A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  At least the tree was in full leaf; the shade was a welcome, albeit slight, respite. I wondered how long I’d have to wait, thankful for the skilled audiobook narrator filling my head with someone else’s troubles so I didn’t have to think about my own.

  I didn’t hear him approach. I’d been out there at least an hour, and the sun was throwing long shadows across our lawn. I was laying back, an arm behind my head, one leg dangling out of the swing. Now and again, I nudged the ground with my toe to set things in motion as I stared up at the leafy canopy through the crisscross pattern of the rattan above my head. The story I was listening to had me feeling hollowed out inside. Even as I hoped for a happy ending for the girl, I couldn’t help but wonder if there even was such a thing.

  “Hey,” he said, loudly enough to tell me it wasn’t the first attempt to get my attention. He stood only about a foot away, his near-black hair boyishly messy, like he’d towel dried it and forgot to brush it out. The light through the leaves flickered across his face like an old cinema film, and I stared, caught off guard, the heat making me sluggish. I pushed myself up and bobbled awkwardly when the swing jostled beneath me. Jordan put a hand on it to brace it and I swung my other leg out, tugging the earbuds from my ears and smoothing my hair back, all at the same time.

  “Hey.” I sounded out of breath, like I’d been jogging or dancing, not like I’d been lying around all afternoon, watching the leaves grow. “You’re home.”

  “Got in about four o’clock this morning. Slept in till noon, then spent some time with Mom and Dad.” He nudged my bare foot with the toe of his Converse. “Now here I am.”

  “Here you are,” I echoed, trying to act unfazed by his overwhelming proximity.

  He ducked down so he could peer past my shoulder to the inside of my nest. “This is amazing.” His face was so close to mine. “May I?”

  I started to scoot forward, to get out so he could get in, but he stopped me. “No, no. Just slide back. We can both fit in there, can’t we?”

  I made room for him and he slipped inside, lying back the way I’d been when he found me. He shoved one of the pink throw pillows under his head and looked around the tiny space. “Wow. Where did you get this?”

  “My parents gave it to me for my birthday. I think it was either this or a car and a car might have been cheaper.” My dad’s pastoring job was full time, but he didn’t make enough to buy me expensive gifts like this very often, which made this one, and the thought that went into it, even more special to me. I had also received a Thinking of you postcard. On the back was written, “Happy Birthday to the beautiful girl in the sycamore tree on Maple Avenue.” It wasn’t signed, but I knew it was from Jordan. I wasn’t about to embarrass myself by mentioning it, though. Just in case.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Come outside with me, will you, Savvy-girl?” Dad said. It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday, and he’d awakened me early with a cup of strong coffee made just the way I liked it, complete with a generous serving of Hazelnut-flavored creamer. “We have something to show you.”

  He’d waited in the kitchen while I got out of bed and slipped into my bulky purple robe with the rainbow unicorn embroidered on the lapel. As I shuffled into the room, attempting to sip and schlep at the same time, Dad laughed and handed me a wrapped gift that I could tell was a new book. “Mom will be right back. Just a heads up—she went to grab the camera, so you may want to take a look in the mirror. I think you might have been visited by house pixies last night.” He cupped the back of my head where I typically sported a patch of out-of-control bedhead in the mornings and kissed my brow. “But you look beautiful to me, just the way you are.”

  I loved that he was so sensitive to my teenage insecurities. I knew part of it was his own concern with image—as the pastor of a small, but growing church in Southern California, he was under the microscope in ways most people could never even imagine. Almost daily, he was praised for the same things he was cursed for, judged by standards that were anyone’s but God’s, and expected to oversee, overlook, and understand things he couldn’t. He lived by the passage in Romans 14 where Christians were charged to cause no one to stumble, often quoting, “So then let us pursue what makes for peace and for mutual upbuilding.” Not that he didn’t preach a little hellfire and brimstone now and then—believe me, he was very clear about what he believed the Word of God said—but he felt convinced that his role as church leader, as spiritual shepherd, was to lead his flock toward peace. “God is a far better judge than I, Savvy-girl,” he’d say, whenever I came to him with questions about current events or issues that he refused to platform for or against. In our own home, we talked freely of our beliefs and opinions on the state of things, so I never had any doubt about where he stood on things, but I often questioned his decision to remain quiet and seemingly unbiased in public. I didn’t think it was a sign of weakness, but I didn’t think his silence was a sign of strength, either.

