The Truth About Letting Go

by Leigh Talbert Moore

  “You’re soaked.” Jordan’s holding my shoulders, and I’m laughing and crying, reaching for him. “Your shirt… What happened to you?”

  I pull the sides of my wet blouse across my body and fold myself into his chest. He slides down the zipper of his raincoat and wraps it around me along with his arms. My shirt’s plastered closed, and I snake my arms around his waist, holding onto him. His arms tighten, and I can feel him kiss the top of my head. I shiver even though it’s warm. Our bodies pressed together are even warmer, and it feels so good. So safe. He pulls me in the direction of the car.

  “You left your bag by the fire,” he says as we go. “It’s all wet, but I have it in the car.”

  I nod against his arm. “Thanks.”

  “Here, I’ll take you home.”

  * * *

  Nobody greets us when we get to my house. Jordan and I slam into the mud room off the side of the kitchen, and I go into the bathroom to grab two thick, white towels.

  “Just hang it on the peg there,” I call out as I reach into the cabinet.

  Then I see myself in the mirror. Black smudges are under my eyes and my hair is plastered to my head. I quickly drop the towels and scrub my fingertips over the black. Better, but my hair needs major help. No time. I whip the hand towel off the ring and wrap it around the ends. It’s not great, but it’s at least presentable. Spa chic.

  Jordan’s sitting on the long bench waiting when I step back out. I love that he’s here. It’s silly, but now that I’ve stopped fighting it, I just want to be with him. All the time.

  “Come on,” I say, going through the side door down to the basement. “Will left some of his clothes here. You can toss your shirt in the drier—”

  “I wasn’t going to stay,” he starts. I turn quickly and we bump into each other. He catches me, and then drops his hands, looking away from my still-transparent, wet shirt.

  “Sorry,” I wrap my towel around my shoulders like a cape. “Please stay. Just til your shirt’s dry.”

  He hesitates for a half second before smiling. “Okay.”

  I do not squeal. Out loud. Jordan follows me down to the basement, where I dig through the laundry basket sitting on top of the drier. I hold up my brother’s navy tee.

  “You can wear this, and I’ll run upstairs and change.”

  He nods and I pause at the door, watching as he pulls his wet shirt over his head. Jordan’s skinny, but I still get a little thrill seeing his stomach flex as he struggles with his clothes. He lowers his arms and catches me. “What?”

  “Come upstairs when you’re done.”

  Five minutes later we’re in the kitchen. The white towel is over his shoulders, and I’m in terry shorts and a tank. I drop my soaked clothes in front of the door to the basement. My wet bra is safely hidden in my bathroom, but my panties are MIA. I frown thinking of where they might be, but when I look up and see Jordan, I decide to worry about that later. He’s here, and everything feels different and right somehow.

  One big change in our house over the last few months has been the reappearance of junk food. I turn my back on the church, and Mom turns her back on green living. Processed foods, chips, and Nutella have gradually popped up next to the quinoa, ground flax, and certified local honey. I grab a bag of bugles and slide up onto the granite-topped island in the center of the room.

  “Your house is huge,” Jordan says before leaning forward on his arms beside me. I pass him the bag and he grabs a handful of the cone-shaped chips.

  I put one on the tip of each finger and pretend to grasp his nose. He catches my hand and bites off one of my fake “fingernails.” I close my hand around his and slide closer as he crunches.

  “Thanks for saving my bag,” I say.

  “It was the least I could do.” He winks then looks around. “Your mom’s not here?”

  I shrug, remembering our fight. “We haven’t really been talking much. Since the thing with dad.”

  “As in a few weeks or six months?”

  I pull my hand away and fish for another bugle fingernail. “The whole time.”

  He rubs the top of my knee. “That’s not good. You need your mom.”

  “Tell me about it. But it’s her deal. She’s always leaving and staying gone all hours.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She says she’s working, but I don’t know.”

  We’re quiet, and Jordan walks over to the fridge where a picture of me and Will is stuck with a magnet. “Your brother’s a good guy. Can he help?”

  “Not from school,” I say, crunching another bugle nail and desperate to change the subject. “So now my turn. What did your parents think when you told them you wanted to be a missionary?”

  He smiles. “I’m not going to be a missionary. I’m just helping them for the summer.”

  “And reporting back.” I jump down and run over to the fridge to grab us both drinks. “You’re a spy!”

  “I’m not a spy.” He cracks the top off a Coke, and I hop back up on the island.

  “Will your stuff be printed nationally?”

  “Don’t think so. Don’t know. I’ll send it to Dr. Andrews, and he’ll decide what to do with it.”

  “No wonder you’re kissing his butt.”

  Eyes roll. “He’s my mentor. And it’s cool. I go with him on hospital visits, and we visit people at their houses. Mostly old ladies. Widows and stuff.”

  He’s back, leaning beside me on the bar, and I reach over to slide his bangs to the side. I can’t seem to stop touching him.

  “You really like doing it.”

  “It changes how you see things when you stop worrying so much about yourself. You see how everybody walks through hard times, and it’s more like we’re in this together. Helping each other.”

