Jack jogs toward the massive Pineapple Fountain constructed in the center of the green space. It glows with an array of colors: blue, yellow, white. He yanks off his shoes and removes his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I hold up a hand to block his bare chest, broad shoulders, and chiseled abdomen from view. “Don’t take off your clothes.” I must be beet red.
“You can spend your whole life in a box and be happy, but you won’t have the chance to be happier unless you step out of the box.” He offers his hand as an invitation. “Be spontaneous.”
I’ve been more spontaneous today than I have in my entire lifetime.
“Trust me, Julie.”
“Okay. I’m not in a box, though.” I slide off my shoes and grab his invitation. Together, we wade into the fountain. My calves go numb. Bubbles tickle my toes. “What are we doing?”
“Trust me.” Jack places his right hand on my waist. His fingers saturate the fabric of my dress with heat, stir my hurricane of stomach butterflies into motion. “You’re stiff as a board.”
This moment should be frozen and described in detail, written at length so I won’t forget it even when I’m old and gray—how the boy holding me smells like an evergreen, earthy and wild. His palms are callused, worn from work, and fit perfectly around mine. I’m happy in his arms—that is the element I wish to remember most—and without fear.
Jack waltzes me around the fountain, attempting to dance to the strummed music. We’re anything but graceful. He stumbles. I do a belly flop into the pool and drench myself with water. Then, he pulls me close, and I wrap my arms around his neck. We sway back and forth, soaked and shivering, as the fountain’s gold spotlights glitter on our skin.
“It’s getting late,” I whisper when he’s close enough to kiss. “My parents are waiting. When they see me like this, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
He smiles. “Let’s get you home, then.”
Sopping wet, we slide on our shoes and continue the trek.
Every day for the remainder of the week, I sit with Jack at his usual table and drink coffee. We exempt personal information from our conversations and talk about everything else: books, music, stereotypes, why the world is so messed-up. We’re friends—more than a customer flirting with his barista, less than romantically involved. In a few weeks, our friendship will be over. It’s better this way. Jack will return to his secretive, complex life, and I’ll be uncompromised.
Chapter Four
“If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end; if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth, only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair.”
C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
Savory aromas greet me when I step into the foyer of my house. Food. Chicken. Apple pie. Who kidnapped my parents? Mom doesn’t cook. Was she replaced by Mrs. Jones from the commercial? I’ll scream if I find that big-haired, clown-grinning woman in the kitchen with a meatloaf in her mitted hands.
“Anyone home?” I toss my purse onto the piano. “Hello?”
“I’m in here, sweetie.” Mom hovers over the dining room’s mahogany table, arranging silverware next to her favorite set of china. “I thought we’d eat like normal people tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because I finished my masterpiece and had extra time on my hands. It’ll be fun.” She places a vase of gardenias on the table. What’s happening right now? Normal people don’t eat dinner off china, surrounded by freshly cut flowers. Normal people eat casserole or takeout off paper plates and sit at the kitchen table, maybe in front of the TV when The Bachelorette is airing.
“Are you sure nothing else is going on? This isn’t like you at all.”
“I can be spontaneous if I want, Julie,” she says with a huff.
“Yeah, of course.” It is better to let people’s insanity go unstated—crazy doesn’t like to be called crazy. “I’m going to go take a shower. I smell like coffee grounds.” And evergreen trees.
“Oh, and uh … put on something pretty.” She flashes a smile so casual it reaches the other end of the spectrum. “I like your red dress with the sweetheart neckline.”
“Won’t that be extravagant for a normal dinner?”
She winks. “Never has it been inappropriate for a girl to wear a red dress.”
I take a shower, curl my hair. The mirror likes me today—I am eighteen, blonde, and slender, without braces. Not beautiful or pretty. Liked. Desired. With a guy who’d stand in line for me, that is, if there was a line and I removed our friend-zone caution-tape.
