Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
HAILEY
14 years old
T he screen door slams. I meant to catch it with my hand but I’m too frustrated to slow my pace. I made stupid small talk while he finished loading his truck and then, like the sad case I am, I watched him pull away on his little adventure without me. The sting of that reality burns under my skin.
Aunt Karen flinches at the sound and sits up on the couch. She freezes the screen on Phoebe Buffay’s scrunched-up face as she’s hitting the chorus of “Smelly Cat.”
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
No! I want to scream. Everything is not okay. I don’t know where I belong in this world anymore.
How do you explain wanting to give someone the kind of energy they don’t deserve?
“I’m fine,” I mumble, pushing my way down the hall as fast as possible.
I flop on my bed, my arms splayed out wide, and try to catch the uneven breaths forcing their way out of my chest.
I close my eyes. If I could just focus on something else…
Aunt Karen raps her knuckles against the open door.
“You want to talk about it?”
I peel one eye open and wish I hadn’t. I hate seeing the sympathy in hers.
“It’ll never get better, will it?” It’s a rhetorical question more than anything.
She drops onto the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping with our combined weight.
Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, she says, “I’d like to say that it will. But I don’t know. Loss changes people. His was so big that ever since, he hasn’t been able to see more than two feet ahead of him.”
“This isn’t easy for me either,” I argue to the one person who I know won’t disagree with me. “I wanted her to be here too. Get to grow up with a mom who taught me how to braid my hair instead of having to learn it from YouTube. But I’m here. You’re here. Why can’t he see what he still has?”
A tear drifts down my face and she tightens her grip, giving her support in a squeeze.
“He loves you, Hayes. He’s just not great at showing it.”
When she registers that her words don’t make me feel any better, she changes the subject.
“It’s Friday! You know what that means?”
Grenaldough’s. A place filled with families on the weekend, and our Friday night ritual.
“Actually, do you think you could just pick it up this time? I’d like to invite Dean over.”
She bows. “I’ll be right back.”
Present Day
“Forget about him. ”
A soft voice pulls me from the trench I’ve been trapped in since I powered on my phone.
Jack’s message was only five words long, but somehow they mirrored the effect of a steel-toed boot connecting with my chest and collapsing my windpipe.
I blink at Reed and shield my phone from him. “Were you reading my texts?”
“It’s a little hard not to when you’ve got it frozen in the air like that.”
I clutch it to my chest.
“For the record,” he continues, “that girl who fell asleep on my shoulder, the one who smiled at my ridiculous song… any guy would be lucky to spend time with her. This Jack guy doesn’t sound like he deserves you.”
If only he knew it was my father who sent it.
“I can’t argue with that,” I say.
A silence settles in the space between us as we watch the rows ahead empty out.
“So, where are you headed next?” he asks.
I tug the strap of my backpack, freeing it from the floor. When the aisle clears, I stand and look down at him.
“You know, we don’t have to do this.”
He stands too fast and smacks his head on the overhead compartment.
I gasp and reach for him. “Are you all right?”
He rubs the spot that took the blow and ignores my question. “We don’t have to do what, exactly?” he says.
In a crouch, he shuffles three steps, and I move forward so that he can fit in the aisle behind me.
I try not to stutter. “Pretend that this was anything more than two strangers sharing a seat on an airplane. You can go your way, and I’ll go mine. We don’t have to do the whole drawn-out goodbye. ”
I make my point by silently turning away from him and traversing the long stretch of sage-green carpet to the front of the plane. My sweater and jeans plaster to my skin on the muggy jet bridge. Either Boise is humid today or I could benefit from slowing my Olympic speed walk. It’s a welcome relief when a blast of air greets me at the terminal gate.
Why I peek at him one last time after my ridiculous speech is beyond me. I’m not the least bit surprised to find he’s not looking back. My lips still press into a fine line.
Take your own advice, Hailey. He likes danger and you prefer to ride a bike with a helmet. And what kind of person doesn’t eat the M&Ms in their trail mix anyway?
