“Hey,” I say. “Glad to see you’re back.”
“Thanks.” Her voice is that high-pitched sweetness I now recognize is a cover.
I hang out a few minutes longer, watching as she finishes cleanup. “Feeling better?” I say.
“Yeah.” She doesn’t look up, and I notice her fingers tremble just slightly. “Thanks.”
“Well, you’ve got my number on your phone now. You can text me sometime if you want to go for a walk or meet at the creek or something.”
She nods. Her entourage is studying us curiously. I smile and do a little wave at them before leaving to drop off my tray and then heading out the door. I’ve got to get to class, but on the way out, I bump right into Colt.
He catches my arms. “Easy.”
“Hey,” I say, finding my balance. “Looking for Mandy?”
That familiar twinkle flashes in his green eyes. “You know, my offer’s still good. I love sandwiches.”
“Whatever. So what’s this Jack Kerouac, Into the Wild business?”
He exhales a laugh, looking down. “She told you about that?”
“You’re just going to get in a car and go?”
“We can’t all be missionaries, Bad Ash.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me about that?”
His eyes meet mine, and that softness is there. “You didn’t want that from me,” he says.
I blink down at his hand in his pocket, thinking of us together, the things we did. My partner in crime. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Whatever. We had fun. And, I mean, that’s your deal with High Pockets. He’s the one you talk to.”
This time I exhale a laugh. “You can’t just say Jordan, can you?” Our eyes meet again, and he smiles.
“Well, I think it’s kind of cool,” I say.
For a split second, he studies me. Then he grabs my arm and pulls it up. “Here,” he clicks his pen and writes his number on me. “Save it. And answer my texts. Or try sending me one sometime.”
I study the familiar digits. “Okay. And you stay out of trouble.”
“No problem. I won’t be hanging out with you.”
I shake my head and give him a little smile, and he’s off on a quest for Mandy. I’m off to the quad, but the place is almost deserted, with the few stragglers running to avoid the tardy bell. It’s hard to worry about things like being tardy at this point in the year. I head to class, thinking about Jordan and Mandy and Colt and all of it. One minute I’m sure I don’t care, and the next minute I know I do. I need to make a decision, but I don’t know what’s right for me. I think about what Mandy said about experimenting and wonder if it’s possible to experiment with uncertainty.
I’m staring into the depths of my locker when I see an object all the way in the back. I reach for it, and when I pick it up, it makes me smile. I slip it into my bag and as if my vision has cleared, I know what I’m going to do.
Chapter 19
I’m out of bed before Mom even starts tapping on my door Sunday morning. It’s been good between us since our time at the creek, and even since the incident at school. She’s still working all hours, but now I know why. We’re finding our way back.
I’m not wearing red for church or white. Instead, I choose a light blue sweater and beige skirt. It seems more in line with my thoughts—hopeful, curious. Dr. Andrews is talking about the future and holding onto the things you’ve been taught. It’s a common theme at this time of year with graduation looming and kids headed to college.
Mandy is sitting with her parents. Colt is not here, which doesn’t surprise me. Looking back, it’s more surprising he was here that first Sunday. I think about the marks on her wrists and look down at my hands. Experimenting.
Jordan’s sitting with the other members of the youth group. I haven’t been involved with them since Dad got sick. He’s wearing a grey suit this morning, and he looks so mature and handsome. I wonder if he’s booked after service on some pastorly errand. My mind drifts back to the plan I made Friday afternoon looking into my locker. I hope he’s not.
Just as I’m tuning back in, Dr. Andrews is finishing up. He reads a Bible verse I’ve heard every year since I started high school. It’s the one about how change is a part of life and everything has a season. But his last words are new.
“Live your life so when change comes, you can do good with it. Make your mark one others can build upon, one that will help the ones who come behind you reach new levels.” It’s almost what Jordan said. I wonder if it’s a theme they discuss in their mentoring meetings.
I look down at my hands again, and I slide the silver band around on my finger. Dad wanted me to find the thing I’d fall in love with. The thing I’d focus my strength on. Up to now, I’ve been focusing my strength on fighting, on trying to bring him back. Maybe now it’s time to focus on building something, on letting him go. My breath catches, but I’m saved by the Doxology.
We all stand, and I see Jordan’s gone to the front of the room. Dr. Andrews has come down to stand beside him, and when we’re done, before everyone surges to the exit, he announces what I’ve known for weeks. Jordan will be headed overseas in a month. I press my lips together, the sad knot growing in the center of my chest.
Jordan looks really happy, but as everyone’s clapping our eyes meet. His expression changes and becomes a little sad, too. I look down and then turn to the door. Everyone’s in the aisles, but it only takes me a moment to push through them and break out into the warm afternoon sunlight. I take a deep breath and head for home.
