Chapter 22
Three Months Later
My fingers flex and close. Over and over.
Thankfully, the stress ball doesn’t pop.
Rebecca, my therapist, watches with a kind smile. She’s incredibly patient. Never seems to mind the silence. It’s been minutes since I last said anything. My eyes keep flitting to the digital clock on the wall.
The slow countdown until our session is over.
Her office is nice. Whimsical, like her. Cozy furniture in bright plaid patterns. Cream shag carpet, soft as a dog’s fur. Shelves stuffed with rainbow-spined books that have nothing to do with therapy.
In one corner, there’s a giant scissors sculpture. On my first visit, she explained, “They represent the things you want to cut from your life.”
That was six weeks ago. After Dr. Cho recommended her.
I squeeze the ball again.
“We can talk about something else,” Rebecca offers.
Quickly, I say, “No.” Another squeeze. “I can do this.”
Rebecca nods, grinning.
Another minute goes by. The air is heavy with my hesitation. I find things to focus on until the words come.
This room always smells of candy. I can never find any.
Maybe it’s a candle or one of those fragrant wall plug-ins.
In the distance, a dog barks. When I swallow, I taste the spearmint tea she keeps stocked in the waiting room.
The sofa is worn-soft under my fingertips.
Rebecca’s belted navy dress has orange flowers on it.
Marigolds.
After one more squeeze, I exhale. “I saw London’s parents. By accident.”
Her head tilts, curious. “Around the city?”
“No.” My pulse drums against the back of my jaw. “At his grave.”
I visit him regularly now. At least once a week. The first time, I asked Max to come. Since then, I go alone. I like the privacy, a chance to be with just him and my ever-flowing thoughts.
I sit on the grass in front of his headstone. Talk to him as if he was there. Green-eyed, weird smile.
Rebecca nods along. “How did you feel when you saw them?”
A beat passes. I shrug weakly. “Surprised.” I’m not sure why. Of course they would visit their son’s grave. But it wasn’t just that.
They were together. Holding hands. The warm thrill of it caught me off guard. London had feared they would get divorced. That his leaving for college would be the breeze that swept away the last grains of their marriage.
It didn’t happen.
Instead, his death kept them together. Grief is easier when there’s someone with you fighting the waves. It’s something I wish I’d learned earlier.
“No, I mean,” I say, shaking my head, “I felt…good.”
On every visit, I bring London marigolds. Sometimes a bouquet, sometimes just one flower. His mom noticed. She drew me into her arms, grateful tears dampening my shoulder. She didn’t hate me for what happened to him. Neither of them did.
It was a relief as bright as the first rays of summer.
Now I blink away the sting in my eyes.
So far, I’ve only cried once in our sessions. That first appointment. It was my biggest worry. That a stranger would see me as fragile, pathetic. That I was voluntarily allowing someone to judge whether my pain was earned or not.
But Rebecca hasn’t been like that. She expects nothing from me. It makes it easier to give what I want.
She makes a note in her journal. “Did they ask to see you again?”
My fingers tighten around the ball. “Yes.”
“Do you want to?” Before I can answer, she says, “You don’t have to. You’re not on anyone’s timeline, August.”
“I know.” Mostly.
Her dark eyebrows climb her forehead. She has pale white skin. A spill of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
“I’m not ready,” I say.
“Did you tell them?”
There’s no hesitation this time. I nod.
“And did they understand?”
The ball almost slips from my sweaty hand. Rebecca doesn’t comment. I’ve done better at tempering my anger. She encourages me to let it out while we’re together. To stop trying to cage the things that need to run wild.
“They came around,” I confess.
“And are you okay with that?”
Our sessions have taught me something: Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. I can go forward with my life and choose what parts of the past I want to take with me. Like my memories of London. The things he taught me about myself. And the relationships I made because of him.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I say, “I want to see them again. One day.”
Rebecca smiles. “One day,” she echoes. “When you decide to. Let’s circle back to that another time. Are you still writing music?”
My face lights up. “Yeah.”
It was slow in the beginning. Part of it was fear. Would I still love it? Could I write anything without thinking of London? But it happened, on a sunny morning while sitting in my mom’s greenhouse.
