A Bird on a Windowsill
Page 1
A Bird on a Windowsill
-a love story-
L A U R A M I L L E R
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Laura Miller.
LauraMillerBooks.com
A Bird on a Windowsill
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system.
Cover design by Laura Miller.
Cover photo, title page photo (girl) © Nadya Korobkova /Shutterstock.com.
Cover photo, second title page photo, The End page photo (watercolor) © pilipa/Fotolia.com.
Quote pages photo, chapter headings photo (birds)
© beaubelle/Fotolia.com.
Dedication page photo, contents page photo, quote pages photo, chapter headings photo, acknowledgments page photo (feather) © molokot/Fotolia.com.
Author photo © Neville Miller.
To the One who rides upon the wings of the wind,
For second chances.
People say birds are a bad omen. But I’m not so sure because while the only bird I ever knew tore my world in two, I loved every single moment of it.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue One: Salem
Prologue Two: Savannah
Chapter One: Salem
Chapter Two: Salem
Chapter Three: Savannah
Chapter Four: Salem
Chapter Five: Salem
Chapter Six: Salem
Chapter Seven: Salem
Chapter Eight: Salem
Chapter Nine: Salem
Chapter Ten: Savannah
Chapter Eleven: Salem
Chapter Twelve: Salem
Chapter Thirteen: Salem
Chapter Fourteen: Salem
Chapter Fifteen: Salem
Chapter Sixteen: Salem
Chapter Seventeen: Salem
Chapter Eighteen: Salem
Chapter Nineteen: Savannah
Chapter Twenty: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-One: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Two: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Three: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Four: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Five: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Six: Salem
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Savannah
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Savannah
Chapter Thirty: Savannah
Chapter Thirty-One: Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Two: Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Three: Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Four: Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Five: Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Six: Salem
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Savannah
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Savannah
Chapter Forty: Savannah
Chapter Forty-One: Savannah
Chapter Forty-Two: Savannah
Chapter Forty-Three: Savannah
Chapter Forty-Four: Savannah
Chapter Forty-Five: Savannah
Chapter Forty-Six: Savannah
Chapter Forty-Seven: Savannah
Epilogue One: Savannah
Epilogue Two: Salem
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Laura Miller
Never regret something that once made you smile.
~Unknown
Prologue One
Salem
“Who do you choose, Vannah?”
My tone is even, an attempt to hide the uncertainty in my voice.
Her gaze immediately casts down to the floor. I watch as she squeezes her eyes shut, bites her bottom lip—a nervous habit of hers—and then slowly raises her head.
My heart beats out a rhythm in my chest. If I had to, I’d put it to some wild, sped-up version of My Generation. There’s a lump in my throat. I try like hell to swallow it down, but it doesn’t go anywhere. I’m terrified of what she’s about to say, and yet, against all odds, I’m hopeful.
She looks up. Her eyes open. A green sea floods the little room in which we’re standing. I close my eyes and try not to drown in her essence. In my mind, she’s five years old. Her hair is short. She calls my name. She takes my hand. She’s six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven years old. Her hair is long. She makes me laugh. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Seventeen. I think I love you. I think I always have. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. I miss you. I love you. I always will. Twenty-three. Choose me.
I open my eyes and look up just as her lips part. Her eyes are dark, holding in her secret. I try to read them, but I can’t.
I take a breath.
And then there are words—soft words, delicately dripping from her full, red lips. I hear them, but to me, they’re just the sound of a bird taking off from a windowsill.
People say birds are a bad omen. But I’m not so sure because while the only bird I ever knew tore my world in two, I loved every single moment of it.
My name is Salem Ebenezer—or Eben, if you’re Savannah. Short e. Short e. And most of all, short for Ebenezer. And this is the story about me and Savannah Catesby. Savannah Elise Catesby, that is. Though, to me, she was always just Vannah.
I met Vannah when we were very young—just five years old. She had short, blond hair and soft green eyes. Though, as we grew older, her hair got longer and her eyes, darker and more mysterious.
I loved Vannah. I loved her for her unruly laugh and the way she made me feel. To her, I wasn’t the smallest and scrawniest boy in the first grade. To her, I was...me.
And I loved her because she would always pick me first for her kickball team. And I loved her for those times I forgot my lunch, and she shared hers with me. But most of all, I loved Vannah because she had this innate ability to make everyone around her feel loved.
