The Truth About Letting Go

by Leigh Talbert Moore

  My eyes cut to him. “She works all the time. And when she’s here, she never says anything or acts like she even cares.”

  “She cares.”

  The smell of onions, pepper, and garlic fill the air, and I watch my brother slice off a pat of butter and throw it in the pan. Suddenly the kitchen smells delicious.

  “Did she tell you Eric James was over here the other day?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Local widower? Jason’s dad?”

  “Jason James. He was a year behind me in school, right? Friendly guy. They live in that Tudor.” He points with the knife out the kitchen window.

  “Yeah, well, his dad was over here last week, and he and mom spent a lot of time on the couch.”

  Will goes to the sink and fills another pan with water then sets it on the stove with the fire on high. “Isn’t he a psychiatrist?”

  “That’s what the sign says.”

  “Well, I’m asking about you. What’s going on with my little sister?”

  I look down at the piece of pasta on the bar and turn his question over in my head. The wine has relaxed me, and I feel like telling him everything. But at the same time, if I tell him everything, that’s some pretty major fallout. Definite grounding, too. So I opt for the edited version.

  “I liked Jordan. He was sweet and he talked to me about Dad. But he wants to be a pastor.”

  I wait to see what my brother will say to that. He doesn’t respond, just opens the jar of tomatoes and dumps the whole thing in the pan with the onions, peppers, garlic, and butter and starts to stir. The pot of water has started to boil, and I watch him take a pinch of salt, toss it in and then walk over to pick up the box of dry pasta. He goes back and dumps it in, then waits for it to return to a boil before cutting down the fire.

  “That’s it?” he finally says.

  “What more do you want to know?”

  “Are you still going out with him?”

  “A future pastor?” I shake my head and reach for the glass. One more sip of wine.

  It just hits my lips when Will places his hand on the glass. “I said enough, small fry.”

  I hate wine anyway. It makes me want to cry and blab and curl into a little ball, and right now I’m on the verge of doing all three things.

  “So you’re not going out with him because he wants to be a pastor,” my brother repeats, looking at me like he’d somehow handle it differently.

  “Don’t act so surprised,” I say. “You wouldn’t date a nun.”

  “Do nuns date?”

  “You know what I mean.” He’s grating the cheese, and I poke my finger into the little mound forming. “At least I’m honest. And I respect his decision.”

  Will stops grating. “Hang on. Are you saying you’re sexually active?”

  Heat floods my face. “No. Well, not technically.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m not discussing my sex life with my brother.”

  “No argument,” he shudders and continues grating. “Just don’t get pregnant.”

  “God, Will, shut up! I won’t.”

  We’re quiet a minute as he finishes grating. “So Jordan’s out because my little sister’s a nympho.”

  “You’re such an idiot. I am not.” I take a pinch of the cheese and put it in my mouth. “I’ve kind of been seeing this other guy.”

  “Another guy? And here Mom made it sound like you weren’t doing anything. Sounds like you’re doing too much.”

  He turns his back and stirs again.

  “We’re just hanging out, and, well… I don’t know. That might be over, too.” An image of me struggling against the truck seat fills my head, and I feel slightly nauseated.

  “Sounds like a lot of unresolved issues.” He lifts the pot of boiling pasta off the stove and carries it to the sink where he drains and rinses it with cold water.

  That’s the truth. But now my thoughts are on Dad and Will and how my older brother spent all his time with Dad those last six months while I still had to go to school every day.

  “I never saw you cry for him,” I say, holding my head in my hands. The room feels like it just tilted.

  He turns his back to the sink and frowns at me. “This again? What are you so worried about, Ash? That I didn’t love Dad enough?”

