Meet the Sky

by McCall Hoyle

  “Sorry about what?” Tilting his head, he releases the board and focuses on me.

  I form my words carefully. I can’t put a finger on it, but I feel like we’re talking two different languages, like if I’m not careful I’m going to say something terribly wrong. “I’m sorry about . . . your dad.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” His shoulders relax as he leans on the bumper.

  I point at the stack of books cradled in my arms. “Your dad’s illness—it must have been tough. My comments were rude about the way you handled his death. I’m a stubborn, opinionated jerk.” My emotions tangle in my stomach. I feel my mouth smiling at the same time my eyes fight back tears. “And I hope you can forgive me, because I’ve been thinking, and I really want us to be—” I choke on the sob welling in my throat before I can say together.

  He gently removes the books from my arms and sets them back in the car. Without breaking eye contact, he pulls me to the bumper beside him.

  I can’t explain what’s happening, but something big is coming. I just know it. I’ve experienced enough tragedy to recognize the sizzle of electricity in the air that precedes bad news. He lifts one of my hands, squeezing it between both of his, and waits for me to meet his eyes. My mind jumps from image to image—waking up facing him on the couch at the first cottage, my feet in his lap at the second house. It keeps returning to our kiss on the beach and in the closet. My lips tingle. Have I done something wrong? Is he mad I said I wasn’t sure what I wanted last night?

  I’ve watched enough romantic comedies to know that look on a boy’s face. He’s about to let me down easy, which is pretty ironic considering I’m the one who’s been running away from him. “Sophie, you’re smart, pretty . . .”

  Okay, now I’m definitely not breathing. I’m certain my digestive, circulatory, and nervous systems have shut down as well. I’m literally frozen in place.

  “I’ve always liked you—even when you insult my intelligence and think I’m just a big, dumb surfer guy.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “You’re the only person who ever really challenged me.”

  But?

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Okay.” I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice cracks. What was I thinking, opening my heart to Finn Sanders? I never should have allowed him to distract me from my primary goal—getting to Manteo and taking care of Mom and Mere. When I blew a tire, I should have set out on foot.

  “What you said last night about your dad—and what you told me before about your sister . . . about how you couldn’t handle losing anyone else you cared about . . .”

  “Finn, spit it out. What are you trying to say?” My pulse churns in my ears, louder than the distant ocean.

  “I need to tell you something.” Mist glistens like spiders’ webs on his eyelashes.

  “You said that already.”

  “Yeah. Right.” He’s utterly tongue-tied. The boy who never shuts up is speechless. His Adam’s apple catches halfway down his neck when he tries to swallow. “It’s just that I wasn’t completely honest with you about my dad.”

  “He didn’t die of colon cancer?”

  “He did, but it wasn’t your typical colon cancer. The Lynch syndrome thing I mentioned? It’s complicated. I don’t think I explained it very well. Or at all.”

  “Okay.” I exhale a little. I remember him saying something about that when he first told me about his father. Maybe this really isn’t about me—about us. It’s all about his dad’s death. And he just needs to get something off his chest.

  “It’s a genetic thing. There’s a fifty-fifty chance I inherited the gene.” He holds my stare, neither of us blinking.

  I stay perfectly still, trying to understand what he’s saying. “My dad had an unusually early onset, which means if I inherited the gene, my onset will probably be early—possibly even earlier than his.” His stops talking, like he’s waiting for me to connect the dots. “It’s a really ugly disease, Sophie. After what you said in the closet . . .”

  My cheeks warm when he mentions the closet.

  “I just thought maybe we shouldn’t . . . What I mean is . . . I know you’re not the kind of girl to kiss just anyone. And I don’t think you’d want to get close to someone who might be checking in at the Horizontal Hilton when you don’t have a reservation.” One side of his mouth turns up. Obviously, he thinks his joke is clever. When he finally blinks, a tiny drop of mist falls from his lashes to his cheek.

  Before I can stop myself, my heart and mind race from visions of his slow death, to me at his funeral, to me curled in a fetal position in my room unable to drag myself out of bed and clean stalls.

  “Sophie, say something.”

  “What is there to say? I don’t even know what to think.”

  “Say you agree or disagree. Say it’s a deal breaker, or you don’t care—just say something.” He shrugs.

  Shaking my head, I lick the salty mist from my lips and concentrate on not letting my teeth chatter. Thoughts ricochet in my head, banging against my skull. I like him. I really do. And as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. Everyone dies. I should be big enough and brave enough to face the facts. I can’t grieve for Dad and Mere forever. I have to move forward eventually.

  But there’s a big difference between eventually and right now. And I can grieve until Mom and Mere are taken care of. I can stick to my original goals. I can stick to my well-laid plans. I can put off vet school until Mom is more financially stable, until she can afford to pay someone to help with the barn and Mere. And I can certainly put off girlish crushes, no matter how tempting and fun they might be. I can go back to the self-control I was so good at before this stupid storm. I can totally put a stop to the silly idea of learning to open up and take risks. That may work for some people, but I’m not some people. I’m the girl with an overworked mom, a disabled sister, and an absentee dad.