The doorbell rings, followed by an outburst of voices. Oh my goodness, it’s him. I’d recognize his laugh, his heart-warming drawl anywhere. I clutch my mouth to muffle wheezes. Then, my legs are in motion. They yank me to the top of the staircase. He’s in the foyer. His hazel eyes meet mine, accompanied by an altruistic grin. He looks the same: tall and built with ginger hair, fair skin, and a dulcet face. Jon. My brother. He’s here. In this house.
“Hey, there’s my gorgeous sister.”
Whoever said humans can’t fly hasn’t met me. Jon gives wings, and I soar down the stairs like a cardinal. Everything inside of my chest explodes, jumps, sinks, and twirls. I wrap myself around his neck. He swings me like a pendulum. I don’t want him to let go.
“I’ve missed you, Jules,” he whispers. “Have you been okay?”
“No, but I’m better now.” I hug him tighter. His skin is warm, smells of sunscreen and laundry detergent—the best scent. “How long will you be in town?”
“I’m on leave for a few days. We have plenty of time to catch up.”
If I could, I’d sew us together so we wouldn’t have to be apart, so no matter where life takes him, I’ll be able to watch his back like he’s always watched mine. Is it normal for a sister to love her brother that much? He is my favorite—should I try to find someone from a different gene pool to adore, crave, rely on when the world knocks me down? No, because as long as I have Jon, I have all I need.
“Jules, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He gestures to the guest waiting with Mom and Dad. “This is my pal, Jack Buchanan.”
Cobalt irises invade my peripheral vision, blasting me with butterflies, sweat, and a sinking sensation. Everything freezes for a brief second, and then sucks into a vacuum of time, space, and tunnel vision. The figment sky falls. The earth swallows me whole. I drown beneath the tumultuous waves of my own shock. Jack—customer from The Grindery, Sexpot—is my brother’s best friend.
This must be another blood-sugar hallucination. Jack can’t be here. He lives in a coffeehouse and wanders the streets, wild and free, mysterious—the way I like him. Can I rewind to when I was painting my lips red, before the tsunami hit? I’ll take Jon, sneak off to the kitchen, and escape out the backdoor. We will borrow Mom’s Land Rover and drive to Missy’s apartment where the world is safe, same, and without beautiful boys wanting to merge lives. Where are the car keys?
“Hello, Julie.” Jack tries to shake my hand but resorts to a stiff wave. His cheeks turn white, then red. His voice cracks and then deepens. Cute. Maybe he’ll be so uncomfortable, he’ll leave. “If I had known I’d see you twice today, I would’ve brought coffee or something. So you are Jon’s little sister?” He says the word sister as if it’s the mark of death, a curse worth getting his mouth washed out with soap.
“Wait.” Jon chokes on a laugh. “You two know each other?”
“Yeah, we met at The Grindery.” Jack’s recently shaved and is wearing a black jacket with the tag still attached. A casserole is tucked beneath his left arm, meticulously bound in plastic wrap. “We’re actually … sort of friends.”
“Sort of.” More like casual flirts or close-knit strangers.
“That’s hilarious.”
Hilarious? No, this is downright cruel. Jack was supposed to be temporary, a vault to hold my secrets before whisking them into an oblivion of proximity and whatever else separates two
people. But he’s here, in my house. The secrets I tried to stow away from Charleston have returned to their place of origin, an ignited fuse to a bomb. Should I run for cover? Would it be rude to grab Jack by his shirt collar and shove him out the front door? He is oncoming traffic, and I’m a deer frozen in headlights, seconds from being flattened into a gutsy pelt. Survival is a question for the aftermath.
“I had no idea you were his sister,” Jack whispers as we walk to the dining room. He leans close to my ear. His breath smells like spearmint—I can almost taste it. His smooth cheek brushes mine and chokes me on my own heart. “Believe me, Julie. If I had known … I wouldn’t have flirted with you.”
What a charmer. “Oh, so since my last name is Stryker, you would’ve treated me differently?”
“Yes. Haven’t you heard of the Guy Code?” He grabs my arm. Geez, is he an electric eel? How does he steal the air from my lungs? “Jon is my best friend. You’re his sister. There are rules and boundaries. So yeah, I would’ve treated you differently if I had known … to respect my friend.”
