I bolt to my feet. My free hand explodes up in the air as I say, “University of Florida is only like three hours away! Why hasn’t he come to see me?”
“Maybe you should ask him that.”
My heart is racing, and I’ve gone sweaty all over. “Um. Do you think you could call him first? Just to find out if he needs more time, or if he’s had too much time. If —”
“Grace. Do whatever you think is right. Drive to Gainesville and talk to him for all I care. Goodnight.” And she hangs up.
Well.
I didn’t even consider talking to Owen in person until Janna mentioned it. But now I want to see him in an obsessive sort of way.
So I’m standing in the middle of my room, muttering to myself. I’m giving myself reasons why I should talk to Owen in person, while simultaneously producing about a gallon of armpit sweat.
“I still have his wallet,” I say, lurching from one corner of the room to the other on wobbly knees, “which I really should return. It probably isn’t right for me to keep it.”
I yank open my desk drawer and pull out Owen’s wallet. Holy effing hell. I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. I swallow. “Also,” I tell myself, rather convincingly, “Owen isn’t much for talking on the phone. It would be more comfortable for him if I showed up in person. So it only makes sense that I go see him.”
Did I say a gallon of sweat? Make that fifty gallons.
I call Janna back.
“OH MY GOD GRACE I AM GOING TO KILL YOU,” she says instead of hello.
“Don’t hang up,” I say superfast. “I just need Owen’s address.”
Fifty-Three
Three hours and forty-five minutes later, I’m in Eleanor’s car, Owen’s wallet in my purse, over halfway to Gainesville. The sun is bursting up from the east. Birds are soaring everywhere. Traffic is practically nonexistent. The radio is playing my favorite song.
I don’t know whether I’ll be able to stand myself for another ninety minutes.
Putting my phone on speaker, I call Andy. The two of us have been hanging out a lot lately — eating lunch together at school and going to movies — both of us suffering an immense loss when the McAllisters pulled out of town. Andy has been kicking himself for never having made a move with Janna. He told me philosophically last week in the cafeteria, over a shared pile of fries, “The biggest regrets in life are the risks you don’t take.”
Pretty deep for the guy who once told me, “I’ve only had two thoughts today, and one of those thoughts was ‘I wonder if this is a thought?’”
As soon as Andy answers, I say, “I need you to distract me right now. Any sort of idle chitchat will do. Tell me about your dog. Your grade in bio. Anything.”
“Why do I need to distract you?”
I blow out a breath, puffing out my cheeks. “If I tell you, it would totally defeat the whole purpose of calling. Distraction, Andy. Distraction is what I need. Did I wake you?”
“No. I was online, shopping for a jerkin.”
“A jerkin?”
“It’s a sleeveless jacket. I need one for the Renaissance festival next month.”
I feel the sides of my mouth tugging up a little, because you have to travel pretty far into the Dork Forest to get to the guy who buys jerkins. “Andy,” I say, “this is why you’ve been single all your life.”
He snorts once. And after a short pause, he says, “Are you in a car? Where are you going? What’s happening, Grace?”
Shit.
There goes my distraction.
“Goodbye, Andy,” I say. I reach across the dash and hit the END button.
#
A half hour left till I get to University of Florida, as long as I don’t get snagged up in traffic or, say, have a stroke.
#
I sing loudly and horribly to exactly six songs, which brings me to the parking lot in front of Owen’s dorm.
#
Seven thirty a.m., on the dot.
Standing in the hallway in front of Owen’s dorm room.
Gathering my courage.
I slipped into the building without ceremony or incident. Like, I didn’t have to bribe my way inside or sneak in after a student or anything. I just slid right on in because the door, which, I have no doubt, is typically locked to those without a key, was propped open with someone’s old sneaker.
And now, minutes later, here I am.
Emitting a shaky breath, I put my hair up into one of those messy ponytail buns, then let it fall back down, then put it up again, because this is what normal people do when they’re about to knock on someone’s door, right?
I swallow.
This is where Owen lives.
I glance down the hallway. It’s nondescript, with off-white walls covered in posters advertising various upcoming events — sort of quaint, actually, once you get over how ordinary it is. I turn back to the door. Nerves buzz in my stomach, a hive of bees. I’m sweating and shaking and short of breath, but I square my shoulders. I straighten my spine.
I am not a disaster. I have overcome so much.
This is my story.
I knock twice. And I wait.
Fifty-Four
“Grace? What are you doing here?”
Owen blinks at me, completely bewildered. His hair has grown out a couple inches. It looks more like it did when we were younger. One side is adorably flattened from sleep, and the other side is sticking straight up.
I open my mouth and then clamp it shut.
I’ve planned a hundred different versions of this moment in my head, but now that I’m here and he’s standing in front of me, I have no clue what to say. I don’t know how much he’s changed the past couple of months, and I can’t tell by looking at him. He’s —
Oh, God. He’s still gorgeous.