  Finn wiggles his eyebrows. “Or say I’m irresistible and sexy and you have to be with me no matter what. Just say something.” I don’t have the energy to speak, much less laugh. He looks so hopeful. I wish I could at least fake a smile, but I’m completely drained. I thought maybe I was strong enough to do this. I was wrong. I can’t. And I need to bring this emotional train to a grinding halt before it runs away and jumps the rails.

  “I’m sorry.”

  With my free hand, I pull at a loose thread on my shirt. It snaps. He shrugs, like my non-answer is no big deal, but the look on his face totally disagrees with his set jaw and dropped shoulders.

  His hand grazes mine as he pushes off the bumper. He pulls it away quickly, turning back to the wooden board. We’re separated by only a few inches of salty air, but it may as well be the entire Atlantic Ocean.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  After a minute of pushing, pulling, and grunting, Finn successfully frees the wooden board from the back of the Blazer. Unable to concentrate on what he’s doing with the genetic counseling books staring up at me, I scoot them back where I found them. Now I’m trying to listen to Finn’s explanation about the board.

  “It’s sort of like a reverse lever,” he says. Without glancing back at me, he shovels handfuls of sand from under the rear tire. “Right.” I agree, but my heart isn’t into his science lesson.

  Our previous conversation occupies every crevice of my heart and my mind.

  “We should get enough traction from this wheel to be out of here in no time.”

  No. Time. Chronos. Kairos.

  The mist stops, and the angry sky lightens to a meditative gray as I contemplate the symbols of growing light and passing time. I feel the day getting away from us as I fidget at the side of the road.

  “We’re ready,” Finn says, gesturing for me to slide into the front seat.

  I follow orders, thankful he accepted my lame apology without pressing me for an explanation of exactly what
I was sorry about. The Blazer starts on the first try, like it really wants to please him. He deals with the clutch and gas in one smooth motion, the way I mount a horse. The engine revs.

  Then bing, bang, boom. She exhales, and we’re off. The temporary world and lives we experienced during our crisis slip farther away with each rotation of the tires, like minutes ticked off on a clock.

  Finn twists the knob on the radio. Static greets us on every station, and he clicks it off. The tires bump and crack over twigs, patches of sand, and broken glass littering the road. My brain drafts a mental to-do list that could rival Santa’s naughtyor-nice scroll. I need to check things at the house, at the barn, at school.

  The distance between Finn and me grows as we head south. I stare out the passenger-side window—my body numb, my emotions numb. Everything numb. I squint for signs of our four-legged friend or other survivors. When Finn slams on the brakes, I snap to attention, turning to the road ahead. My seat belt tightens and holds against my chest as I digest the obstacle in our way.

  A downed tree blocks the road. Finn puts the car in park, then bangs his fist on the steering wheel. So much for his staying calm during a crisis. His nerves are finally fraying too.

  “Now what are we going to do?” I wave my hand toward the tangled mass of limbs and leaves and trunk blocking our path. “There’s no way we’re moving that.”

  His fist tightens on the steering wheel as he turns to face me. “Typical.”

  “What are you talking about?” Now my fists clench beside my thighs.

  “Why do you want to give up every time things get hard?” I realize this isn’t just about the tree in the road. I open my mouth, but my tongue seizes. How dare he? Heat rises from my neck to my ears.

  I. Am. Not. A. Quitter.

  And I resent him saying it. I’ve never quit on my family. I’ve never quit on school. I cross my arms with a huff. “I do not quit.”

  “Humph.” He places his hand on the door handle, dismissing me.

  “You wait just a minute, Finn Sanders.” I reach for his arm, but he pulls away, leaving my hand hanging awkwardly in midair. “I am not a quitter,” I say.

  He turns back to me, eyes narrow. “You’re not?”

  “No—I’m not. What have I ever quit on?”

  The breeze picks up, blowing in through the smashed windshield and ruffling my tangled hair. “You’re quitting on us—on friendship or anything else because you’re afraid of getting hurt.”

  “I never said I—”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” He opens his door and steps down to the road. “You quit on your dad.”

  I shake my head, certain I misunderstood him. I quit on my dad? I quit on my dad? Of all the nerve. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Finn.”

  “You wrote him off when he hurt you. Will you give him another chance?”

  “He wrote me off. He doesn’t deserve another chance.” I can’t believe I’m arguing with him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s like trying to reason with a child or a crazy person. “And he doesn’t want another chance.”

  “If he did, would you give him one?” There’s a challenge in his tone.

  I glare at him. I can’t answer his stupid question. And I don’t appreciate the way he acts like he knows me better than I know myself. And we don’t have time for this crap right now.

  He doesn’t know me that well. Period. End of story.

  He steps out of the car and leaves me seething inside. My feet squish in junk food wrappers and rainwater when I shift in my seat. He examines the tree from every angle, then approaches the heavier trunk end and pushes till his face turns red. The tree doesn’t budge. He tries the other end. Nothing. He finally resorts to kicking it, which accomplishes nothing. But I bet his toes will be sore for a few days. Worse if they’re broken.