  “We know how much you love this tree, Savannah,” Mom had said, her excitement making her voice high and light.

  The swing was beautiful. A round, chocolate kiss-shaped nest with a wide-mouthed opening on one side, a fairy boat held aloft by a heavy-linked chain wrapped around the branch overhead. The inside was fitted with a squishy mattress-like cushion flanked by several mismatched throw pillows, beckoning me to climb in and sail away. It was large enough to stretch out in, or to invite one or two other people into, which I did. Mom and I indelicately wiggled our way inside the wide opening and settled into position, and my dad sat on the edge with his legs over the side so he could keep us in motion. Once we were comfortable, I tore open their other gift. It was the latest John Green novel. I hugged it to me, and then read aloud the opening chapter to my parents. They held hands, beaming at me with so much love in their eyes that it hurt me to look at them.

  In that moment, I wished everyone could know Ron and Beatrice Clark the way I did. I knew the reason for the early hour—they wanted to experience this with me, but they didn’t want the neighbors to think they were too undignified. It was one thing for me to be the quirky home-schooled pastor’s kid, but they worked hard to maintain their reserved, gentile, yet approachable demeanors.

  It had been a perfect April morning, and I’d stayed in my swing all day, slipping inside only to use the bathroom and brush my hair back into a long braid. My mother brought lunch out to me, but she didn’t stay. I didn’t mind—I had just reached one of the more tissue-worthy scenes in my book, and I couldn’t wait to get back to it. I was grateful for the extra napkins she’d brought me, and I told her so.

  CHAPTER TEN

  If Jordan looked at me and still wanted to be with me, then maybe, just maybe, I would be okay.

  The last several weeks, though, I’d spent more and more time in my room and not outside in my swing. Alone. I knew my parents were a little worried, but they let me be. They’d never been very confrontational, and I’d never really given them a reason to confront me about anything before. The few times one of them asked if everything was all right—not if I was all right or if there was something actually wrong with me, but if everything was all right—I’d waved off their concerns, blaming the skyrocketing temperatures that had come early this year.

  If Jordan looked at me—if Jordan could still see the same me—then maybe, just maybe, I would be okay.

  Now, here he was, sprawled out in front of me as if he had nowhere else he’d rather be.

  He glanced over at me and smiled with such a look of contentment, I actually thought of my parents and the way they’d looked at me the morning they gave me the swing. Then he patted the cushion beside him, and I cautiously, careful not to touch him, stretched out beside him. He took my hand, lacing our fingers together, and we both stared up at the sycamore leaves fluttering overhead, sweeping away the last gold dust of the sunlight to welcome in the cool of the evening. “It’s good to see you, Savannah Clark.”

  I closed my eyes and whispered, “I’m glad.�
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  But I was quieter than I’d been at Christmas when Jordan had come home for almost a month and he’d finally looked up into my tree and had seen me—really seen me—maybe for the first time. Without waiting for an invitation, and without asking my permission, he had climbed up to where I perched, peered out over the neighborhood, and said, “Wow. So this is why you come up here. You can keep an eye on the whole neighborhood from here.” I didn’t correct him. I didn’t tell him I came up here so I could keep an eye on him. I was only sixteen, but I’d been in love with him for longer than I’d ever admit to him, and to finally have him not just notice me, but join me up in my tree? I had thought my heart would burst right out of my chest and take flight.