  “I want to know how you can not feel it as hard as I do.” Now I know I’m a little drunk. I would never say this to anyone otherwise. “This pressure is so bad. I want to cry every day, and the only way I can make it stop is to… is to…”

  I can’t finish as my shoulders break, and I put my hot forehead on the cool granite countertop. I’m crying, and my head’s spinning. I feel a light touch on my shoulder before Will lifts me into his arms. I’m shaking as I cry, and for a little while, my brother just holds me. Then he helps me stand up and carries me-helps me walk back to my room.

  “You’re so skinny,” he breathes as we walk. “You need to eat dinner. But first you’d better rest.”

  I don’t say anything as I stagger to my bed, this time slipping back a tiny corner of the blankets and crawling between them. I’m asleep before he closes the door.

  * * *

  I open my eyes again, and it’s dark. The clock says 3 a.m., and my mouth is dry and sticky. I’m not really hungry, but the house still smells like tomato-ey pasta. I slip out of bed—I’m still wearing my school clothes—and walk over to the door. My head hurts, so I stop in the bathroom and grab an ibuprofen before heading to the kitchen. The small fixture over the sink is glowing, and it casts enough light for me to pour a huge tumbler of water. I’m about to switch on the big light when I see a book lying out on the counter. On the cover’s a picture of baby me and Dad. Will’s stuck a post-it to it, and I lean in to see what it says.

  Dad made this for you when he was sick. I was going to save it until you felt better, but I think you need to read it now. It’s how I can manage not to “feel it” so much, as you like to say. Maybe it’ll help you understand. I hope it’s not too soon. –W.

  A bowl of bread is sitting on the counter, so I take a piece and pick up the book before I walk back toward my room. I switch on my lamp and open the front cover. The first picture I see inside is of Dad and me running in the neighborhood. It’s black and white, and I’m only about ten. Will or Mom must’ve taken it. Under it is written in Dad’s hand, “I still want you to run a marathon.”

  “Oh!” I gulp a hiccupped inhale and slam the cover closed before I run to the bathroom and throw up the two bites of bread I just ate and what looks like a glass of red wine.

  I hang over the bowl as my fingers fumble to find pull the lever and flush. Then I collapse on the floor of my bathroom, still holding the toilet handle as I sob.

  Will was wrong. It’s way too soon.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, that book is safely hidden under my king-size bed. I barely remember dragging myself off the stone floor of my bathroom, staggering across my room to my bed, pulling it off the blankets and using my foot to shove it as far under and away as possible.

  My head’s pounding and my eyes are swollen, but Mom won’t let me stay home from school. That’s her rule. No fever, no vomit, no excuse. Only these days, I wonder if she’d even know if I didn’t go. I suppose the school secretary would call her. I’m holding frozen peas to my head trying to ease the damage from last night. Stupid Will suggesting I drink wine. Wine just makes me weepy and talkative, both of which I’ve sworn off for the duration.

  Mandy picks me up as always and we drive the three streets and two turns to school. Colt texted me again last night, but I’d left my phone in my room while Will was over, and then after he put me to bed, I don’t remember much. Today I’m supposed to be meeting up with Jordan at lunch to talk about Dad, but now I’m not so sure I want to do it again.

  “So… since I’ve decided not to be mad at you about it,” Mandy breaks through my distraction. “That means you can tell me what’s happenin
g with Colt. At least let me live vicariously. And seriously. I’m trying to be patient, but mourning chic is not a look.”

  I glance over at her. Her long, blonde hair’s pulled into a low, side braid, and she’s wearing a pink halter dress. It’s something I would normally wear on a warm spring day, but lately all I’ve been pulling on are jeans and dark T-shirts or tanks.

  “I can’t figure you out,” she continues. “It was like you were coming around, and now you’re back to gone.”

  “Sorry. You might’ve heard. My dad died?”

  Mandy exhales and blows her bangs. “And you know I want to understand how you feel. But I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

  “How exactly do I help myself?”

  “By getting back into life! Tell me about Colt. I’ll start. He’s an amazing kisser, and he needs very little instruction on how to use his hands.”