You have nothing in common with him.
I duck away as quickly as possible, saving myself from further humiliation. The signs blur until I slow at the sight of a royal blue one marking the restrooms. I slink inside and close the nearest stall to relieve my bladder.
“You’re going to be fine. This was the right decision,” I mutter to the empty stalls. I do my business and button my jeans, then jimmy the lock back open. If those same stalls could respond, they’d say Not with the way that veil of toilet paper clings to the bottom of your velvet Mary Janes .
The flapping of my foot does nothing to dispel it either. I have to reach down and peel the soggy end from my rubber sole. It dangles between my fingertips like a wet noodle until I can feed it into the nearest garbage can. Turning to the sinks, I scrub my hands until they’re raw and grimace at my reflection.
“You’re not going to regret a thing,” I add to my earlier pep talk. Only this time, I sound far less confident.
With a swipe of drugstore lip gloss and the flick of my fingertips, my lips and bangs no longer look disturbed from that flight. I round my shoulders— confidence —and part from the bathroom mirror.
Compared to what Salt Lake has to offer, Boise is the hyphen of airports. Blink and you’ll miss baggage claim.
Four dozen people circle the luggage carousel, the red indicator light still dim in the center. With nothing to occupy my attention but the people around me, I spot Reed from several yards away.
I groan.
I forgot I might see him here too.
His back is to another guy, but judging by the slight curl to their sandy-brown hair, I’d say they’re related. Was it his dad he was avoiding? The man is sporting a dress coat and slacks. He could take a business meeting any second with the way he’s glued to his phone.
Reed’s lighthearted smile has given way to anxious pacing, and for the first time, I feel bad for him. Maybe we have more in common than I thought.
A red flash of light draws my attention back to the carousel. It begins spinning in a counterclockwise rotation, feeding an endless stream of luggage down a ramp. My hard-shelled suitcase is the third one to drop, but it travels in the opposite direction. I spend the next thirty seconds debating whether or not it’s worth chasing before finally giving in.
When I sweep my bag from the belt and straighten, Reed is a few feet from me, drinking me in.
What do you say to someone you’ll probably never see again? I decide on, “It was nice meeting you.”
A grin splits across his face as he watches me walk away.
There’s a bus waiting for me on the other side of those automatic doors, and I can’t miss it.
The doors slide open.
“Remember me, Red,” he shouts in my direction.
There it is . That nickname again. I feel it warming me from the inside out .
I turn around to face him one last time, the corner of my lips cracking into a subtle smirk and shaking my head.
He winks back at me, sending goose bumps skittering down my spine.
The automatic doors shut between us. A final reminder that I’ll never get to ask him about that nickname. Or the hundred other unanswered questions my brain baits me with. I have somewhere else I need to be.
The Greyhound bus hugs the end of the sidewalk. A gentleman in a navy tracksuit leans against the side. He’s balanced on a single Reebok sneaker, with his back covering a sliver of the canine logo on the metallic wrap. When I get closer, I make out a small badge clipped to his zipper. Carl , it says, printed on shiny plastic.
With an upward swing, I muscle my suitcase into the under-storage compartment. The sound of the wheels rattling against the metal frame does nothing to draw the driver’s attention from his phone. A familiar ditty plays as I approach the stairs.
Candy Crush . Aunt Karen’s pick-me-up game at the end of a long day.
I tried it once. All it taught me is that she is the queen of competition.
My own phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I slip it out. Speak of the devil…
“Hi,” I say to her, but really intend it for Carl’s ears. Because now he’s blocking the doorway.
I shuffle back and forth, looking for an opening as he triple-taps the screen with his index finger. It chimes again.
“Take that, sucker!” he bellows, and I squint.
What is it with people and that game?
“Hayes? Did you make it okay?” I clutch my phone tighter.
“Yeah, my flight landed about thirty minutes ago.”
I wave my hand near Carl’s face. Nothing .
“How was it?” she asks.
