by A. S. Green
I lower myself onto a reclining chair, put my feet up, and focus on the wind blowing across my toes. The ivy growing on the wall trembles with it. Sailboats are already heading out, capturing the perfect conditions. The sky is a cloudless, turquoise blue.
These are the things I focus on. I actively do not think about Katherine, which is damn near impossible. To purposefully avoid a thought has the opposite effect. The memory of her anguished face is front and center. I tore into her. Scared her. To forget last night, well, I might as well try to forget my own name.
I can’t believe the disaster I’ve walked myself into. Andrew Mason! If I hadn’t first seen his name on the envelope, I might not have recognized him in the photograph, but there he was. Plain as day.
It’s worse than I could have imagined, and it knocks the wind out of me to think of the restrained life she’s going back to. How quickly will it snuff out her spark? It makes me angry. It makes me sick. My first impression of her was completely spot on. I should have never allowed myself to get so close.
But then…
I give myself the chance to breathe.
No, that’s not right. I do know Katherine, and she’s not what my first impression led me to believe. Rather, she is everything she has shown herself to be: adventurous, unafraid, willing to explore her limits. That’s the life I hope she chooses for herself. If she needs time to do that, I can give her time. But she needs to do that on her own, without my interference. All I can do is hope her decision leads her back to me.
Involuntarily, and without warning, I am back in that day—so many years ago now—when I allowed myself to make my own decision. My bags were packed; my note was written. A small voice in the hallway was whispering, “Don’t go, Benny.”
It was unfair of me. But I had to get out. “Bye, Buddy.”
The apparition evaporates with the steam off my mug, and I choke back a sob. The familiar loneliness kicks me in the gut, and my eyes sting. I am tearing up like a homesick kid. Thank God I’m alone. No one should see me this pathetic.
I grab my guitar and pick out the chords I was working on last night: D, G D, G, A7.
Said good-bye like it don’t matter
that’s the way it always goes.
Said it all in just one letter.
Not a poet, not much for prose.
How a few short words can set at bay
the sweetest love I’ve ever known.
Said in anger, that’s my way
to cut the closest to the bone.
Chorus:
Choose yourself above all others
over me and over him.
Let your truth ring out forever
like fingers round a crystal rim.
Fingers round a crystal rim.
Island rose and Sunday rainstorm.
Campfire beaches, write my songs.
Please come to me, my sweet surrender.
Don’t let this good-bye last too long.
Chorus:
Choose yourself above all others
over me and over him.
Let your truth ring out forever
like fingers round a crystal rim.
Fingers round a crystal rim.
Round a crystal rim.
I let the final chord waver there in the air for a few seconds before slapping my hand against the sound board. I can’t stop seeing her panicked eyes. Her explanation that they’re just friends, even if true, is still completely wacked. It’s clear how much she feels for him.
I start picking out the chords of the chorus again, experimenting with moving the capo up a fret.
We each need some space and time to work things through in our heads. I already know I won’t be giving up on her.
The Nashville itinerary Jordan sent me is lying on the kitchen counter. It’s exciting. The chance to work with someone like Knight—it’s what I’ve always wanted, but I’m conflicted. Time is running out on summer. For both Katherine and me. Is there enough time for us? And if I end up in Nashville long term, could I realistically expect her to come with me?
Dumb-ass, I think, doesn’t matter how much time you’ve got. Time is not the real issue. Not when I know damn well we can’t escape my past.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Katherine
There’s no such thing as a long week. A week is seven days, never longer, never shorter. I know this because last week felt like a year, so to make sure, I marked off the days on the Girls of the Ivy League calendar. Sure enough. Seven. Seven days since I’ve heard from Bennet.
Man, he pisses me off.
His absence has left me hollow, as if I’ve been scooped out with a spoon. Sure, I regret everything I said that night, but he criticized Andrew, and I lashed out. What did he expect me to do when he attacked my oldest friend?