  He sulks back to the Blazer, seemingly none the worse. “It’s not moving.”

  Seventeen sarcastic comments pepper my tongue, but I bite them back.

  “We’ve got two options—leave the car and find transportation on the other side . . .” He slides into the driver’s seat.

  “Or?”

  “Or find a chainsaw.”

  When he slicks his wet hair back and away from his eyes, I see the full weight of his stress. He looks way more man than boy. This storm has aged him as well.

  I speak slowly and carefully. “Or we could walk the entire way—not steal anything or vandalize anything else.”

  He rakes his already raked hair, pausing to grip his head for a minute before continuing. “Or . . .”

  He releases his head and pumps the gas. The engine revs. My heart tightens. He grins, like the psycho dad in that Stephen King movie. He extends his arm in front of my chest. A second later, we’re crashing into the tree, our necks snapping from the impact. Fortunately, we didn’t have enough space to build up much speed, so he didn’t kill us. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough space to build up much speed, and the tree didn’t budge.

  “Have you completely lost your freaking mind?” He is out of control.

  Ignoring my question, he turns the key in the ignition. The Blazer sputters and dies.

  “We know your mom and sister evacuated safely. We should have gone to get Zeke first. He has a chainsaw and supplies and better transportation. Though this storm was also worse than we thought it would be . . .”

  I tried to tell him the storm was going to be bad, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “I have to make sure he’s okay,” he says.

  “I know you do.” I’m tired of arguing. That doesn’t make me a quitter. It makes me . . . tired. I blink back tears, determined not to cry now. “I just . . . I need to find my mom.”

  “And I need to find Zeke. But I guess I’ll do that after I deal with this tree and get you to Manteo.” He steps out of the vehicle, striding toward the tree still without so much as a limp. So much for the broken toe hypothesis. He vaults the tree like it’s nothing and heads up the center line of the road on the other side.

  As he walks away, I realize I need to let him find his uncle. All we’ve managed to do today is argue, and I can’t take it anymore. I need to find Mom and Mere on my own.

  I survey the mess that is his car, the mess that is my current reality. I contemplate just getting out. Heading my own way. The storm has passed. Finn and I don’t truly owe each other anything now. He can take care of himself and go find Zeke. I can take care of myself and my people. We can pretend none of this ever happened. I mean what happened, really?

  Two frightened people trapped alone in a storm kissed. Not much of a big deal in that. So maybe we exposed a few emotions as well. That’s not anything that wouldn’t happen in a game of truth or dare or around a bonfire or whatever.

  He’s fire. I’m ice. We’re night and day, water and oil, and every other cliché ever written about opposites. Leaving now is logical—like ripping off a Band-Aid. Leaving now is practical and cautious. And I don’t care what Finn says. Being cautious is not the same as quitting.

  Being cautious is wise. But . . .

  No buts, Sophie.

  I wait for him to turn down a side road before reaching for the door handle. Then, holding my breath, I pull the handle and the heavy door creaks a warning. I freeze, but Finn doesn’t come running back to me.

  I step down to the asphalt. As I carefully close the door, a worm of guilt wiggles in my gut. I can’t just walk out on him. We’ve been in this together. Plus, I don’t want him to be right. I don’t want to be a quitter. Ugh.

  I find a dry scrap of paper and a colored pencil in his console and leave a quick note telling him to go find Zeke and assuring him I’ll be fine.

  Pushing the door open, I step down to the road again. This time I slam the door without peering back inside. As I tromp away from the Blazer, I ignore the rear windows and the books piled there.

  Determination sets in. My head and feet make a decision before my heart has time to sway
them.

  With Mere’s compass tucked in my pocket, I widen the chasm between Finn and me. Even the wind seems to be against me as I head south. It impedes my progress, literally pushing against my forward momentum and scraping my ankles with bits of sand. I clench and unclench my fists. I’m cold. I’m tired. Honestly, I’m not even sure I can make it the rest of the way.

  I tell myself my normal world and predictable routine are just across the bridge at the southern tip of this island. All I have to do now is figure out how to get there on my own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  My life has crept so long on a broken wing . . .

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  I trudge south, contemplating the last few days, contemplating the grumbling of the ocean and the swooshing of the seagrass and the weight of the heavy air. It’s hard to believe the amount of sand that’s been displaced and redeposited by the storm. Just moving sand—not to mention clearing downed trees and power lines, repairing roofs, and rebuilding homes—will take residents ages to complete.

  As I walk, I listen carefully, telling myself I’m listening for the sound of rescue personnel or the horse. If I’m honest, though, I have to admit I’m listening for the Blazer and Finn chasing after me, begging me for another chance. In reality that would only make things more difficult, and yet I can’t help my traitorous heart.

  But I don’t have to worry about what to say to him because the wind and waves make the only sounds in my world.

  Rubbing my thumb back and forth against the compass in my pocket, I count the broken yellow stripes in the middle of the road. My stomach grumbles. Too bad I didn’t snag a granola bar before heading out on my great, solitary adventure. I lose count of the yellow lines somewhere around two hundred and twenty and start again at one.