  He’d treated me more like a sister at first, but he found reasons to come by often during the next several weeks he was home. He brought us pies when his mom made extras, borrowed tools from my father, although I was sure between Jordan, his dad, and whatever his three older brothers had left behind, the Ransome garage was probably well stocked with everything he could possibly need to work on his car. He even invited us to join their family for the Christmas meal, although we already had dinner arrangements with another family from our church. I considered begging my parents to change their plans, but I knew they’d never do it.

  I could tell he was attracted to me; there was simply no way he wasn’t. He found reasons to stand so close to me I could feel the warmth emanating off his body, his shoulder bumping up against mine. He often brushed a hand across the small of my back as he ushered me from one place to the next—it never lingered, just a quick, acknowledging touch. Although I never rode anywhere with him, two nights before he left to go back to college, we were standing outside talking while it grew cold around us. Finally, he grabbed my hand and led me around to the passenger side of his car, opened the door, and practically tossed me in. He got in on the driver’s side and sat there, facing forward, his hands on the wheel.

  “Are we going somewhere?” I asked, certain my parents would have something to say about that. They liked Jordan, and they trusted him, I was sure. But I was also sure they wouldn’t think their sixteen-year-old daughter should be driving around with a twenty-one-year-old man, especially without their knowledge.

  “No. I was just having a hard time hearing you over the sound of my teeth chattering.” He grinned at me, then breathed into his hands and rubbed them together briskly before holding them out toward me. “Here.”

  I looked askance at him. “What? Are you giving me some of your wadded-up breath?”

  His smile flashed in the light from the street lamp overhead. “Give me your hands. I felt them when I threw you in the car just now. They’re colder than mine are!”

  I hesitated only briefly, but then obliged. He folded my icy hands between his and rubbed his palms over them, the gentle friction sending frissons of warmth curling up my spine. It grew quiet, the enclosed car creating a sense of intimacy between us.

  He stilled, but he didn’t release my hands. He kept his eyes lowered, and although he spoke softly, his voice was steady. “Savannah, I think I need to be careful. You do this thing to me—” he lifted his gaze to mine, “—something I’m really hoping I do to you, too.” It was a statement, but the eyes that looked back at me were wide with questions, with hope. He didn’t wait for me to respond. “But I’m giving myself permission to think about things I shouldn’t. At least, not yet. The time isn’t right, and not just because of your age, although that really is a major factor.”

  Now his thumbs began to move across the backs of my hands, slowly, feather light, and I shifted in my seat to mask the tremor that coursed through my body. I couldn’t speak, even if he wanted me to.

  “But even if our ages weren’t a legitimate concern, I’m leaving in less than two days, and I won’t be home again until next summer.”

  “I’ll be seventeen then,” I blurted out, my mind stirring out of its trance-like state. I wanted to suck the words back in—how silly and childish I sounded.

  “I know. And I’ll be almost twenty-two. It will still be a concern. Not an insurmountable one, mind you, but…” His shoulders drooped a little, but he didn’t release my hands. “And it’s not fair of me to ask you to…” His voice faded away, but I knew what he’d been about to say.

  “Well, then, is it fair of me to ask you to wait for me?” I countered, desperate, the last word almost a squeak. I felt lightheaded. I needed to get out of the car.

  One side of his mouth slowly rose, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Really?”

  I nodded, my voice having abandoned me altogether.

  “You shouldn’t.” He shook his head, but the smile didn’t leave his face. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Look. Let’s not ask each other for anything right now, okay? Out of respect for you, for your parents, for my folks and me, I want to treat you right. I want to do this right.”

  I was pretty sure my heart had stopped beating and my lungs were no longer absorbing any of the oxygen I was breathing in. Please stop talking, I wanted to cry out. Don’t say anything else. I can’t bear it.

  He must have sensed my agony because he squeezed my hands hard, almost to the point of hurting me, and said, “But when I come home next summer, I’ll come looking for you and we’ll talk. Then, if things are still… like this, well, I’ll talk to your parents, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whispered, not sure if I was relieved or not. I knew my feelings wouldn’t change. What if his did?