I meet his eyes. I want to hug him forever and smile until my cheeks hurt and bawl my eyes out. I don’t do any of those things, though. There’s this hesitance in his posture that keeps me a step away. “I just —” I begin, but then I stop. The reasons that led me here seem flimsy all of a sudden. I have your wallet. Just thought I’d drive three hours first thing Sunday morning to return it. Also: I’d like you to be part of my story. Think we can make that happen?
“Janna told me you ended up going to school here after all,” I say finally, and then I pull his wallet out of my purse and shove it into his hands so quickly that he nearly drops it. “I’ve had your wallet since forever, so I thought I’d swing by and drop it off.” Swing by? How do you swing by from New Harbor? “I also thought we could talk. I just want —”
— a chance for a Maybe.
I wipe my palms on my clothes. Steel myself. “We’ve gone a long time without talking.” I wait a moment for him to reply. He doesn’t. I soldier on. “And I think it’s time we do. I think we can help each other. I know that everything has changed, but I want us to be — something. Friends. Or more than that. Or less than that. I don’t know, exactly. All I know is that I want whatever sort of us we can have after — after everything. We’ve known each other too long to throw it all away.”
His chin goes a little slack, like he wasn’t expecting this much honesty from me. For the record, I wasn’t expecting this much honesty from me, either. Even so, speaking the truth so boldly pushes open some sort of dead bolt inside me — metal sliding against metal, a door swinging free.
I feel like I’ve just handed him my heart.
Everything we’ve gone through reflects back at me in his expression — pain, joy, sadness, isolation, caring, heartbreak, longing.
It’s there.
But he still seems so far away.
“I’m not — I wasn’t throwing it away,” Owen begins, his eyes big and green and heartbroken. Then he sighs. “I was trying to sort everything out.”
I glance past h
im, into his room. Every inch of wall space is covered in artwork — sketches, paintings, drawings, doodles. You name it. There’s hardly any furniture. Not that I can see, anyway — it’s concealed by carvings and sculptures.
For some reason, it’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.
I blink a couple of times, my eyes blurring.
Pull it together, Grace.
I gesture to his room. “Love the college-chic decor,” I say, trying to make light of it. Trying to make light of everything.
Owen flushes and presses his bare toes against the doorjamb, bending them backward a little. “Helps me untangle my brain,” he mutters.
“Ah.” I rock back on my heels. “Far be it from you to funnel your angst into something common, like a frat party.”
For a fraction of a second, he smiles. But it vanishes almost instantly.
A knife twists in my heart.
Sometimes the tragedies aren’t the hardest part. It’s the aftermath that’s excruciating.
A sleepy-looking guy in a struggling goatee shuffles down the hallway, yawning, barely giving us a second look. Suddenly I’m acutely aware that Owen hasn’t invited me in. That I’m still standing in the hallway.
Owen says, “How are you, Grace? Are you okay?”
I want him to see the changes in me. I want him to know that they’re good changes. “I’m hanging in there. I’m going to school. I’m seeing my therapist. I’m …”
“Moving on,” he says, sagging slightly.
“Carrying on.”
“But you’re okay?”
“I’m getting there.”
His exhale is half relief and half surprise. It spills out of him like a rug unrolling. I’d like to think that there’s some affection in his breath, too, but lack of sleep might be clouding my perceptions.
“I’m really worried about you, Owen,” I blurt. “Your family is so far away. You’re here by yourself. I don’t think you should be going through all this on your own.”
He blinks at me. “I’m not. I mean — I’ve been seeing a therapist.”
Wait. What? He’s actually talking to someone? A flicker of hope warms my entire body. I say, “Is it helping you?”
“A little, I guess? My therapist keeps telling me that I need to talk to my father to move past all this, even if I just write him a letter. But I can’t.” Owen stares at me and looks away. “I hate him, Grace,” he admits, his voice breaking. “I hate him with every part of me. I hate what he did to you and what he did to my family. I hate that he led everyone to believe that he’s this great guy, when he’s really a vicious asshole who ruined everyone’s lives.”
“Remember how much it helped you when you finally talked to Zoey? Maybe if you just try to —”
“I am not talking to my father,” he says, enunciating every word.
“Okay, then talk to me.”
He swallows. “I’m not going to dump my problems on you.”
How can I get him to understand? “You wouldn’t be,” I say. “We can help each other.”
He drags in a breath. His body twists in misery. He says, “I don’t think you can help me, Grace.”
The words are like a door slamming in my face. I stagger backward a little. The floor feels unsteady underneath me. Then I reel myself back in, remembering all those times Owen hit a brick wall with me, and yet he never gave up. Remembering every time he was strong when I couldn’t be.
I lift my chin. I look him dead in the eye. My words come from everywhere, from every part of me, because I already have too many regrets in life and I’m not about to make any more of them. Not with Owen. Not anymore. I say, “Well, I’m going to try.”
Fifty-Five
The next day, I sit on the very edge of my bed, grab my cell phone and call Owen. He doesn’t pick up. Sighing loudly, I slide a sand dollar off my nightstand and roll it around in my hand.
I think of my dad’s words about luck and hope.
About wishes being thrown up to the universe.
