by Mariah Dietz
As my tears fall faster my cries louder, Grace retains her tight grip on me. “You don’t have to go, Kennedy. You don’t have to do this.”
Somehow, she maneuvers us to my bed, and we sit slumped together. As kids we used to spend hours like this, sharing our days, making jokes, talking about dreams—all the while creating memories that have somehow been eclipsed by far less important things.
When my tears transgress into occasional sniffles, Grace shifts and withdraws a crumpled sheet of paper, which she holds out to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“My list.”
“Your list?”
“You were right. I needed to talk to someone.” She takes a deep breath. “That night we left, after you and I got in our fight, Mom and Dad drove me into DC. We stayed at a hotel, and Friday morning, I went to see a new therapist.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “I hate that I haven’t been able to move past what happened, but I can’t. I want to hurt him and myself for what he did. And there are days where it’s really hard for me to differentiate that even though what he did was bad and dirty, I’m not bad or dirty.”
I shake my head, my throat once again thick with tears. “You’re not dirty or bad,” I tell her. “You’re the best person I know.”
Her smile is weak, but it’s there, and it’s not one of the artificial ones that years of fearing rejection and possible readmittance to a psychological ward caused her to manufacture. “I’m learning that,” she tells me. “Now I’m working on remembering it.”
She nods toward the piece of paper I’m holding like a prized and worthy possession, afraid to move it. “Read it.”
The paper opens easily, the folds worn and dyed blue from being shoved into the back pocket of her jeans. There’s a stain on the top left-hand corner that I stare at for several seconds before recognizing it as a thumbprint. She’s opened and reopened this same sheet dozens of times since the date it has in the top right-hand corner from just a week ago.
The list is short and scribbled in her familiar handwriting.
“We’re working on what to do when I want to hurt myself. When I start feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. This is a list of things I like about myself—things I’m trying to learn to love again. I look at this list as a reminder, and slowly, I’m adding more things to it.”
I look over the ten items and then at Grace.
“You don’t have to stay here in Haven Point to watch over me. I’m going to be okay. Whatever you choose to do, it needs to be for you and what makes you happy.”
I consider her words, thinking about the recipe for happiness.
I must have fallen asleep at some point because when I wake up, I’m wrapped around Grace, a thin blanket from our childhood covering us. My bedroom is pitch black except for the faint shadow of the moon streaming in through the window. I look to see that Grace’s shoes are still on, but she’s asleep, her body close to mine.
A rock clinks against my bedroom window, and then another, and another. I carefully untangle myself from Grace, my heart beating like a jackrabbit in my chest. Another rock hits the window before I free the latch and lift it.
Joey stands twenty feet away, near the edge of the forest.
I don’t risk waking Grace by asking him what he’s doing or why he’s here. If I were smarter, I’d probably close the window and my curtain and go back to bed, but when it comes to Joey, few things make any sense, including how I’m once again sneaking out my bedroom window in the middle of the night.
Chapter 23
Joey
She’s still wearing the same clothes I stripped from her a few hours ago. The same clothes she wore to paint my brother’s house. And that same paint I had wanted to scrub from her flawless skin is there, reminding me of how I screwed up. A gentle breeze blows; it’s the first time I’ve felt cool air since being here, and it carries the loose strands of Kennedy’s hair that always seem to escape her ponytails.
“You could have called or texted or knocked,” she says, tucking the fine hairs behind her ear.
The moon highlights a tiny dimple in her chin, and I wonder how I could have missed it when I’ve explored every inch of her body. I want to trace the slight contour with my mouth.
Kennedy turns her head, her green eyes looking at me, waiting for a response.
I swallow a multitude of thoughts and emotions that don’t translate into words, and I smile. “Texting is overrated. You always see guys throwing rocks at windows in the movies.”
“But we aren’t in a movie.” She presses her lips together, rolling them, tempting me once again to reach forward and touch her. It’s become a necessity to feel her when she’s not near, and with her this close, it’s physically hurting me not to.
“I’m sorry I got defensive. I know stupid Billy the sheep humper means nothing to you. I know that, but it drives me insane the way he follows you around.”
She pulls her chin back. “The sheep humper?”
“Don’t take that from me.” I shake my head, and she quietly chuckles. The sound is like hearing my favorite chord in a song, the part that makes me turn it up and sing along. “I don’t know why, but when you get mad at me, I feel like I have to get ready for a battle. I want to make it right, and instead of doing or saying what I should, I say something stupid and moronic and sometimes offensive, and I hate that. I hate that I do that to you. I didn’t even know why you were upset with me; I could just tell you were, and when you wouldn’t tell me, it felt like you were keeping something from me—and that felt so close to a lie, it just triggered my asshole side. I want to know why you were upset, I always want to know when something is bothering you, and I’m hoping one of these times, you’ll call and tell me Billy the sheep humper is one of the things so I can kick his ass.