  Everything about him is focused and inspired as he talks. His eyes meet mine, and I can’t help it. I lean into him, slip my hand to his cheek, and touch my lips to his. He doesn’t move, and for a moment, I simply feel the wonderful, warm sensation of our lips touching. Then I lower my hand and look down.

  He clears his throat. “So what happened out there?” he asks.

  I sit up, fiddling with another bugle. “Colt and I sort of… parted ways, I guess.”

  Saying we broke up makes it sound like there was more of a relationship than there was. Jordan doesn’t answer, but his warm hand goes to my foot. He gives it a squeeze, and my eyes flicker to his. When I see his expression, my stomach tightens. A smile is playing on his lips, and I catch the hem of his shirt and pull. He moves to me and leans in for another kiss. My hands go around his neck as our mouths meet, and when our tongues touch, we instinctively pull closer.

  It’s just like in his bedroom. My hands slip into his soft hair, and I kiss him again, faster. He kisses me back, just as fast. His hands move to my cheeks, lightly holding them, almost, but not quite stopping us.

  He kisses me again, and everything in me wants more. I want him to groan and tell me I’m beautiful. I want to slide my hands under his tee and feel his skin. But he breaks our lips apart. He places his chin on my head and puts his arms around my shoulders.

  “Oh, man,” he breathes, before kissing the top of my head.

  I sigh as I press my cheek to his chest, surrounded in his warm hug. His hands slide up and down my back slowly, and I slip my fingers under his shirt, finding the skin underneath.

  That’s when he steps away and pulls the towel off his shoulders. “I’d better go.”

  “Don’t!” I reach for him, and he catches my hand.

  “Being alone with you is not a good idea.”

  Frustration burns in my chest, and I have to fight getting angry with him. How can I be angry and yet so totally into him at the same time?

  “You’re going to drive me crazy,” I say.

  “Not as crazy as you’re driving me.”

  I hop down and follow him to the back door not even trying to hide my disappointment. “But what about your shirt?”

&n
bsp; “Bring it to me later.” He grabs the windbreaker off the peg and catches the door. Halfway out, he steps back. I’m still frowning, but his cute smile softens it. “This is really cool.”

  “What?”

  “Being here with you. Being sorry to go. You being sorry I’m going.”

  “I’m keeping your shirt.”

  He grins and kisses me quickly. “Deal.” Then he closes the door and sprints across the lawn to his waiting car.

  I watch as he drives away. The lights grow dimmer, and soon it’s just me looking out into the shiny, wet black punctuated by the lights of a few houses. My eyes drift to the large Tudor, and I think about my fight with Mom. Anger tightens in the center of my back, and I look away, following the trail of lights closer to home, to a large brick house across the street and a few doors down. I think of Charlotte and our last words to each other. I was so angry—I’m still angry. But I think about what Jordan said about everybody going through hard times and being in this together.

  I walk back to the kitchen and pick up my phone, quickly punching up directory assistance and then connecting. I listen to the ringing, and just as I’m expecting it to go to voicemail, a man’s voice answers.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was trying to reach Charlotte’s phone—”

  “This is her phone, but she’s not able to talk,” he says.

  “Is this her dad? I’m Ashley Lockett, two houses down? I wanted to speak to her. Maybe I could walk over? The rain’s stopped.”

  “That’s… not possible,” he says.

  My heartbeat ticks up. “Did something happen?”

  “Charlotte’s at the hospital.

  For a moment, I can’t breathe. “What happened?”

  He hesitates before answering. “She’s diabetic. Her blood sugar spiked, and she had a mild seizure.”

  “Oh!” I cry. “Can I see her? I need to see her.”

  “Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow? I’m sure she’d like a visit from a friend.”

  “Thank you.” I slowly lower my phone.

  For several seconds I stare at it in my hand. A seizure. The hospital. I didn’t even know she was a diabetic. I wrap my arms around my waist and wish Jordan were still here. I’d give anything for him to circle his arms around me again.

  I should’ve known this about her. I should’ve known she was sick. But I didn’t. I only thought about me, like she said. Me and my problems. And using her to make myself feel better.

  “Tomorrow,” I repeat softly, thinking.

  Maybe Jordan could take me. Then I shake my head. If I showed up with Jordan, she’d never forgive me. Besides him and me together… I’m sure she wouldn’t want him to see her in the hospital. I’ll have to go alone.

  Chapter 15

  Hospitals are officially my least favorite places on Earth. The one good thing about Dad’s cancer was that it moved so fast, he was only here a few times. The bulk of his painful decline happened in our home with hospice workers standing by and all of us watching. Day after day.

  Maybe a hospital would’ve been better.

  I shrink at the memory and quickly distract my thoughts. Information services gives me Charlotte’s room number, and as I make my way down the sterile hall, I focus on the patterns in the floor tiles and not the way my throat’s constricting or the stinging smell of disinfectant. Four white tiles, one black one. Four whites, one black…

  At last, I’m here. I clutch the soft PeeWee Baby I picked up at the gift shop, a little purple-spotted puppy with huge, glittery eyes, and take a deep breath before lightly knocking on the door.

  No answer.