Since I haven’t had Bennet to fill my days, I’ve looked for other…creative outlets. In fact, Lucy has never been so tick-and-plaque-free. Her teeth practically sparkle and, on top of that, I’ve completed five watercolor landscapes with varying degrees of success. My trees are even starting to resemble trees, though the sailboats look like birds. I suppose I could tell people they’re birds.
Right now I’m stretched out on the couch and reading Pride and Prejudice. More specifically, I’m staring at page one hundred and two—as I have been for the last hour.
I can’t focus on the words because Bennet’s voice keeps ringing in my head. “My problem is that you’re not ready to move on from life at the country club. You can’t deny it when you still have his picture by your pillow.”
Such an idiot. Shows how much he knows me. Bringing Andrew’s picture had nothing to do with wanting a country-club life. I don’t even care about the freakin’ country club. Andrew has been my closest friend for way longer than the…what?…two months I’ve known Bennet. Am I supposed to throw away my friendship with a guy just because I meet someone whose kisses set my hair on fire?
“Have you ever—just once, have you ever tried living life on the edge? Really feeling it? Can you put yourself first?”
I cringe. Bennet sounded like Macie when he asked me that, and his question hit the very heart of me.
Sure. I can put myself first, jackass. The better question is: how do I survive the guilt of telling Andrew I’m uncertain about the future he has so meticulously planned for us? What will he think of me for wasting his time? If putting myself first means being heartless to Andrew…well, then maybe I’m not down with that. Did you ever think of that, Bennet?
But deep in my gut, I know I’m rationalizing my own fear.
The fact is, I should have been more honest with Andrew, and I should have never lied to Bennet.
Still…I don’t understand why Bennet had to be so tough on Andrew. Who cares if they have completely opposite viewpoints on life? So what if they don’t have a single thing in common? He didn’t have to be such a dick about it.
I groan and flop over onto my back. He’ll realize that. He’ll be up to apologize. Soon. I’m almost sure of it.
Or maybe it’s me who should apologize? If Bennet had only given me time to think, I know I would have handled the situation better. When he wanted to kiss me, I would have let him. What I wouldn’t give now to have his lips on mine. I close my eyes and let my mind wander. I can almost sense his hands slipping down my sides, curling around my hips. Yeah, I should have handled things better.
My eyes snap open. But he scared me, the way his emotions turned like the flip of a switch. His unpredictability used to be fun and exciting, but that night it was terrifying. Andrew could never be like that. He is controlled, even-tempered. He would never react like Bennet did. He’d take a breath. He’d reason it out.
But there’s something kind of sad about that, too.
Even though Bennet set me back on my heels, I would miss that kind of passion if I didn’t have it anymore. Would an even-tempered life seem pallid in comparison to the life I’ve had on the island, even if it’s only been for the last two
months?
Still, I’ve never had such fury directed at me. How could Bennet treat me like that?
Maybe he simply can’t tolerate a liar. If that’s the case, it’s really over. I’m just a summer girl now. An extremely pathetic summer girl who’s been sleeping every night in an old T-shirt left behind by the man who broke her heart.
I steel my jaw. If Bennet’s giving up on me over a stupid photograph, that’s his loss. He may have hit close to home on a couple things he said, but overall he’s wrong about me. Going to law school didn’t mean I was putting myself second. Law school would be an incredible challenge. The very thought of it is terrifying. Talk about living on the edge!
I sigh. I’m doing my best, but not even I find myself persuasive. Some lawyer I’d make. Truth is, Bennet was like the cast on a broken bone. He gave me the support I needed to mend and the ability to get stronger in the process. But the cast was cut off too soon. I’m still fractured. Without Bennet in my life, I’m afraid I’ll still need the structure Andrew gives me. And that means law school. But…at least I’d still have my friend. It wouldn’t be like I’ve lost everything. So why does it feel like all is lost?
There’s a click and a voice says, “Knock, knock?”
I push up on my elbows and turn toward the sound. Someone is cracking open my front door. My heart jumps with expectation, even though the voice is not the one I want so desperately to hear.
