The Trouble With Goodbye

by Sarra Cannon

  “This is gorgeous,” I say. “And you made this?”

  “I did.”

  I watch as he runs his hand lovingly over the surface of the wood. I can feel his love and his passion for this place and every piece in it.

  There’s a depth to this guy I wasn’t expecting. There’s so much more to him than anyone realizes. People in town think he’s nothing more than a loser with a troubled past, but looking around at all this beauty, I see a side to him no one else gets to see.

  And I wonder why he’s trusting me with it.

  “Where did you learn to do all this?”

  He looks away and shakes his head.

  “What?”

  When he looks at me, I see fear in his eyes. I know that look. It’s my look. A mix of shame and pain and betrayal. This is the flash of darkness I’ve seen in his eyes before.

  “You can tell me if you want.” I move closer to him and put my hand on his cheek. “We both have our secrets. Scars we’re afraid to let anyone see. Whatever it is, I won’t judge you.

  I think about my own secret. About what happened the night of my date with Burke Redfield. Am I ready to talk to Knox about that? I’m scared what he’ll think of me. I’m scared he won’t believe me or it will make things awkward between us. But at the same time, I desperately want to connect with someone who will understand.

  He might be the one.

  He swallows and puts his hand on mine. He looks down, avoiding my gaze. “It’s not easy for me to talk about,” he says. He shakes his head.

  “You don’t have to if you aren’t ready.”

  “I want to tell you,” he says. “I really need to tell you, because I’m scared if I don’t, someone else will.”

  My insides twist and I flinch. I don’t mean for him to notice, but he does.

  He takes a step back and my hand drops to my side. “Someone already has, right?” he says. He runs his hand through his hair. “Shit. So tell me, what’s the story everyone tells about me around here?”

  I close my eyes briefly and suck a breath in through my nose. I have to tell him the truth, but I don’t want him to be angry. “I’ve heard a couple of different things,” I say. “Mainly that you got in trouble up in Chicago for drugs and assault and ended up in jail for a few years before you came down here.”

  He nods and bites his lip. “That’s not as outrageous as I expected.”

  “Is it true?”

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “If I thought it was true, I probably wouldn’t be here right now,” I say. “And even if it is true, I know you’re not like that.”

  He leans against a large metal saw that’s set up on this side of the room. “Technically, it’s all true,” he says. “I went to a juvenile detention facility when I was fifteen years old on charges of assault and possession.”

  I stay very still, waiting to hear the rest of the story.

  “The possession part was true. I was really messed up from having to go live with my dad,” he says. “I got into the wrong crowd up there real fast and for me, drugs were a good escape from having to think about how much I missed my mom or how much of an asshole my dad was.” He shakes his head, as if trying to shake off the bad memories. “I definitely got in my fair share of fights too, but the person they charged me with assaulting?” He meets my eyes. “I didn’t do that.”

  “Who was it?”

  He hangs his head low, and I am not sure he’s going to continue. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says. “It doesn’t really matter anyway. The person told the truth a few years later and they let me go.”

  The room is quiet for a moment, and I don’t know what to say. I know he hasn’t given me the whole story, but I don’t want to press him either. I want him to share when he’s really ready to share it. And maybe we’re just not there yet.

  “So how does all that lead to you making furniture?” I ask, bringing the conversation back to where it first started.

  He looks up and smiles. “Juvie is where I learned to do all this,” he says. “Most of us were technically still in high school while we were there, so they had us take regular classes everyday. English, math, whatever. But there were trade classes too. They stuck me in wood shop. Turns out I had a knack for it.”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” I say, touching the edge of the table next to me.

  “I always knew it was something my grandfather was good at, because my mom used to bring me here to Fairhope as a kid. We’d stay in this lake house and spend time with my grandparents. I knew he’d built this house with his own hands and that he’d done all the woodworking himself,” he says. “But I never really thought it was something I could do until I got to juvie."

  “When I got out, it just didn’t feel right to go to college,” he explains. “I wanted to get out on my own. Do my own thing for a while. I knew this old house had burned up years ago, so I thought why not? Uncle Rob needed help with the bar and had an extra room over the garage, so it worked out perfectly.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through all that,” I say.

  “Don’t be,” he says, walking back toward me. “I’m actually kind of grateful for my time at juvie. I was lucky, really. They wanted to try me as an adult for the assault charges, but my father intervened and made sure I went to JDC instead of prison. I mean, it still sucked and the assault charges were bullshit anyway, but at the same time, I knew I was on a bad path with those guys I thought were my friends at the time. And I was actually really glad to get away from my dad at the time. At least in juvie, I was able to stop doing drugs and find something that gave me purpose for the first time in my life.”

  He moves to stand next to the table with the exposed sap. He runs his finger along the upraised part where the sap is trapped inside.