  A few seconds pass, and I reach for the handle, slowly opening it. A monitor’s humming next to her bed, and my stomach knots when I see her with clear tubes going to her arms and an oxygen tab under her nose. My chest is tight, and all I can think of is Dad. I’m just about to run back out when her eyes flutter open.

  “Ashley?” her voice is a scratchy whisper.

  Unable to flee, I put on a smile and slowly walk toward her. “Hey,” I whisper. “I tried calling and your dad said you were here.”

  She almost smiles, but mostly she looks confused. “Why were you calling me? I didn’t think… I didn’t think we were friends anymore.”

  “What?” I say, holding my smile in place. “Friends have arguments. That doesn’t mean they stop being friends.”

  “But we weren’t friends. Not really.”

  I’m beside her bed now, looking down at her large form with machines and tubes all around her. “I thought we could be. We have common interests.”

  “Your dad and Jordan.”

  “And exercising. I’ve kind of fallen off, and we’re at different levels, but we could—”

  “You don’t have to be nice to me,” she says. “I think it’s best if we just leave things the way they are.”

  I chew on my bottom lip and look down at the puppy in my hand. “I bought this for you.”

  Her eyes go to the toy. She blinks a few times before speaking. “Purple’s my favorite color.”

  “It is? I thought he was cute, and I don’t know. After Dad… I hate the smell of hospital flowers.”

  “Your dad was really into wild flowers and fragrant shrubs.”

  I smile. “Gardenias and hydrangeas.”

  She’s blinking faster, and I see tears in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, my own eyes going misty. “I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.”

  “It’s not that. I was thinking about you being here and what happened. I was really a bitch to you.”

  The word sounds wrong in her high-pitched voice. Like Cinderella swearing.

  “You were right, though. I didn’t ask about you. I was only thinking about me and feeling better and talking about my dad.”

  “You probably think it’s not fair someone like me could live when he died.” She’s staring at me with watery eyes, and my throat hurts.

  “No,” I whisper trying not to cry. “I didn’t… I don’t. I mean, I thought it wasn’t fair. But that’s all. I didn’t think—”

  She exhales loudly. “Of course you didn’t. Why would you think of someone like me.”

  The small warmth we were just sharing evaporates just that fast, and her old bitterness is back.

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “You want to know the truth?” she says. “I hated you. I hated how pretty you are, and how you had this great dad. When he died, I didn’t care if you were sad. I went to the creek that day hoping to see you cry.”

  “Oh.” Her words are so mean. For a moment, I’m stunned, searching for something to say. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

  “And then when you stole Jordan, I didn’t want to be your friend. I didn’t even want to see your face.” She turns back at the ceiling, and her voice cracks. “I don’t know why you would come here. Why you’d still want to be friends with me.”

  She stops speaking, and for a few moments, we’re silent.

  I came here to clear the air, but… is that what we’re doing? I think about everything she just said. Then I remember my own questions about why I kept going back to the creek to meet her. I think about why I’m here now.

  “Talking to you about my dad helped me somehow,” I say softly. “I guess I was selfish like you said. You helped me remember him, and I kept coming back for that. But I didn’t mean to hurt you or steal Jordan or whatever.”

  For a few moments, the only sound is the monitor humming. I’m ready to go. We’ve talked, and things feel more broken than when I got here. She’s mean and cruel. And I don’t know what made me think we could be friends.

  I stare at her for a second. Her eyes are downcast, her face is wet with tears. I think about these last few weeks and all the pain in me. All the things I’ve done and how I would’ve done more to make the hurting stop.

  I think about the people who've been patient with me and about what friendship really is. I take a deep breath and plac
e the purple toy beside her on the bed. What would Jordan say now? He’s the one who does hospital visits.

  “You know,” I start, “Even if all that’s true, and we came to each other for selfish reasons… What happens now? Now that we know all this?”

  “What does it matter?” her voice is barely above a whisper. “Now you know what I’m really like, why would you want to be my friend?”

  I shrug. I’m not sure my heart’s in it, but somehow it feels like the right thing to say. “I don’t know. Maybe knowing what people are really like is how true friendships start.”

  She doesn’t look up, but before I leave she speaks. “I’m sorry I hated you.”

  I think about her parents, how she said they were ashamed of her, and about her being shipped off every summer. I think about why they moved her here and mean girls.

  I imagine her hitting me with everything she’s got, as hard as she can, waiting for me to walk away. Wanting me to be mean right back at her. To meet her hatred and raise it. It’s sick and messed up, but I understand. And I think it has something to do with us being in this together.

  “You had your reasons,” I say. “I should’ve been a better friend.”

  * * *

  Mom’s waiting for me when I arrive home. After the scalding honesty from Charlotte, I know I’m not up to facing my mom, not that I would’ve been under different circumstances. I walk through the front door and stop, studying her sitting on the couch in her black knit pants and long-sleeved tee. Several sheets of paper are on the coffee table in front of her. They look like bills.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to get home,” she says. “Please come and sit down. We need to talk.”

  For a few seconds I don’t move. She arranges the papers into three stacks, and I take a few steps forward. Not waiting for me to sit, she starts talking.