A song I couldn’t get out of my head.
I’ve already filled the leather journal from my dad. Lyrics inked down every page.
Songs are stories. And stories need to be told. Carried from one voice to the next. I don’t want the end of my story to be what happened the night of the accident. I want it to go on.
“How does it feel?” Rebecca asks.
Tipping my head back, I breathe, “Amazing.”
Her grin stretches. “Good. And college?”
I give the stress ball a half squeeze. That was the topic of our second appointment: College, my dad’s expectations, the plans London created for us. What I really want for myself.
That last one took some thought. “I’m still going to apply,” I finally answer.
“Do you want to talk through where?”
“No. I have a few places in mind.”
UC Santa Barbara is one of them. I missed the deadline for fall semester. That’s okay. I did some research. I can do a year at SB State and then transfer to UCSB. Or I can go somewhere else.
For once, I’m living in my moment rather than someone else’s. I’m giving myself permission to change my mind too.
Rebecca studies me. “What do you want to talk about, then?”
Another minute ticks by on the clock. I lower my eyes.
For the last three months, I’ve been having recurring dreams. A place near but far. Real but not. It’s never clear. When I wake up, I can’t remember specific details.
Just that it’s beautiful. And calling to me. A siren’s song.
“August?”
My head snaps up. Gentle concern fills Rebecca’s eyes. The ball is squeezed to its limit in my hand.
“Umm.” I decide to pivot from the topic of dreams. I’m not ready. Smiling, I say, “I think I want to start driving again.”
My parents stand when I walk out of the office. They come to every session. My dad made it a point to drive me here the first time.
His hand wraps around the back of my neck. “Okay, son?”
I grin. “Okay.”
Mom sidles up to my other side. She smells of soil and fresh lemons. She looks younger too. They both do. As if worrying over me took years from the time they have.
Guilt sits as heavy as stones in my stomach. The feeling dissolves when I remember something Rebecca said:
Great parents will always worry they haven’t done enough for you. It’s in their nature. It’s also something you can’t control, so don’t let it control how you feel.
Mom looks at my dad. “Should we get lunch? Do you have time?”
He puffs his chest out. “For you two? I’ll make time.”
“Does anyone care if I have time?” I ask with a teasing smirk.
Dad presses his hand dramatically to his chest. “Oh, Your Majesty, our apologies! Can you spare a moment for your poor aging parents?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”
“Don’t ruin your reputation for us,” Mom says dryly, but her arms hug my waist. Like she believes I really might leave them behind one day.
Dad’s phone buzzes. His coppery eyebrows knot as he reads the screen. It’s obviously the hospital.
“We can get lunch tomorrow,” I offer. “After my volunteer shift.”
That’s another thing therapy has helped me with. Twice a week, I volunteer at Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital. In the pediatric wing with my dad. It took him by surprise when I suggested the idea. Me too.
I thought I’d never be able to walk through that hospital again. Not without breaking down. Remembering every detail from that night. The memories still come. But I’m better at managing them.
Better at leaving those ghosts in the past.
The kids are great too. They’re always so eager, so loud, living life as if time doesn’t matter. I sing my songs for them. Sit in their rooms until they fall asleep. Anything to help them forget where they are or what they’re experiencing.
Dad pockets his phone. “Nope. This is family time. We deserve this.”
My face splits into a grin. “Does that mean you’ll try sriracha on your burrito today?”
He pretends to consider it. “For you, Auggie? Hell no!”
Our laughter echoes through the room long after we’re gone.
“You’re late.”
Max glares at me from the doorway of Viva Catalina’s.
I grin, leaning against the front counter. I arrived an hour ago. Thirty-six minutes before my shift started, a new record.
“You’ll never get promoted like this,” I say, parroting the words she’s used against me so many times.
Max yanks off her bag. In one easy move, she flips me a very unfriendly finger before disappearing to the back.
“Is working the register really considered a promotion around here?” Arden, the new hire, asks.
I grab the tub of dirty dishes from their hands. “Absolutely. Did you clean the restrooms yet?”
They groan, skulking away.