“It’s hard for me to trust people,” I tell her. “You’ve figured this out, but there’s so much I can’t tell you, so much I’ll never be able to tell you. The things I’ve done and the things I’ve witnessed . . . and then you lie next to me, and you seem to understand this—know it without me ever saying a word—and I think about how hard it should be for you to trust me when I’m outright telling you that I can’t ever let you into some defining parts of my life.”
Another gust of wind blows, pulling the fine hairs in her face again. “There’s a difference between keeping secrets and withholding information.”
“You’ll know, though. You’ll know when I can’t tell you something, and one day—it will bother you. And I won’t be able to do anything about it.”
Kennedy pulls her head back. “One day I might win the lottery and move to the South of France and forget about you.” She laughs quietly.
“We both know you’re lying.”
Kennedy tries to roll her eyes but she stops, laughing.
“Why were you upset with me?”
“I don’t even know why I was upset with you!” She sounds agitated. “I’m just frustrated. I don’t know what to do about this Boston position. I’ve been worried over Grace and what is going on in her mind. And then there are times where I begin to worry that maybe I’m the crazy one. Maybe it’s me who is imagining things. Bipolar disorder is genetic. It’s very possible I might have it, and sometimes the idea of that terrifies me—and then I feel so guilty and so bad because it makes me one of those assholes who have called Grace crazy or weird or psycho.” She raises her hands and rakes her fingers through her hair. “But what if I am?”
Staring at her now, I realize how thick of a wall she’s built around parts of herself, a wall I never even knew existed. Her lips press together as I move toward her; regret and embarrassment has her turning her face away. I gently catch her chin between my fingers and turn her to face me again. “You’re not crazy. Grace isn’t crazy, either. You said so yourself that her irrational behaviors and fears aren’t because of her having this disorder, they’re compounded because of it—but they aren’t caused from it. Someone else caused her to live in a nightmare, i
t’s her disease that makes it so hard for her to wake up from it.”
Her eyes dance across my face and then away.
“Kennedy.”
She slowly moves her eyes back to mine.
“I promise, you’re not bipolar, but you can’t be afraid of it. You need to acknowledge these fears you have of mental illness and of failing and disappointing your dad and everything else, or you’re going to give them all the power, and they’ll rule your life. You won’t be making any decisions for what you want or need—they will.”
A tear slides down her cheek. “I have feelings for you.” She blurts the words and then swipes at her cheeks. “I like you, and it concerns me because I spend so much time thinking about you and finding ways to be with you that I’m ignoring Grace and these decisions about my future that I need to be making.” She opens her mouth to say more and then bites her bottom lip to stop herself.
“You don’t have to make every decision right now. Sometimes it’s better to just allow the cards to fall and see what you want to do next.”
Her eyes round. “I know, but I had a plan. I had goals.”
“Happiness is a goal, Kennedy. I don’t think it’s been one of yours for a while, but finding what brings joy to you and your life should be your number one goal. Not money or titles or any of the other bullshit.” Conviction has my words coming out strong and intense, and I realize as soon as they’re spoken, I’m saying them for myself, too.
I lift her purse, which I brought from Coen’s. “Go to Boston. That way you won’t have any doubts or questions.”
She takes her bag, allowing the small weight to drop her arm. “What about us?”
Her question has been the elephant in the room that quadrupled in size the moment she spoke of going to Boston. “We’ll make it work.”
Another tear falls down Kennedy’s cheek, closely followed by another and another, until there’s a constant stream. “How?” Her voice is thick with emotion.
“We’ll find a way.”
She takes a deep breath and then nods.
“Call me when you land in Boston, okay? I want to hear how things go.”
Kennedy brushes her cheeks and continues nodding, but it’s clear she’s barely hanging on. I place my hands on either side of her face, running my thumbs across the paths of tears that are still falling. My words are buckling over the next, making it difficult for me to think clearly and impossible to speak. So instead, I lean forward and kiss her. Kennedy reaches around my neck, her grip demanding and forceful. She pulls me closer to her, and I match the intensity, understanding how badly we’re both trying to translate our feelings and fears into this kiss. She pulls my bottom lip between her teeth—a contradiction to her soft lips as she gently bites down, her hands leaving my shoulders to roam over my body, and it’s as though we’ve become lightning—heat being our desire and cool being our fears—crashing together to create the greatest streak of light that reaches far past our tiny dot on the map. I know she feels it, too, as she holds on to me.
Time stretches and expands as it no longer becomes a consideration. Our focus is solely on each other and this moment.
When Kennedy slowly pulls back, her kisses becoming softer, gentler, I want to resist. I want to convince her to come back to my place or stay out here until the sun forces us to return to reality.
“I’ll call you.” Her voice is husky with lust, and her eyes remain closed, as though she’s waiting for me to kiss her again.
“Don’t worry about anything. Enjoy time with Violet.”
Slowly, she opens her eyes, and I regret not having kissed her again. “Thanks for bringing my purse back.”
I nod. “Go get some sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I lean forward and kiss her once on the mouth.
With a smile, Kennedy turns and walks the short way back to her house and climbs up through her window, leaving me to realize how many of my thoughts follow her.