Rachel peers at me through the gap. “Can we come in?”
I swing my legs around so I’m sitting on the edge of the couch. She holds the door for Natalie, who’s pushing in two ten-gallon plastic tubs. Beads of perspiration dot her hairline. As lonely as I am, this is not the company I was hoping for. I get up off the couch and walk toward them.
“Here.” Rachel hands me a small paper bag. “I refuse to do anything crafty without peanut M & Ms.”
“Right,” I say, as if I understand what she’s talking about and why they’re here. “What’s going on?” There’s a note of irritation in my voice, but neither of them acknowledges it. “Was I supposed to be expecting you?”
“Summer Fest decorations,” Natalie says while unloading things from the first plastic tub onto my kitchen table. “Mom says I’m not allowed to procrastinate, and you said you’d help.” She stops unloading and sighs. “I’ve got to decorate forty votive candleholders for the dance; one for each table, y’know. And I’m not doing this alone. Hey, is your A/C on?”
She and Rachel continue unpacking the first plastic tub, tossing crumpled newspaper balls through the air, littering the floor. I watch. When they are done, forty glass votive candleholders sit on the kitchen table, each shaped like a shot glass mounted on a saucer.
Rachel opens the second tub, which is full of large blue and white silk flowers. It’s nice to see my Greek theme is in full swing. It perks me up a little bit.
“See,” Natalie says, “the idea is to take these flowers and hot glue them around the base of each holder.”
“And then hope the flowers don’t catch fire when you light the candles?” I add.
“You’re a riot,” Natalie deadpans.
“Well, you have to admit…” Rachel adds in that throaty way I’ve come to love. She shoves one flower into her dreads. “You’d get your wish. It would definitely be ‘The Most Memorable Summer Fest Ever’ if you set fire to March’s barn.”
“Shut up, Rach. Remind me why I brought you here?” Natalie never even looks up at her, hell-bent on unloading all the silk flowers and keeping them from slipping off the table onto the floor.
“You brought me here because, even though you’ve gone totally Martha Stewart on us, you don’t want to hot glue one hundred and twenty flowers by yourself. That, and because Kate’s artistic talents are, as of yet, untested.” Rachel smiles at me in a challenging kind of way, baring all her teeth.
She’s hit her mark. “I’ll have you know,” I say, pointing my finger with faked conviction, “that I’ve got more artistic talent in my little—”
“Yeah, big talk, Summer Girl. Put your glue gun where your mouth is.”
“Rock on,” Natalie says.
“Give me that,” I demand, grabbing a pair of clippers. I start hacking off the long plastic stems from the flowers and find that it’s a good outlet for the edginess that has been brewing inside me over the last week.
Lucy makes quick work of collecting all the green sticks that fall on the floor, creating a little cache under her mat. She lays her chin along the edge of the rug, looking worried that we’ll discover what she’s done and take them all away. Her eyebrows twitch as she looks back and forth between us, watching our every move.
“Ooh, look at Kate go,” Rachel teases. She grabs a salad bowl from the cupboard and fills it with a pound-sized bag of M&Ms.
Natalie plugs in three glue guns on the kitchen counter while Rachel sits in one of the red lacquered chairs, popping fistfuls of candy into her mouth.
“Crap,” Natalie says, staring at the overflowing table. “Forty looks like a lot laid out like this. This is going to take all day.” She groans and grips her long red and blue hair by the roots.
“No, it won’t,” I say with resignation. “Besides, what else were we going to do today?”
“You tell me.” She gives Rachel a knowing look. “What else should you be doing today?”
I don’t know if she is insinuating I should be doing something with Bennet, but the idea tugs at the center of my chest, like the yank of a fishing line caught in the weeds. It hurts to know she’s so mistaken.
I pick up a flower—it’s not any kind that grows in nature—and turn it over. In fact, I’m so consumed with making an object d’art that I don’t hear the phone ring until Rachel says, “Earth to Kate. Are you going to get that?”