* * *
Will’s in the kitchen making lunch when I arrive, and as if stepping into Dad’s role, he’s brought a bag from the farmer’s market and is elbow-deep in fresh produce and organic pasta.
“Smells good,” I say, picking an olive out of the pile.
“Thanks,” he says, continuing to chop. “No vino for you today.”
I shake my head. “No worries. That was not the greatest night of my life.”
“Sorry about that.”
He’s back to chopping, and I circle the bar, stepping behind him and hugging his waist. “Thanks for the book. It did help. Eventually.”
He doesn’t stop, but he gives one of my arms a squeeze. “It’ll get better.”
Walking over to the cabinet, I spy the bag of mints on the counter and slip my hand inside. My thoughts drift to the night after the bonfire, here in the kitchen. I remember kissing Jordan and the way it felt, and maybe he’s right. Maybe his leaving is for the best. But when I look down at the mint in my hand, all I feel is miserable.
Tears mist my eyes, and I can’t let him go without talking to him one more time. I’m not ready to give in and say I believe all of this church stuff again, but I am ready to put down my weapons and see if there’s a way to compromise. I pop the mint in my mouth and grab my phone, sending a quick text. Then I run to my room and dig in my bag, grabbing the item from my locker and slipping it into the pocket of my skirt. I’m sticking to our plan. I know what I want now, but I’ll let Jordan tell me what he wants.
“How much time til lunch?” I ask my brother.
He looks at the clock. “Fifteen, twenty minutes?”
“I’ll be right back.”
I put my phone on the counter and run to the back door. Jogging down the side of the house in a full skirt reminds me of the day weeks ago when I gave all the sympathetic mourners converging on our house the slip. I’d run to the creek hoping to get away from everything that was overwhelming me that day. And I’d met Charlotte. And I’d made a decision that I was going to change everything in my life.
In minutes, I’m dropping down on the creek bank again next to the tree, and before long, I hear the sound of a familiar engine at the street. I look over my shoulder and Jordan’s walking toward me. He’s still in his suit pants, but his coat and tie are gone. With every step he takes closer, my heart beats painfully harder, wondering what he’ll say. I wonder if this is the part where we say goodbye for good, the natural e
nd with him leaving.
When he reaches me, he stands for a moment looking out at the water, hands in his pockets. “Got your text,” he says. “I thought about texting you yesterday. Letting you know what was going to happen this morning.”
“You’re officially on the record now.”
He sits in front of me on the bank. “Yep. Now everybody knows.”
We’re quiet a moment. I’m not sure how to start. “I guess you know what happened with Patty.”
He nods and then a little smile crosses his lips. “We’re both doing service projects this summer.”
“Only mine’s forced labor.”
“I’m really surprised. I thought for sure they’d let you off. Say you were acting out of grief or something.”
“Well, they were all ready to. Everything I did would’ve been forgiven because of Dad. But I didn’t want that.”
Jordan plucks a blade of grass. “Your dad was a great guy. Maybe we can still do that feature on him before I leave.”
Sadness fills me. Not the tight-chested hyperventilation kind of losing Dad. More the stomach-twisting heartbreak kind of possibly losing Jordan.
“When do you go?” I manage to ask.
“Mid-June.”
I nod and look down. “I… I wish you weren’t leaving. I’ll miss you.”
He reaches across the space and takes my hand. “I’ll miss you. But it’s only six weeks. I’ll be back in time for college.”
I study his hand holding mine, loving in the warmth of this small connection, this simple touch. Never wanting it to end.
“Dad left me a book. A memory book. It had a note inside, and when I read it, it kind of changed me. It kind of showed me what I think I want to do now.”
He smiles, giving my hand a little squeeze. “Tell me.”
“Well, I haven’t made a definite plan or anything, but I’m thinking less about breaking things and more about fixing them.”
“You’ll have your work cut out for you this summer.”
I smile and tighten my grip on his hand. “I just wanted to tell you that. I’m not fighting anymore.”
He pulls my hand, and I slip forward, closer to him. We’re right in front of each other, and all I can think about is kissing him, pressing my lips to his. I sniff as my chest hurts. I don’t know whether it would be a kiss goodbye or a promise of what’s to come.
I lower my chin and look down. “Otherwise, I haven’t changed,” I say. “And when I’m with you, all I can think is still that I want… Well, I suppose that means it’s good you’re leaving.”
He reaches up to touch my cheek. “Maybe. Maybe a few weeks apart will change how we feel. Or maybe it’ll make it stronger.”
“If it gets any stronger, it’ll just ruin everything.”
He smiles, and his hands find my waist, pulling me onto his lap. My chin rests on his shoulder, and my arms circle them. His are wrapped tightly around my waist.
“Or maybe it’ll cause us to take things more seriously,” he says.
I shake my head. “I told you I’m not getting married at eighteen.”
“That’s not what I meant. What if we just take it one day at a time?”