My alarm goes off at five a.m., and though I feel drugged and sluggish, I roll over to grab my phone. I set it this early to ensure I could message Kennedy before she left.
Me: Have you ever joined the mile-high club?
Kennedy: I think that club is a myth.
I chuckle.
Me: Why?
Kennedy: Have you been in an airplane bathroom? There isn’t room for me to take my purse with me.
Me: I bet we could find a way to make it work . . .
Kennedy: Where do you want to go?
I read her text several times, contemplating the validity of her question.
Me: With you, anywhere.
I consider packing a bag and heading to the airport now. I could purchase two tickets that will take us to the opposite side of the country, where distance can separate us from reality. The idea is growing, becoming an actuality in my mind, as I consider what her reaction would be. Then I think of the advice I’d given her last night, how this is her moment to make decisions for her life and future, not for me to hijack her opportunities and distract her from what she might want.
Me: Don’t be nervous about your interview, and let me know when you get to Boston. Also, if you need anything while you’re gone, like check in with Grace or something, don’t hesitate to ask.
Kennedy: I’d join the mile-high club with you.
I drop my phone to my chest and stretch my neck, looking up to the ceiling. She’s not even gone yet, and I miss her.
Sleep becomes a memory as I flip the covers over, lie on the floor, and pump through a hundred pushups. I turn over and count out my sit-ups, then do two more sets of each in an attempt to clear my mind and calm my nerves.
It doesn’t help.
I pull on the T-shirt I wore yesterday, the same one Kennedy slept in two nights ago, and some shorts, and shove my feet into tennis shoes to go running. I pass through the woods, following the path that leads me into downtown. I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I don’t hear anything until my phone begins ringing, interrupting the peaceful silence that accompanies these woods.
The word Captain blinks across my screen, and I huff out a deep breath as I answer it. “DeLuca.”
“Go turn on the news.”
“What?” I wipe a hand across my forehead, trying to catch my breath.
“Turn on the news,” he repeats.
“I’m in the middle of my cardio, you’re going to have to give me some closed captions.”
“Your guy got arrested this morning.”
I drop my chin back, relief soaring through me. “You better be talking about Holden.”
“He broke into a woman’s apartment, and we caught him.”
“Is the victim okay?”
“We got him with intent, and she’s fine.”
My left hand becomes a fist that I pump in the air. “Thank God,” I say.
“Time to get your ass out of the boondocks and back to work.”
“What about the investigation?” I ask, uncertain how this pertains to my insubordination.
“He’s guilty. We’ve caught him.”
Hearing him tell me that he was wrong or that I was right would likely have made me feel better a month ago, but right now, I don’t even care. I was too close to the case. I wore blinders when it came to Holden—the same ones I’ve been wearing for years that have blocked so many good things from my life.
“Come on in, and we’ll get you reinstated and everything sorted.”
“When?”
“Today. Get in here so we can cover what you’ve missed.” He hangs up.
No longer am I trying to distract myself from airplane-bathroom sex with Kennedy or what I’ll do while she’s gone for a few days. My thoughts are circulating the fact that I’m supposed to leave Haven Point—leave Kennedy.
Coen’s on the front porch with a cup of coffee in his hands when I clear the woods.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
I shake my head. “They arrested Holden this morning.”
My brother’s eyebrow
s soar up his forehead. “That’s great!”
I nod.
“So are they done investigating you?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess. They want me back in. It will be far easier for IA to forgive me since they’ve caught him red-handed.”
“I bet.” Coen sips his coffee and watches me. “What are you going to do?”
“Go in.”
Chapter 24
Kennedy
My heartbeat has been off rhythm since the plane touched down in Boston. Maybe it’s because the familiarity and bustle that usually fuels and eases me has been missing. Perhaps it’s because I’ve barely heard from Joey all day.
Violet sits across from me at our favorite restaurant in the city, discussing Haven Point.
The waiter arrives then with our food, and our attention drifts from discussing the small town I’ve grown to love again to trays of fresh sushi and sashimi, brightly colored and adorned with small ramekins filled with sauces that make my nose tingle and burn.
“I can’t get this in Haven Point,” I tell her, picking up a spicy tuna roll with my chopsticks. The second I do, the restaurant darkens, and I’m in Joey’s apartment above the garage. Back in his too-large T-shirt, hearing the relentless rain from the storm. He’s staring at me, and for the first time, I recognize the lust that was in his eyes that night. Memories of his lips tickling my back, tasting my skin, and discovering my body run through my mind like still images.
“Joey’s nothing like Kevin, right?” I ask.
Violet blinks, once, twice, struggling to understand the rabbit hole my thoughts have plunged down. She slowly shakes her head. “You liked Kevin. You even got hot over Kevin, but you guys had a schedule! Your sex lives were calendar appointments, and you never shared pillow talk or discussed anything other than work. Your relationship with Joey is nothing like that. He’s met your parents. You’ve met his brother! You guys steal time to be together.”
“I worry we’re on borrowed time.”
“We’re all on borrowed time.” She takes a long drink of her wine. “You aren’t second-guessing your decision to move back to Haven Point, are you?”