“Okay.” I pry his callused hand from my biceps, but somehow, by an otherworldly chance, his fingers intertwine with mine so subtly, so innocently, so absolutely perfect, I step into him. His skin shouldn’t feel this good. I shouldn’t want to touch him this bad. “Let’s try to make it through dinner.”
Jack nods and sits at the table, next to me. He has this peculiar smolder, the kind that is neither intentional nor unintentional.
“You’re staring.” I gulp a mouthful of sweet tea.
“No, I’m not … I’m definitely not.” He offers the bread basket. “Roll? They’re whole grain, I think. Your mother’s into organic food, isn’t she?”
I spear a carrot and shove it into my mouth.
“You’re my friend. Jon is my friend. I don’t see all this as a disaster,” he says. “I’m not interested in you. You’re not interested in me. We can be just friends.” He prods my shin with the tip of his foot and grins when I commence a full-fledged leg war.
“Quit.” I stomp his toes. Cold water. Warm bodies. Weird feelings. We danced in the fountain, touching. I wrapped my arms around his neck, fell into his bare chest and absorbed his heat. If being just friends is less complicated, why do I have this ache in my chest, a latent longing to be the one he wants?
My heart is too young to rationalize feelings.
“Would you like some pasta and lamb casserole?” Jack heaps ziti and parmesan onto my plate, snickering when the noodle pile reaches an abnormal height. “You’re not allowed to say no. I worked hard to make it. Here, eat this.” He shoves a forkful of food into my mouth. “Verdict?”
Rude—that’s my verdict—and amazing. “This is actually good.”
“You’re surprised?” He scoffs. His crooked half-smile should be on display. He is the Michelangelo of crooked half-smiles. “Someone like me couldn’t possibly make…”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry for wounding your culinary ego.”
“Thank you.” He places a napkin in his lap and winks. “You’re pretty when you eat my noodles.”
“Gross.” I laugh and bite my lips to prevent from spewing food across the table.
“Oops, that came out way more inappropriate and assaultive than I intended.” Jack clenches his teeth, coughing on a snigger, and shrugs. “My philosophy is this: Say what you’re thinking aloud and if what you say is rude, you probably shouldn’t be thinking it.”
“Hey, Jules,” Jon shouts. He waves his arms to grab my attention. “Tomorrow, you’re spending the day with me. I have planned awesome stuff for us to do. What’s better than quality time with your big bro?” He tilts his head, eyebrows raised. Dang it. He’s figured out about Jack.
“Nothing is better than you. What are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise? Last time you planned a surprise, you took me catfish fishing.”
“And we had a ton of fun. You learned how to gut a fish. We played in the mud. Our boat capsized.” He stuffs a roll into his mouth and mumbles, “You’ll like tomorrow. I promise.”
Jon’s eyes warn me that I’m getting too close, too involved with his best friend. Jack will leave, return to his life before me, and I’ll be here, following a routine that once included him. No more coffee dates and book-talks. No more fountain dancing and inside jokes. Goodbye will be a noose around my neck, and Jon will have to cut me free. I should silence my dumb feelings now before I get more attached because it’s easy to like people who can’t make life miserable, but loving is a different matter—everyone tends to love those wrong for them.
Whatever. I like him. I really, really like him. Jack is a grenade and I’m the good girl who has never been allowed to play with explosives. He has the potential to hurt me. But as much as I’m afraid of being blown to pieces, I’m more afraid of being without him. It’s going to hurt.
It’s going to hurt because it matters.
“So, Jon, where’d you and Jack meet?” Dad asks.
“At the Marine base on Parris Island. We were assigned to the same squad and fireteam,” he says between bites of food. “Jack, at the time, was known as Sergeant Buchanan…”
“At the time?”
“Yes, Colonel Stryker. I’m no longer an enlisted Marine.” Jack’s expression turns stoic like Dad’s and his voice is commanding. What happened to the outspoken customer from The Grindery? “A year ago, during an assignment, I disobeyed protocol for reasons I cannot state. The insubordination led to my dismissal. However, I was honorably discharged.”