  I think about being in the truck with my partner in crime and frown. Then I glance over at Mandy once more. We’re pulling into the parking lot, so I take a chance. I can always end it if things get awkward.

  “You two messed around after the luau, right?”

  “Oh my god,” she shivers. “I texted you all about it.”

  “Right.” I think about her sending texts while what she was describing happened. “So your hands were free.”

  The car’s parked and she jumps around in her seat, eyes huge. “Oh. My. God. Did you just ask if my hands were free?”

  I reach for the door handle, but she pulls me back. “Are you doing freaky stuff? Last time I checked you hadn’t even broken the seal!”

  I think of my shins turning fifty shades of purple and try to pull away, but she holds on.

  “Tell me!” she cries.

  “No.” I jerk my arm back and get out, slamming the door, but she jumps out of her side.

  “Ashley! That is not fair,” she calls as I walk quickly away. “I tell you everything.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to know everything.”

  I pick up the pace and duck into my building. I speed down the hall but slow my pace when I see what’s waiting. Colt’s at my locker, his back to Jordan, who’s doing an equally poor job of pretending not to care they’re inches apart. Colt smiles when he sees me approaching.

  “Not many girls can rock jeans and a tee,” he says. “And no make-up. Bloodshot eyes. You smoke a bowl without me?”

  Jordan stands up and slams his locker. “Hey, Ashley,” he says, pretending not to see Colt.

  I glance up at him. “Yeah?”

  “We meeting up at lunch again?”

  “You see me talking, human growth hormone?” Colt catches my arm and pulls me back to his attention. “Why won’t you answer my texts?”

  I shrug. “My brother was home last night. I left my phone in my room.”

  He nods and exhales. “I wanted to hang out again. Maybe make it up to you.”

  Jordan’s waiting, and to be honest, I’m not feeling Colt today. “Okay,” I nod.

  His lips tighten for a moment, but then he catches my chin and lightly kisses me. It’s still warm and soft. It still feels good.

  “Later,” he says as he backs away. “All yours, Stretch.”

  I turn to my locker as Jordan makes some noise under his breath. “So, we meeting up? Lunch?”

  I finish getting my books and slam the door. “I don’t know, Jordan. I’m kind of not into it today.”

  “Okay.” For whatever reason, his understanding tone makes me want to cry again. Then he touches my arm. “Listen, I meant it when I said we could go at your pace.”

  I nod. “It’s just… having Will over last night kind of got to me.”

  He walks all the way with me to chemistry, where we stop. I see him start to touch me and then drop his hand. “No problem. Want to hang out at lunch anyway? We can brainstorm other stuff. Story structure. Or something.”

  “I might check out at noon.” You’re not counted absent for the day if you can drag your ass to lunch, which makes no sense with block scheduling.

  That’s the moment I decide to look up, and the concern in Jordan’s blue eyes almost sends me over the edge. “I’m checking out,” I say definitely.

  “Okay. Get some rest.”

  * * *

  But I don’t check out. I spend the morning in class thinking about Jordan and my talk with Will and the book and Colt, and at lunch, I drift out to the quad and sit on the grass where Jordan always eats. Minutes later he steps out of our building. When he sees me, he freezes. Then he smiles and another student rams him from behind, forcing him to start walking to where I’m sitting.

  “You didn’t leave.” He lowers himself to the grass in one fluid motion and digs the memo pad out of his pack.

  “I still don’t want to talk about Dad.”

  “Okay.” He flips the pages to a clean sheet and waits. “Structure then. I was thinking we could open with a shot of your house…”

  “I want to talk about you.” I study the maroon tee he’s wearing with a different pair of jeans. He’s propped on one elbow with his long body stretched on the grass. Now his blue eyes are curious.

  “You’re really coordinated,” I say.

  His stomach bends when he laughs. “What?”

  I shake my head and look at my palm. “To be so tall, I mean. You’re not clumsy and stuff.”