  “When my mom died, I was so lost,” he says. There’s a faraway look in his eyes and maybe some hidden tears. “I didn’t even know my dad at all. I didn’t remember him from when I was little and he never so much as sent me a card for my birthday or anything. When I got shipped off to him and taken away from everyone and everything I’d ever known and loved, I was angry. Broken. Maybe if he had welcomed me into his life and his new family, things could have been different, but he didn’t. He reminded me every single day that he never wanted me in the first place. He had managed to claw his way out of the deep south and build this perfect life for himself. Big-shot career, beautiful young wife, twin girls who were just babies when I moved in, a huge house in the suburbs. He spent more money in a month than my mom made in two years working her job teaching school.

  “I guess I reminded him of the life he had before he made it big. He wanted nothing to do with me, so I made it my mission to fuck up as much as humanly possible just to get his attention.”

  I put my hand on his arm.

  “Getting away from him was bittersweet,” he says. “I missed my freedom. I was angry for a very long time. But I found that I could really be myself when I was working with wood. I know it sounds weird, but it’s true. I was desperate for some kind of outlet back then. Something that could give me the focus I needed. Something to pull me out of my own head and stop being so mad all the time.

  “Once I got the basics down, I started to experiment. Different woods have different levels of strength, different colors that can be brought out in different ways. I had a good teacher who really went out of his way to mentor me in there. When I finally got out, this was all I really wanted to do.”

  I stare at him in awe, imagining the strength it must have taken to endure all that and still come out searching for something better in life.

  “You’re not like any guy I’ve ever met before,” I say. I move to him, putting a hand on his chest so I know he hears me.

  He runs a hand through his dark hair. “So you don’t care that I’m a convicted criminal?”

  “It doesn’t change who you are,” I say. “Or how I feel about you.”

  He twists his lips. �
��I doubt your parents would like it.”

  I laugh and lean back against the table. “My parents would go apeshit,” I say. “You’re definitely not what they have in mind for their little girl.”

  He swallows and his shoulders tense. “Where does that leave us?”

  I shake my head. There’s no easy answer to that question. “It leaves us right where we are, I guess. I can’t live my whole life according to what my parents want,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve ever said anything like that out loud, but I realize it’s something that’s been on my mind since I first got home to Fairhope. When I was little, I always believed that what my parents wanted had to be what was best for me. Now, after all that’s happened, I’m not so sure.

  “So you don’t think I’m a loser for spending all my time working in here instead of going to college?”

  I study him. “Is that something you’re really worried about? That I’ll think you’re a loser for not going to school?”

  He shrugs. “I know it’s the right choice for me, but I also know it’s something that’s important to your family,” he says. “I’m never going to be able to compete with guys like Preston Wright or whoever up at your fancy school in Boston. But that’s not me.” He looks around at the furniture he’s created. “This is me.”

  “You’re not anything like all those other guys. It’s what I like best about you.” I search his eyes so he knows I’m being sincere. “And all this? It’s amazing. You’re an artist.”

  Our eyes lock together and something passes between us. An energy I can’t explain.

  He steps toward me and hooks his fingers in the belt loops of my shorts.

  I swallow, my heart pounding in my ears and my throat suddenly dry. My lips part slightly as he pulls me closer.

  “I think you’re amazing,” he says, his voice low and so sexy it melts my insides.

  He’s biting that lower lip again and I can’t take my eyes off of him.

  Warmth shoots through my veins as his thumb brushes the bare skin just above my waistband. My whole body responds to his touch. And I want more.

  His hands grip my waist and he lifts me off the ground, setting me on top of the table. My legs part and he steps into me. My hands go to his neck and I pull him in, our lips saying what our voices can’t.

  I wrap my legs around his waist and feel him press hard against me. A fire ignites everywhere his body touches mine.

  Our kiss deepens and I can’t get enough. I open, hungry for the taste of his tongue.

  His hand slips under my shirt in the back and he presses his palm flat against the bare skin of my back, pulling me so close, not even air will fit between our bodies. We’re tangled up in each other, and I never want to let go.

  A moan escapes from me as his mouth travels across my jaw and down my neck. I lean my head back and close my eyes, passion boiling on the surface of my skin. I run a hand through his hair and his lips leave a trail of soft kisses across my neck and up toward my ear.

  We’re both out of breath, our bodies yearning for more, when he pulls away to look deep into my eyes.

  “I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about these kinds of things,” he says. “I’m not proud of my past, but it’s a part of who I am. I’m still working through a lot of shit, but for some reason, I’m less broken when I’m with you.”

  “Maybe it’s because we’re both broken,” I say.

  He hugs me again and we hold each other until the thundering of our hearts begins to slow.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Over the next few weeks, Knox and I are inseparable except when we’re working.

  Most evenings, he comes by Brantley’s and sits with Colton at the bar before heading in to his shift at his uncle's bar. I usually get off work before he does and lately I’ve been hanging out at the bar a few nights a week. My mother doesn’t ask where I am, but every word out of her mouth to me is toxic and tense. I avoid her at all costs.