The pizzeria’s busy today. Tables filled. Not an empty seat at the bar. January’s warm weather means the patio has a nice crowd too. All customers either around my age or younger.
I box to-go orders Junie and Tonia sling out. Eventually, Max joins me.
“Remind me to never sign up for a class that’s just called Shakespeare.”
“That bad?” I ask.
She sighs mournfully. “Worse.”
“Sorry to hear that. But you were still late.” I poke her shoulder. “That’s coming out of your tips. Compensation for all the extra energy I had to use.”
Max smiles wryly. “Then you can use that money to pay your half of the rent. Since you’re late…again.”
I laugh. Some things in my life haven’t changed. But it feels good to have my best friend back.
The flow of customers stays constant. I jump in to help Arden reset tables. Clean up the messes large families leave behind. Together, we work down the dishes piling up. Fold napkins around silverware between delivery orders.
Kennedy pops by with wild eyes. She shoves a warm plate in my hands. “August, can you take this over to table nine?”
“Why can’t Max?”
She tuts. “You mean the same Max who’s too busy making eyes with that pretty girl?”
I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, Max is blatantly flirting with a Black girl who has glowing brown skin and shoulder-length locs. Her UCSB sweatshirt is cut into a cute halter top.
Before I can say anything else, Kennedy walks away, calling out, “Thanks, love you!”
Sighing, I march over to the corner booth.
The sun frames a boy’s angular face. He has a warm gold complexion. Dark hair that falls in loose curls. He wears a navy-and-white-striped T-shirt. His silver chain has three red-jeweled charms in the shape of dog paws hanging from the end.
He’s the kind of pretty that’s almost unapproachable if not for the way he smiles. Sweet like honey.
My stomach flips. Heat stirs in my chest. A few weeks ago, I told Rebecca I was considering dating again. I think it’s what London would’ve wanted. More importantly, it’s what I want.
No one’s caught my eye yet. I’m too busy discovering August again. But when I look at this boy, a tender lullaby starts in my ears.
The call of the sea.
I place the plate in front of him. Trying not to stare, my eyes lower to the pizza slice. His choice of toppings is…interesting.
“Pineapple, pepperoni, and jalapenos?”
He tilts his head. “I heard it’s good.”
“You heard right,” I confirm.
His smile brightens. That bud in my chest blooms. A strange, almost familiar heat tingles through my limbs.
The boy leans forward. A single curl sweeps over his brow. “What’s your name?”
“August.”
“August,” he repeats, slow and deliberate. As if he’s tasting the flavor of my name. Deciding whether he likes it. I don’t know why that drags a blush into my cheeks. “Are people allowed to call you Auggie?”
I cock my chin. “Only people I trust. And like.”
One of his thick eyebrows curves. “Then I hope to be both one day.”
My laugh is a sharp, surprised noise. “Wow. That’s bold of you.”
He drums long fingers on the table to the music playing. “Life’s too short to be scared of rejection. We only have moments, Auggie.”
I like the sound of his voice. His accent. I can’t quite place where I’ve heard it before. He’s not from around here. Probably just visiting, like so many in Santa Barbara.
I also like the way his eyes never leave my face. As if he wants to see me, fully.
“Who said I was rejecting you?” I tease.
The corners of his mouth soften. A new world unfolding.
“You never told me your name,” I say.
His fingers stop. “Cary.”
“Like Grant? Or that one guy from The Princess Bride movie?”
“I’ve never seen it.”
The music transitions to something pop-like, heavy guitars and piano. My hands stir at my sides, itching to write. Maybe something about how pillowy this boy’s lips look. Or the smooth hills of his biceps as he rests his elbows on the table. The sun as it dances across his dark eyes.
Cary’s attention is focused on my hands, intrigued. I tuck away my usual embarrassment as his gaze lifts.
I should go, I think.
Instead, I say, “I’ve never seen you before,” even though State Street is constantly crawling with tourists. People I will never remember.
For some reason, I know I won’t forget him.
“I’m new to the city,” he says.
It’s my turn to cock an eyebrow. “Where are you from?”
Cary grins. It’s like light cutting across a field of fog. “You ask a lot of questions, Auggie. I like that.”