Bennet! I lunge for the phone, lifting its heavy receiver before he hangs up. I turn my back on them so they don’t see the relief on my face that he is finally calling.
“Katherine?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” I say on an exhale, forgetting that Bennet very rarely calls me by my first name. “I’m so glad you called. I’m so sor—”
“I can’t believe I actually got through!” the voice exclaims. And in its surprised excitement I realize it isn’t Bennet after all.
“Andrew?” My voice is an octave higher than usual, and out of the corner of my eye I see Natalie lift her head.
“Of course,” he says, his voice sounding very far away.
“Right. Good,” I say, trying to catch up. My breath is shallow. Natalie’s and Rachel’s eyes are heavy on my back. “How are you?”
“Great, great. It’s been a while!”
“Sorry about that,” I say, and hope it sounds convincing. I finger the glue gun on the counter nervously. “I’ve been trying not to hang around the lighthouse too much. Remember, you’re the one who told me to get out and make some friends. Well, they’re here right now and…” I gesture vaguely in Natalie’s direction even though he can’t see it.
“Well, they’re going to have to let me have you for a few minutes,” he teases. “I needed to call and let you know that I’m going on a trip. I didn’t want you to get nervous if you couldn’t get hold of me.”
He sounds hopeful, as if maybe I’ll start calling more often. I can’t remember the last time we spoke, and I feel bad about that. I can hear a girl’s voice in the background talking to someone else.
“Where are you?” I ask. “Who’s with you?”
“At the mall,” he says, “shopping.” He doesn’t answer my second question. “Don’t you want to know where I’m going?”
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
“Professor Schumacher is going out of town for a symposium, so I have a break. Mom and Dad are taking me to Italy!” he says, obviously excited. “Ten days. Rome and Florence.”
“Wow,” I say. The news doesn’t totally surprise me. The Masons are hardly virgin travelers, though it’s usually Christmas in Vail or spring break
in the Bahamas.
“Look for another package from me, too.”
“Let me guess. A Shrek bra and panty set.” I glance at Natalie, and she raises her eyebrows in a way that makes my face heat up like a pancake griddle.
“Hmmm. Not a bad idea, but I was thinking of something in leather.”
“A leather bra and panty set?” I practically squeak.
“A wallet. Florence has the best leather goods. It will last you your whole life. Very practical.”
I sigh and twist the phone cord around and around. “You’re a good guy, Andrew. Maybe the best.”
“Don’t I know it.” Then, after a long pause, “Katherine? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just…” My voice trails off because I don’t know how to say what I need to say.
“Busy,” Andrew says, finishing my sentence. “I know. I’ll let you get back to your company because, anyway, I’ve got things to do, too. Look for something from me soon. If not a wallet, maybe a Mona Lisa bobblehead.”
I close my eyes and nod. I don’t have it in me to tell him the Mona Lisa is in Paris. I fake a smile that no one sees and manage to say, “Have a safe trip.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I get back,” he says. “Love ya.”
I hang up the receiver without even saying good-bye. Somewhere in the middle of the conversation I have involuntarily squeezed the trigger on the glue gun, and a glob of clear gel has fallen onto my bare foot, burning the skin. When I pick off the glue, it leaves a long silky string of adhesive trailing behind.
“Was that your boyfriend from back home?” Rachel asks.
“Andrew,” I say, trying to get a grip on my voice. “He’s going to Italy for two weeks with his parents.”
“Did he want you to go with him, or something?” Natalie asks.
I shake my head. “He didn’t say that.”
“Would you have gone?” Rachel asks.
“How could I?”
“Hypothetically,” Rachel says, “if I took care of Lucy for two weeks, would you have gone with him?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to think it through. “Who passes up a trip to Italy?” But the words have barely left my lips when I realize the answer to that question is me. I would have passed on a trip to Italy. With Andrew. Perfect, handsome, smart, hardworking Andrew. Any sane person would pack a suitcase rather than reload a glue gun. “You’d have to be an idiot, right?”