  “Okay,” he echoed, whispering too. He released my hands, and then reached up and cupped his warm palm against my cheek.

  I closed my eyes. With a boldness I didn’t know I had, I turned and pressed a slow kiss into his hand. When I opened my eyes again, he smiled, closed his fingers around the kiss, and brought his clenched fist to his chest.

  “Thank you,” he murmured. He opened his door, came around, and let me out. He walked me home, neither of us saying another word.

  I saw him only one other time before he left. I walked out to check the mail, every part of me tuned into the Ransome house five doors down. Jordan was leaning against his car as if he’d been standing there all day, just waiting for me to come out. He raised his hand, his fingers still wrapped around my kiss, and waved.

  I had smiled and waved in return, and then ducked back inside the house to wait for the next four and a half months to pass.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Jordan murmured from beside me.

  “I’m just happy,” I said, wanting desperately to believe it.

  “You’ve changed,” he said, after a few more moments of silence.

  I tensed and then tugged my hand from his, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Hey.” He turned his head toward me, so close his breath warmed my cheek. “I meant that in a good way.” He shifted to his side and propped his head up on his hand so he could look at me. He ran a finger along the curve of my jaw, from my chin to my ear, and then up to feather across my cheek. I went still as a statue, afraid if I shivered, giggled, or reacted in any way, he’d stop. “Your cheekbones are more pronounced.”

  I turned slightly so I could look at him, but the moment our eyes met, I lowered mine, feeling interminably shy.

  “Your nose. I didn’t notice your freckles at Christmas, but you have them. They’re pretty cute. Tish has freckles like yours,” he said, referring to his younger sister who looked like an Irish pixie. Knowing how tight the Ransome siblings were, I took it as a high compliment and grinned. “Wow. When you smile like that, Savannah? All I can think about is how to make it stay there, lighting up your face, your eyes.” He brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, and I released a tiny sigh of pleasure. I couldn’t help it.

  Jordan jerked his hand away and lay back again, all in one swift move. I froze. What had I done?

  “If you make any more noises like that, I’m getting out and going home.”

  Oh no, oh no! I’m such a freak! I held my breath, the bridge of
my nose beginning to tingle, a sure sign I was going to embarrass myself further by crying.

  “Savannah,” he said, his voice gruff. “I haven’t been able to think about anything but you since I drove away last January.” He brought a closed fist to his chest, just like he’d done that night in his car. “I got a new nickname at school because of you. My friends have all started calling me Chest Pain because I do this every time I think of you… which is all the time.”

  I tucked my bottom lip between my teeth so he wouldn’t see my pleased smile.

  “I can close my eyes right now and see you sitting in my car, less than a foot away, your eyes lit up all fierce and urgent, like you were afraid to blink. Your hair in that braid, your mouth…” His words faded into a sigh that sounded almost like mine.

  I shivered, even in the heat.

  “I have imagined kissing that mouth a thousand times, and a thousand times more, Savannah Clark. And when you make noises like that?” He rolled onto his side again, this time reaching up to cup my cheek, just like he’d done in the car. He turned my face so we were eye to eye, our noses nearly touching. “I want to live out every kiss I’ve ever imagined with you.”

  I whimpered. I actually whimpered. I didn’t do it on purpose, but I didn’t make any effort to stop it, either.

  Jordan moved in slowly, so careful, as though he somehow knew this was my first kiss ever. His lips were soft and warm against mine, but I just lay there, not knowing what to do or how to respond. I’d seen kissing on television and in the movies. I’d even looked up tutorials on YouTube just to make sure I’d get it right when it happened. But nothing could have prepared me for the sensations washing over my entire body, turning my insides to mush, my bones to jelly. My arms were still crossed over my chest, and I was clutching my elbows, afraid to let go lest I come apart into a million pieces. Jordan’s hand slid down my neck, over the curve of my shoulder, down my arm, until he found my hand and tugged it free. All the while, his mouth never left mine.