But somewhere in the midst of junior high—in the midst of zits and a squeaky voice and an awkward way of getting around, both physically and in conversation, I changed—we changed. That was about the time I realized that I loved Vannah not only for the way she made me feel and the occasional ham and cheese sandwich, but also for our long talks under the stairs after school and the way her mouth moved when she laughed. And I fell in love with the way she ate peanut butter cups—from the inside out—and how she always knew when something was wrong...or new...or different.
And without me even realizing it, the hours turned into days, and the days, to years, and before either of us knew, I think, we were fifteen and in high school. And that was the first time, I think, that I noticed Vannah’s long, tan legs....and the precarious way my name rolled off her tongue...and how she made just pulling her hair back or signing her name in those long, drawn-out curves, somehow sexy.
And it was then that I realized I loved her for those things, too.
But still, for whatever reason—I can’t tell you—I never told her that. I never told Vannah that I loved our long talks or her long legs. Not right away anyway. In fact, it wasn’t until she had moved away and had come back for a summer, the year we both turned eighteen, that I finally got up the courage.
It was the summer of the Polaroid, and God must have taken pity on my oblivious self because he smiled down on me, and he gave me those three little words—and a second chance to tell her how I feel.
July 6, 2001. That was the day that I finally realized that I not only loved
Vannah for everything she was, but I, plain and simple, loved Vannah.
And I told her that. I told her that—that same day I realized it. On a soft night in the middle of Hogan’s slab, I told Savannah Catesby that I loved her. And I only remember the date because she said it back.
I’m twenty-three now. It’s July 12, 2007. I’m still in love with that little girl with the unruly laugh and the long, wild hair and the dark stare and the tireless heart. And I know she still loves me.
But now, she’s standing at the door, her dark green eyes slicing open the distance between her gaze and mine. And I’m just staring back at her. And three thoughts are all that are on my mind:
I love this girl.
I love this girl.
I love this girl.
She takes a breath. I hold mine. And with that, a silent thought slips into my cadence.
I love this girl.
I love this girl.
I love this girl.
Choose me.
Choose me.
Prologue Two
Savannah
I’ve come to learn two truths about love.
One: The fall is the easy part.
Two: It’s best not to fall.
My name is Savannah Catesby. And this is a love story. It’s not pretty. It’s not poetry. It doesn’t even have a happy ending. But I guess that’s partially due to the fact that it’s not over, yet. And honestly, I’m not sure it will ever really be over. I’m not sure love—of any kind— is a thing you get over. And it’s definitely not a thing you get over when it comes to Salem Ebenezer—my oldest friend.
And really, in the end, I just wish we had more time. I wish we had a dozen lifetimes to get this right.
But of course, we don’t.
We only have this one—and it’s short.
Way too short.
I love Salem. I always have. But then, there’s something else I’ve also learned about love: Sometimes the hearts we steal are not the hearts we were ever meant to keep.
Chapter One
Salem
(Five Years Old)
Day 1
“Who are you?”
My back stiffens. And for a second, I can’t breathe.
“I can see you. You’re not a ghost, are you?”
I slowly catch my breath and then shake my head.
“What’s your name?”
“Salem.” My voice cracks, and I work fast to clear my throat. “Salem Ebenezer.”
She drops her gaze to the water in the little stream for a moment, and then just as quickly, her eyes are back on me.
“Ebenezer?”
I nod once.
“Do people call you Eben?”
I shake my head no.
“Then, I’ll call you Eben.”
I feel my face twist into a question mark. “Why?”
She shrugs her narrow shoulders and goes to poking a stick at some soft red clay. “I don’t know.”
It’s quiet then. There’s a sound of a truck—like a dump truck—off in the distance, but other than that, it’s quiet.
I watch her. She slips off her tan sandals and dips her bare feet into the water. The water must be cold because she lifts her toes fast and goes back to poking at the red clay, instead. I watch as she stamps out a pile of little holes and then makes them disappear by pressing her palm hard to the clay.
I have been coming down here for almost a week now, spying on her. And I know I’m not supposed to be spying, but I can’t help it. Every day about this time, she comes to this little stream that runs through the center of town, and she pokes at the mud or drops rocks into the water and watches them sink. And most times, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can see her lips moving, like she’s making up stories as she goes. I like being a spy, and plus, she’s fun to watch. But today, I just couldn’t watch her anymore. Today, I decided I wanted to be in her stories. And that’s when I stepped out from behind the trees.
She looks up at me, and my breath gets caught in my throat. I don’t say anything as her stare hangs on me for what feels like one of Reverend Cantrell’s whole sermons. And I feel like runnin’, and I probably should, but I don’t.
“What are you doing here anyway?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
I sure ain’t gonna tell her I’m spying.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Well, how’d you get here?”