  Knox and I spend our afternoons and our days off out at the lake house. He is teaching me to use the saw and planer, but mostly, I just watch him work. I’ve also been spending some time inside the house, sweeping away any old debris, cleaning up anything that’s too burned to save. Sometimes I bring a journal to write in. Knox says keeping a journal in jail helped him work through some of his anger and hurt, so I am trying my hand at getting my feelings down on paper.

  It’s funny how it’s hard to be honest, even with myself.

  He still hasn’t asked me to tell him what happened up at school, and I haven’t brought it up. The closer I get to him, the more I realize I'll eventually have to tell him. But for now, I'm just not ready.

  Every once in a while, I’ll see Molly’s face in a magazine or news report, but I think the media is getting tired of her story. According to Sophy, the case should go to trial early next year and once that’s over, one way or another, things will begin to calm down.

  I’ve gone out with my friends a few times and Penny asks me to lunch a couple times a week, but more and more I’m saying no. I tell them I have to work or that I have plans. As hard as I try to recapture the depth of our old friendship when we’re together, it all feels very superficial. I know Penny thinks I’m being weird for not hanging out and partying with them every night, but the more time I spend with Knox, the less I want to be with anyone else.

  “The thing is, I’m just not the same girl I used to be,” I say to him one night as we sit on the dock looking up at the stars. “I don’t fit in with those girls anymore. Still, I know they’re pissed at me for being home and not hanging out with them.”

  “You don’t have to be anyone you’re not,” he says. He picks up my hand and lays a soft kiss on my knuckles. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”

  “But they were my best friends, you know? I feel guilty for not spending more time with them.”

  “Why?” He lays back against the dock, his hands behind him like a pillow. “People are coming in and out of our lives all the time. Just because someone was your friend two years ago doesn’t mean you’re still going to have the same things in common now. Especially when your life experiences are so different.”

  I'm falling for him. Hard. I can feel it so deep down in my heart, but it terrifies me. Am I really capable of loving someone? Am I really worthy of being loved back?

  I can't face those questions. Not yet.

  “What about you?” I ask, laying down next to him. I nestle in to the crook of his arm and place my arm across his chest. “Do you still talk to any of your old friends in Chicago?”

  He shakes his head and gets that faraway look in his eyes he sometimes gets when he talks about his past. “I didn’t really ever have any true friends in Chicago.”

  “No friends in Chicago. No friends here in Fairhope except your cousin and me. How is that possible?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re the sweetest, most creative man I’ve ever known in my life. You’re easy to talk to. You’re kind. Funny. I would think a guy like you would have swarms of friends,” I say.

  He turns his head a little toward me and our lips are almost touching. He answers in a near-whisper. “No one sees all that in me but you.”

  “Only because you don’t show them the real you,” I say.

  “Not everyone in the world is willing to overlook my past the way you are.”

  I lean in and press my lips to his. “Then everyone else in the world is missing out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The next day, we are working on a new idea Knox had for a wood and leather chair when he realizes he’s out of upholstery nails.

  “I need to run into town to get more,” he says. “Want to come with me?”

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  He smiles and takes my hand, leading me to the truck.

  The wind is blowing hard today and some of the sweltering heat has lifted. As we drive toward town, I point out the dark clouds overhead. By the time we reach
the hardware store, the rain is pouring down so hard we can hardly see five feet in front of us.

  I’m wearing flip-flops, shorts and a tank top. I’m going to be soaked through. Knox rummages through the space behind the seat and pulls out a tattered green rain coat.

  He holds it over his head and runs over to my side of the truck, doing his best to cover me up as we make a dash toward the front of the hardware store. There are a couple of major holes in the old coat, though, and by the time we get inside, we’re both drenched anyway. I grab the coat and put my finger through one of the holes.

  “Nice umbrella,” I tease.

  He grabs my finger and kisses the tip.

  I can’t stop laughing. I go up on my toes and kiss him, our hands clasped.

  “Leigh Anne?”

  My body tenses at the sound of my mother’s voice. I pull away from Knox, suddenly freezing cold from the rain soaking my clothes. I let go of his hand.

  My whole life, I’ve never known my mother to purposely go to the fucking hardware store. Ever.

  “Mom?” I wipe the rain from my forehead and push my hair back. I take a step away from Knox, then immediately hate myself for it. “What are you doing here?”

  Her lips press into a straight line and she looks from me to Knox and back. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “We were just coming to get some nails,” I say, but I know that’s not what she is really asking me.

  Mom stares at him for a long moment, before finally making that condescending clicky sound she makes with her tongue. I hate that sound. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Oh.” I squirm in my soaked flip-flops, not sure what game she’s playing. “This is Knox Warner, Mom. Remember? You met him the night I first came home. He got me home safe after my accident.”

  “It sure is,” Mom says, her smile tense and fake. She holds her hand out to him. “I guess it completely slipped my mind.”