. They were too similar; they needed the same things from each other. I have to think that their love was like the sun, warm at first, comforting, peaceful. Perhaps they thought they could bask in each other forever, but they burned too hot, too fast, too bright, until all they had was a fire that raged out of control, uncontained and wild—dangerous. And maybe I have a little of that heat inside of me, too. But I have enough of their good parts in me, I think, to balance out.

  Dani and Caroline are waiting downstairs, both of their cars full. I stand in the doorway, one foot in the past, one in the future, my last cardboard box perched on my hip. Inside, it contains my globe, the atlas and the leather bag from my birthday, the snowflake book, and the picture of all of us together in that fancy silver, now glassless, frame. And for once time isn’t jumping backward or forward.

  I think about how I’ve finally learned something here after all. About what love is and what love isn’t. It’s not so monstrous, not so dangerous and unknowable—not something to fear. And it’s not as simple as just finding someone else to hold on to; it’s not letting that other person crawl into those hollow spaces inside of you. I think love also means you have to stand on your own for a while, stand with yourself and for yourself, before you can ask someone to stand there next to you. I think maybe that’s the trickiest part, and that’s where our parents got it wrong.

  There’s a line. Between right and wrong, truth and lies. But that line moves every second; every moment of our lives it seems like we’re just drawing more and more lines that we swear we’ll never cross. Until we do. And I guess we all have to live in the gray area, the space between the lines, between darkness and light, good and bad, love and hate.

  For so long all I wanted was to be free. But it never occurred to me that I was the one who was holding on, that I’d be the last to let go. I take one more look, in the here and now. And I say my silent good-bye to every crack in every wall. Good-bye to every stain, every mark, every scar. As for the memories, I’ve boxed them up too, and I’ll take them with me.

  I close the door gently—letting go, at last.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book was inspired, not by one real-life story, but many. Every minute, twenty-four people become the victim of domestic or intimate partner violence—affecting twelve million people in the United States every year. It is estimated that a child will witness nearly one in four of these acts of violence. Studies show that children who are exposed to violence in the home are more likely to be abused later in life.

  Domestic violence is often referred to as one of the most “predictable and preventable” crimes, yet there is still so much silence, stigma, shame, and misunderstanding surrounding this kind of abuse. Although this book is fictional, what I hope it illuminates is that behind every statistic are real people with real lives and real struggles. The cycle of abuse can be extremely difficult to break free from; leaving is never simple or easy.

  If you or someone you know needs help, you are not alone. For free, safe, confidential 24/7 support, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or visit thehotline.org. Help is also available at loveisrespect.org, which operates the Teen Dating Abuse Hotline (call: 1-866-331-9474 / text: loveis to 22522).

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It feels like this book has been in my heart and on my mind forever, but I didn’t actually start writing it until 2013. I had to put it away many times, often for long periods, when it became too difficult to keep telling this story. And without the following people, I honestly don’t know how I ever would have finished.

  First and foremost, I thank my readers—some of you I’ve had the privilege of meeting face-to-face, and others via e-mail, tweets, messages, and posts. Please know that your kind, thoughtful, supportive words, and the personal stories you have shared with me, mean more than I could ever say—thank you for always reminding me why I write.

  To my agent, Jess Regel, you continue to be the best champion a writer could possibly hope for, and I feel so fortunate to have you and Foundry Literary + Media in my corner—thank you for, well . . . basically, everything.

  Deepest thanks go to my brilliant editor, Rūta Rimas. For your belief in this story, for your guidance and insights, and for always seeming to know exactly in which dark corners to shine a light, I cannot thank you enough.

  Thanks are also due to Justin Chanda and the excellent team at Margaret K. McElderry Books, as well as the entire Simon & Schuster Children’s division—from the talented designers, copy editors, and proofreaders, to all the dedicated people on the library and education, sales, marketing, and publicity teams—it takes a village to raise a book, and I’m so grateful to be a member of yours.

  Many thanks to Holly Summers-Gil, Judy Goldman, Shannon M. Parker, and Bryson McCrone for reading early drafts or portions of this book—your encouragement, feedback, enthusiasm, and friendship have made all the difference. To Heather Summers, not only are you one of my best friends, you are also one of the most devoted Domestic Violence Advocates there ever was—thank you for your important, yet often thankless work, for our long talks over the years, and for reading and providing feedback on this book when it was still kind of a mess. And Margo Smith, thank you for sharing your knowledge of criminal justice, and for talking me through the legal stuff I was sure I’d never get right.

  I’m also grateful to the following people for making what is often referred to as a “lonely” profession a lot less so, and for welcoming me into an amazing community of generous, talented authors: Amy Reed, Robin Constantine, Jaye Robin Brown, Megan Miranda, Megan Shepherd, Rebecca Petruck, Brendan Kiely, the Nebo Retreaters, the Sweet16ers, and all the incredible YA authors with whom I’ve had the honor of serving on panels—I have learned so much from each of you.

  And last but not least, thanks always to my family, to my dear friends, and to the many people, come and gone, who have taught me lessons in letting go.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PHOTO BY DEBORAH TRIPLETT

  AMBER SMITH grew up in Buffalo, New York, and now lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her two dogs. Fueled by a lifelong passion for the arts, story, and creative expression, Amber graduated from art school with a BFA in painting and went on to earn her master’s degree in art history. Her debut novel, The Way I Used to Be, was a New York Times bestseller. Visit her online at AmberSmithAuthor.com.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Amber Smith

  Jacket photograph copyright © 2018 by Jill Wachter

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