“It was—” I picture Reed flashing me that dimple. Serenading the entire plane with his mixed-up lyrics. Distracting me from my crippling anxiety. Telling me to remember him.
“Unforgettable,” I finish.
Did that come out breathy? I clear my throat.
“Uh-huh… and who’s the guy?” she asks between smacks of her gum.
I tap Carl on the shoulder and he doesn’t even flinch. It’s like he’s made of stone. Or existing in an alternate reality.
“What guy?” I grunt.
“Hayes, come oooon,” she draws out. “You don’t have an unforgettable flight unless there’s a guy.”
“It was unforgettable because I got a nap in,” I bark, hoping the sound will startle the bus driver.
“Are you sure you napped?” she teases.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m just”—I huff, hoisting my bag over my shoulder—“TRYING TO GET ON THE BUS!” I shout it this time, clapping in his face.
“Woah! More like trying to get your hearing back. Did you chew any of that gum I stuffed in your backpack? I told you it would help during take-off and landing.”
No. I ate a handful of M&Ms.
I scan the sidewalk. There’s a family not far from me, but the dad is focused on loading their luggage in the back end of an SUV while the mom is buckling their toddler into a booster seat. No one is watching.
“Excuse me.” I knock into Carl. Hard. He nearly drops his phone.
“Huh?” he says, acknowledging me with a blank stare.
I curtsy. Curtsy . Like he’s the Duke of Westminster, and I am indebted to his service.
He peers at me through confused eyes .
I shoot up straight. “Sorry.”
“Oh. Yeah. No problem,” he says, scooting two steps to the side and resuming his game like nothing ever happened.
“I SAID—” Aunt Karen’s voice booms through the speakers as I climb the steps, and I have to rip the phone from my ear.
“I’m sorry. The bus driver is a little… distracted.”
“Maybe you should have worn something other than that cowl neck sweater. That would have gotten his attention.”
I sink into the farthest seat I can find. The blue microfiber hugs my thighs, and I sigh as I look out the window. A handful of guys are loading their suitcases now, and Carl has dropped his phone to gape as they bend over.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m his type,” I say.
She changes the subject. “Have you heard from him yet?”
“Once.”
“And you think he doesn’t care,” she argues.
“He said, and I quote, ‘you don’t need to come.’”
She sucks air between her teeth. “Yeah, I’ll admit, that sounds bad. But you have to trust me on this one. He means well.”
“Please tell me I’m not making a mistake,” I beg. “You know me! I’m not impulsive.”
“Switzerland would be impulsive, Hayes. You’re going home .”
“So you do think I’m making the right decision?” I ask.
She hums. “I think I’ve watched you miss him for years. I think you’re doing exactly what you need to do to find peace.”
“I miss you already,” I admit. I have no idea how often I’ll have cell service when I’m not at the barracks. “How will I survive not talking to you every day?”
“You’ll be fine, and I’ll be busy.” She giggles. “Besides, you’ll have Dean if you need someone.”
The mention of my former best friend’s name sends the hair on my arms standing. A lot has changed in four years. But that’s the least of my worries right now.
“Let me guess… Tinder matched you with a new round of Utah singles.”
“Ten!” She squeals. “I told you I’d set you up with a profile if you’d ever give me the go ahead.”
“Never,” I say.
I can’t think of anything worse.
She sighs. “That’s what I thought.”
The bifold doors slap closed. With the high back chairs, all I can see of Carl now is a conductor hat in the same shade as his baggy outfit.
“I think we’re about to hit the road, so I better go. I’ll call you when I make it, okay?”
“I’m holding you to it,” she says, and the call abruptly ends.
With the frequent rock and dip of the bus, my body eventually relaxes.
Even if I still have a two-hour-and-thirty-six-minute ride ahead of me, it feels a little late to respond to that text now.
I fix a pair of headphones in my ears and open Pandora. My favorite stations fill my collection page—Yuruma, Michael Bublé, The Piano Guys—I’m sure they’d all do the trick.
But instead, I get a sudden urge for Elton John.