“How long were you in the military?” Mom pours herself a glass of cherry wine.
“Five years. I enlisted after high school.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m a freelance researcher. Different people and organizations hire me to analyze business reports and find information concealed from the public. Occasionally, I am even contracted by the military to research and study logistics.”
“Jack is the smartest guy I know. After basic training, he was certified in emergency and wilderness medicine, which proved useful when I was accidentally shot during a survival exercise.” Jon helps himself to another scoop of potatoes and props his elbows on the table. “We were in the middle of a swamp, struggling to find our rendezvous point. He put a stick in my mouth, pulled a scalpel from his pack, and carved the bullet out of my shoulder. It hurt like hell but … I didn’t bleed out.”
“You’re a doctor, Jack?” Mom casts her maybe-I-like-you smile.
“More of a combat medic,” he says, “and a battlefield surgeon. My profession isn’t solely medicine, though. Logistics, analytics, and research—that’s what I do best.”
Who is this guy? Ex-Sergeant Jack Buchanan? His name sounds like something from a video game or a low-budget action flick. How didn’t I recognize this side of him? Sure, we tried not to share too much about our personal lives, at least, he tried—I spilled my guts on day two. But when you give a fragment of your heart to someone, you expect to glimpse their true self when they open up to let that piece of you inside them.
Dad clears his throat. “Where’ve you been stationed the past few months, Jon?”
“North Carolina. I’ve been working on an assignment with my platoon.”
As my brother talks about his squad and asks about the latest happenings in Charleston, Jack pulls a pen from his pocket and scribbles on a napkin: Do you like my book? Check yes or yes.
The question forces me to smile. I check yes.
Jack: What do you think of the main character?
Me: He is unbelievably profound for a zombie.
Jack: The girl in the story reminds me of you.
Me: Really? She’s hardcore and blunt. I’m not like her at all.
Jack: You underestimate yourself. People have told you you’re fragile, weak, and dependent. You believe them. Don’t. I see beneath your layers. I see that who you are is a force to be reckoned with. If only you could
see what I see.
Me: You’re a weirdo and a flirt and a total ham.
Jack: Maybe. I have many layers.
He draws the tip of his pen across my hand, writing two words in black ink: The Living. “In a dead world, we are alive,” he whispers. “You, me, and Jon—we’re the Living.”
“Are you real?” Stupid. Of course he’s real.
“Yes, Julie. I’m not the mystical man from your dreams.” He snickers and removes a faded photograph from his wallet. “This is my old squad. We were gathered at the airstrip for deployment when the picture was taken. That’s Ezra, Abram, Sutton, and Tally standing on the right. Jon’s in the middle with the AR-15. You can’t really see it but … he painted the words Semper Fi on his forehead, which mean always loyal. They were my family, still are.”
“You all look happy.”
“We were excited to be out of basic training.” Jack leans so close his Old Spice deodorant masks the scent of Mom’s gardenias. He places his hand on the small of my back and whispers words I’ll probably embroider on a pillow or chisel into my desk. “I don’t want to lose you, Julie Stryker. You’re the reason I think the world has a chance. Things seem better when I’m with you, and I can’t risk screwing up something that could potentially make me better. Jon won’t mind if we’re friends…”
“Would you like to have coffee later this week?” I must be the queen of blurting out stuff or the president of red cheeks and awkwardness. “That is, if you’re not busy.” A tingling sensation spreads across my lips when he smiles. Would it be wrong to kiss him, feel what it’s like to squish faces with someone I like but can’t love? Yes, kissing would be horribly wrong because it’d be one step closer to falling for him. And people should never fall in love. I know from experience.
Everything that falls, gets broken.
****
“Are you moving the rudder, Jon? We’re shifting several degrees to the south.” I kick off my leather sandals and roll up the ends of my striped capris. The boat tilts starboard. Mist lurches up the bow, spraying salt and foam, and evaporates once it meets my hot skin.
The Vestige Page 5