I lean back, and his lips are so close, his breath whispers across my cheek. I can barely think from wanting.
“You’ll take that chance?” I ask.
“I don’t see it as taking a chance.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I might be in love with you.”
My heart squeezes, and I hug his shoulders again. His arms grip tight around me, and I can’t wait anymore. I cover his mouth with mine as his hands travel to my cheeks, holding my face gently. Our mouths open and tongues meet. It’s amazing and happy and impossible and likely to end badly and exactly what I want.
We break apart, and I press my forehead to his. “This is such a terrible idea.”
“Does it mean you’ll mend your ways for me?”
“No.” I look up and our blue eyes meet.
He laughs. “No?”
“I mean… I was planning to do that anyway, but not because of you. I mean, I don’t mean that because I don’t care…”
He reaches up and slides my hair back with his fingers. “What do you mean?”
“I decided I’m not cut out for a life of crime.”
“I agree.”
“It also means if you’re determined to date someone who’s bad for you, it might as well be me.”
He laughs again, and I kiss him again, then once more before I slide down to put my head against his chest. His arms stay around me, and I feel him press his mouth to the top of my head. All at once, I remember. I sit up and fish around in the side pocket of my skirt.
“What’s up?” he asks, watching me.
I twist away and slip on the huge, horn-rimmed glasses before turning back to face him.
“Holy…” he lets out a loud laugh. “Your eyes are huge!”
I snort a giggle and then laugh, too. “Imagine what I thought the first time these dropped down onto your face.”
He slides them off me and puts them on his head. “That’s when I was still trying to decide. I saw glasses like these in a movie about spiritual journeys and trains, and I thought it was cool that movies could be used to communicate messages like that.”
“So it’s like your backup plan?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
I reach for him, and we pull together in another kiss. Our bodies are pressed tightly, and I consider it might be a sin how good it feels when he holds me this way.
“Whatever happens,” I say. “I’ll try. As long as I can. Until you let me go.”
“And what if I never let you go?” he whispers before kissing my ear.
“Then I guess you win.”
“I can’t win if we’re on the same team.”
I lean forward to place my chin on his shoulder. “Does this means I’m your prom date?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Jordan’s arms stay tight around my waist, and the tightness in my chest is gone. I take a deep, full breath, and in the place of all that sadness, I’ve finally found peace.
He’ll leave for the summer, and I’ll make amends for what I’ve done. And when he comes back, we’ll see what happens next. I haven’t forgotten anything—the pain or the disappointment—but maybe it’s like Jordan says, challenges change us and make us different.
Sometimes they even make us better.
The End
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Acknowledgments
If it weren’t for the generous support and love of readers for my debut novel The Truth About Faking, this book might still be in the virtual “drawer.” So my first BIG Thank You is to my dear, faithful readers. Thank you so much for supporting me and for liking my books.
Writing and publishing are evolving so fast, but one thing remains the same: Books cannot (or should not) be released without the input and feedback of other readers and writers. I am tremendously blessed and thankful to have superstars Tami Johnson, Carolyn Abiad, Jolene Perry, Susan Quinn, Magan Vernon, Allie Brennan, Jessica Bell, Laura Pauling, Brent Taylor, and my best editor, my husband Richard, on my team. Thanks to you all for your thoughts, your criticisms, your praise, and your ongoing encouragement.
Thanks to Allie Brennan for the gorgeous cover design and to Juanpablo San Martin for giving me permission to use his beautiful photograph on my cover.
Thanks to my lovely book club ladies and best friends Kim Barnes, Jenni Dismukes, and Sharon Hattenstein and my cousin Odessa Toma for reading early drafts and giving me the thumbs up! I’m always anxiously chewing my nails, waiting to hear what y’all think. Love you guys.
Thank you to my fr
iends in the blogging community, who always encourage and help me spread the word. Thanks to the book reviewers, who are always ready to read and tell others. And special Thanks to the behind-the-scenes people—formatters and tour organizers—you guys are invaluable to the process.
Finally, an enormous THANKS to my dear family, my mom and dad, my beautiful little girls, and all my sweet friends who put up with my absences, my daydreaming, and my general unavailable-ness when I’m in the middle of these projects. Knowing you’re there cheering me on, understanding, and being excited means the world to me.
And thanks to God for giving me this gift and for allowing me to live in this amazing time.
About the Author
Leigh Talbert Moore is a wife and mom by day, a writer by day, a reader by day, a former journalist, a former editor, a chocoholic, a caffeine addict, a lover of any great love story, a beach bum, and occasionally she sleeps.
Also by Leigh Talbert Moore:
The Truth About Faking (2012)
Rouge (2012)
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Truth about Letting Go
Copyright © Leigh Talbert Moore, 2013
www.leightmoore.com
Cover design by Allie Brennan.
Cover image by Juanpablo San Martin.
All right reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author.
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