  He drops the pad and pulls a sandwich out of his backpack. “Thanks. Want half?”

  “I usually grab a salad inside.”

  He puts half the sub on my lap. “Stay here. Now what do you want to know?”

  I examine the corned beef on wheat with cheese, lettuce, and black olives. It smells like good Italian, and when I take a bite, my stomach growls.

  “You should feed her more.”

  “I was kind of sick last night.”

  “I thought your brother was home?”

  I nod as I chew. “He thought I should have a glass of wine. I think I had two.”

  “Underage drinkers. Don’t know when to say when.”

  “I told you. I have problems.”

  He smiles before biting his half. “I was just teasing. You probably did look like you needed a drink.”

  A soft breeze blows my hair forward and all the pages in Jordan’s memo pad flip open like a fan. I set my food down and pull all my hair back at my neck, watching him eat. Then it all comes out in an unexpected rush.

  “When did it happen? This calling or whatever. Did you see a light? What makes you think you have to do it?”

  He pauses and puts down his lunch. Then he leans forward and smoothes my forehead with his finger. “Don’t frown. It’s not like I’m going to jail for life.”

  My shoulders relax, and I look down at my sandwich. “No?”

  Jordan rolls back onto his stomach, picking the olives out of his half. “Mom knows I hate olives.”

  “Give them to me,” I reach over and take them. “Now tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know exactly. It wasn’t this one thing. Like you said, I didn’t see a light or anything. I just grew up here, watching Dr. Andrews, how he helps people and visits sick people. Like your dad. He thinks about things and what they mean and explains it to people, counsels them. It’s what I want to do.”

  “Then be a teacher.”

  “Part of being a pastor is being a teacher.”

  “But you don’t have to give up your life if you’re a teacher.”

  Jordan laughs. “I bet some teachers would argue you do.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He pulls a blade of grass and is quiet for a moment. Then he speaks slowly, as if picking out the words. “I don’t think of it as giving up my life. I think life is more than keeping rules versus doing whatever you want. I think it’s about leaving things better than how you found them.”

  I fold the paper around my sandwich not feeling so hungry anymore. “Leaving what things?”

  “You know, people. The world.”
<
br />   “So volunteer. Work at a shelter on the weekends. You can still do good without giving up everything.”

  “Everything? Ashley, there’s so much more going on in the world than sex.”

  “Not when you kiss me.”

  He looks down, and I notice his ears turn slightly pink. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.

  “I mean, well, that’s how it feels.”

  He simply nods, and I know he feels it, too.

  “All this church stuff is just a way of controlling us, Jordan. Not only that, it’s a way of controlling us from ancient times when everything was different.”

  “Things weren’t so different.”

  “Walking on water, healing sick people, bringing people back from the dead. None of that happens—if it ever did. How can you believe any of it?”

  “I don’t know. But I do. And I want to find out how things like that make sense today.”

  “And what if you find out they don’t? Or just… what if you don’t like what you find out?”

  He exhales and watches the memo pad blowing in the breeze. “I’m not looking for a particular answer. Or to control what I find.”

  I pull my knees into my chest and hug them. “Jordan. Why?”

  His blue eyes flick to mine. “Okay. Remember how Dr. Andrews said you can’t keep God in a box and then pull him out when you need him to fix a problem and then stick him back in so he doesn’t mess with your life? I think it’s like that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think God is dynamic and unpredictable. Good stuff happens, but so does bad stuff. And it all happens to challenge us. To make us grow and change.”

  “Things like my dad dying?”

  Jordan rubs his forehead and frowns. “I don’t know. But, well… he’s not suffering now. He’s in a better place, right?”

  “How about he never got sick to start with?” Anger tightens my stomach. “It’s not better now. I can’t talk to him or ask him for help. I can’t argue with him or tell him I don’t want to run today. Or that I love him. I can’t see him, Jordan. He’s gone. I’ll never have him again.”