With a small smile, I search around for an envelope. Once I find one, I slip the sand dollar inside and seal the package shut, scratching a quick address on the front.
Owen needs more than luck to get through this, but luck is a damn good start.
And right now, it’s all I can give him.
Fifty-Six
I’m almost home from school the next afternoon, completely immersed in thought, mentally practicing the violin for my upcoming lesson and also considering my next step with Owen. When I hear someone holler, “Hey!” I spook like a cat, my books flying everywhere, and jerk around. And there’s Luke Simmons, standing on the edge of the road.
Yeah. Luke Simmons.
The guy whose wallet I stole. The lifeguard.
That’s what I’m saying.
I suck in my breath before I can even stop myself, because it’s like turning around and seeing a lion stalking toward you.
This particular lion is smiling hesitantly.
I can tell that he’s figured out who I am — that he’s taken my letter and my return address and connected them to my face — because he has this expression like he’s just come up with an answer to a particularly difficult Jeopardy question. “Hey,” he says again, jogging toward me in his yellow lifeguard T-shirt. He doesn’t appear angry or ready to rat me out, but even so, my heart has leaped into Tampa Bay, and whatever has filled its vacancy is rattling inside my rib cage.
I stoop down, grab my books and stand back up, humiliation warming my face as Luke comes to a stop in front of me. “Look, Grace,” he says, and I cringe when he says my name, “I just wanted to come over and say —” He breaks off suddenly. His John Lennon hair swirls around in the wind for a few seconds. “God, this is strange, right? This is super strange. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank-you for your letter and stuff? You must be a helluva thief because I had no clue you stole my wallet that day.” He gives me one of those weak soft-punches on my shoulder, like Atta girl, way to steal, then he lets his hand drop awkwardly. He clears his throat. “I also wanted to say that I’m sorry. I mean, I know you’re the one who jacked my wallet, but —” He stops again. His ears are pink and his nose is wrinkled. He won’t even look at me. “I was actually looking at your —” He coughs a little and starts to point to my chest, but then changes his mind and points to his own. “I mean — I’m a guy. Kind of a shitty excuse, but it’s true. And you didn’t do anything to deserve me gawking at you. So I guess what I’m saying is that I’m sorry for looking at you like that, that I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through.” Suddenly he’s walking backward, both palms facing me like he’s afraid I’ll spray him with mace or something. I still haven’t said one word to him. “We cool?” he asks as his feet hit the sand.
I nod once, and he spins away and jogs toward the lifeguard tower. I feel colossally thankful, yet about three inches tall.
#
That afternoon, I breeze into FedEx with a bamboo plant, a four-leaf clover and a box of Lucky Charms. “I need to send this to a friend in Gainesville,” I tell the clerk.
She stares at me like I’m a total crackpot.
I shift my weight. I don’t want to explain Dad’s luck thing to her, so I say, “This isn’t really all that weird.”
She puts everything in a box and starts punching numbers into her computer. “It’s pretty weird,” she mutters.
Fifty-Seven
I can’t sleep that night. Which really isn’t all that uncommon. What’s uncommon is that I’m not the only one awake. I walk into the hallway and find Faith standing in the spare room — like, the spare room — her back to me and her hands propped on her hips. I have no clue how she knows I’m behind her, hovering in the doorway, but she does, because without even turning around, she says, “I had Rusty take it out. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you all th
ese weeks, knowing it’s still here.”
It only takes a second for me to realize she’s talking about the bed. Which is gone. Actually, everything’s gone. The furniture, the decor, all of it. The room has been completely gutted. I have no idea how long it’s been this way. The door has been closed for months.
I take one step into the room but don’t go any farther. I stand very still, waiting. Though my mind is heavy with images, my spine is straight. My breath is steady.
I’m a sexual assault survivor.
Keyword: survivor.
“Thanks,” I say to Faith, and it’s not just about this room. It’s more than that. Faith is gifted, it seems, at nudging us all toward what we need — even before we know we need it. I wonder, for a moment, if this is what it feels like to have a mom. A swell of emotion fills my chest and I blink several times.
A couple of seconds pass where all I hear is the steady drone of the air conditioner, and then Faith turns around, gives me a small smile and jerks her head toward the kitchen. “Herbal tea,” she says finally, clicking off the light and brushing past me.
While she fills the kettle with water, I slide into a chair at the kitchen table. We don’t talk at first, but there’s something comfortable about the silence.
Faith puts a steaming mug in front of me, sits down and says, “Should we paint it? That room?”
“Yeah,” I say, without even having to think about it. “Yeah. I think we should.”
“What color?”
I smile. “Sunflower.”
Fifty-Eight
The next day, Rusty lugs a couple of gallons of eye-bleedingly yellow paint into the house and unloads them onto the counter with a grunt. Then he says, “Faith told me not to even bother coming home tonight unless I’m carrying two gallons of sunflower-colored paint.” He stares at them for a moment, totally perplexed. “Women are strange.”
Fifty-Nine
The Leading Edge of Now Page 21