“I walked.”
I watch as she pushes her lips to one side of her mouth—just like a grown-up does when they don’t know whether they should laugh at you or scold you.
“Well, do you wanna play with me?”
When I don’t say anything right away, she picks up a rock and throws it into the water. Her hair is cut short, kind of like my sister’s. She looks nice. She’s a girl, but I don’t got much choice at this time of day. There usually ain’t any kids around here until evening.
“Well?” she asks, a little impatient, this time.
I quickly drop my eyes to the dirt at my sneakers.
“I guess,” I eventually say. And I follow that with a shrug.
“Well, come on.”
She waves me over. And now, all of a sudden, instead of having the urge to run away, I have the urge to run to her. But I don’t want her to think I like her, so I don’t.
And the next thing I know, I’m sitting down on a rock next to her. I grab a stick, too. There are all kinds of sticks around. I look up. There’s a maple tree hanging above us. They must have all come from it.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” she says, jabbing her stick into the ground near my shoe. It’s almost as if she’s trying to get me to move my foot. I press it harder into the ground.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
My eyes quickly find hers.
“What? Me?”
She only nods.
“Trees and sticks...and you trying to poke my foot.”
Her eyes light up, and her smile gets big. “How did you know?”
I shrug. “I just knew,” I say, proudly.
“You’re on my telescope.”
“Your what?” I quickly pick up my foot and look at the ground under it. There’s nothing there.
“This is the moon,” she says, pointing at all the little holes she’s poked into the ground. “And I’m looking at the stars through my telescope.” She bounces a stick, as if it’s walking, to the place my shoe just was. And then she jabs it hard into the ground.
I picture my foot still being there, and I let out a thankful breath that it’s not.
“My friend, Dillon, says the moon’s made out of cheese,” I say.
She gives me a funny look and then just stares at me.
“What are those?”
I follow her eyes to my pocket.
“Gummy worms,” I say, tugging on the little bag. “You want some?”
I hand her the bag, and she takes it and opens it with her little hands. And then her eyebrows squish together.
“Why are there gummy bears in here, too?”
She pulls out a worm with one hand and a bear with the other.
I shrug. “I just put them together, so I didn’t have to carry two bags.”
I watch as she holds the two gummies side by side, as if she’s examining the two closely.
“Why have I never seen you before?” she asks, shoving both the bear and the worm into her mouth and biting down hard.
“I don’t know,” I say, squashing the urge to tell her that she probably hasn’t seen me because I’m good at hiding. “I usually stay around the sawdust pile.”
Her eyes are back on mine fast. So fast, it makes me jump.
“At the lumberyard?”
“Yeah,” I say. “My dad owns it.”
“Can we go there?”
I lift my shoulders and then let them fall. “Yeah, if you want.”
She jumps up, stuffs the gummies into her pocket and rubs her hands together. Then she brushes off the ba
ck of her dress. “Let’s go then.”
And as quick as my dog can lick up my leftovers, she slips on her sandals and starts walking. I throw my stick down and follow her.
She’s a fast walker, and I have to run a little to catch up.
“What’s your name anyway?”
“Savannah,” she says, without missing a beat.
I think about it for a second. “Does anyone call you Vannah?”
“No,” she says, short and sweet.
“Well,” I ask, timidly, “can I call you Vannah?”
“Why?”
I feel her eyes on me, but for some reason or another, I don’t look up. I just keep my eyes on the dirt and the grass at our feet. “I don’t know.”
I don’t hear anything for a while, so I lift my head and catch her smiling at me. And right then and there, I decide that her smile is nice.
“Okay,” she says. “You can call me Vannah.”
I feel my grin getting bigger, as I shove my hands into my pockets.
“Why are you always at that stream?” I ask.
“How do you know I’m always there?”
I meet her eyes and notice they’re green. But then I quickly look down.
“I mean, today,” I say, instead. “Why were you there today?”
She shrugs. “My uncle works at the paper.”
“Oh,” I say. “Does he write all those stories?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then that makes sense.”
“What makes sense?”
“Oh.” My fingers nervously fidget in my pockets. “Nothing.”
There’s a puddle in our path. We both jump over it.
“Do you live around here?” she asks.
“Yeah, I live right outside of town. I’m gonna start school soon.”
“Where?”
“Allandale Elementary.”
“Me too,” she says, giving me another nice smile.
I smile back, and then I concentrate on walking. We cut a path straight through Mr. Witte’s yard and across Maupin and Elm streets. And then she sticks her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulls out something shiny.