50. Chapter 50
fifty
“Did everyone read last night?” I ask my juniors.
I get a lot of mumbles, students looking from one to the other.
Any other day, I’d give them a whole speech about responsibility and preparation but today they get a reprieve. My mind is barely in the room. It’s on him.
“Okay. Out with it. Raise your hands. Who read their lesson last night?”
For Pete’s sake. Only half the class raises their hands.
“I hate this book,” Troy Patterson grumbles. “It’s got nothing to do with today. It’s about civil rights. We have civil rights.”
“That’s why it won a Pulitzer Prize, Troy.
We didn’t have civil rights when the book was written.
To Kill a Mockingbird is one of America’s greatest pieces of literature.
It made people look at what they didn’t want to see.
It’s about courage. It’s about doing what’s right when everyone around you thinks you’re wrong. It’s about—”
“You never understand a person until you walk in their shoes,” my brilliant Georgia Wilhelm finishes for me. “Boo Radley.”
“Yes.” My skin tingles. Suddenly I’m standing in Calder’s shoes—shoes that walked through fire—staring down at me, engulfed in Grant’s arms. I stifle a groan.
“Ms. Prescott, you want to know my favorite line in the book?” Georgia asks dreamily, not caring at all that her classmates are smirking at her.
“Tell us, Georgia, what do you think is at the heart of the book?”
“When Atticus told Jem about Mrs. Dubose. He said, ‘I wanted you to see what real courage is… It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.’”
The way Georgia says it—the way the class reacts—almost brings me to my knees. Because I’m not thinking about Atticus or Jem or Mrs. Dubose. I’m thinking about Calder. About me. About the fight I’ve been too scared to start.
He drove to Houston to claim me and returned defeated. He spent a year in jail for defending my honor. He lost his parents while he was locked up in there. He’s lost every dream he ever had in life because of me. And still, he allowed me back in and risked his life for me.
“Yes, Georgia,” I whisper, my voice almost gone. “You are absolutely brilliant.”
She is.
And for the first time in a long time… I know exactly what I have to do.
“Mom? Do me a favor,” I ask, as I get ready to return to school from lunch.
“What, dear?”
I lower my voice, glancing at Bowie. “When I leave school this afternoon, I’m going to see Calder. Make sure Bowie’s okay if I’m home late.”
He’s finished lunch, having quiet time watching Bluey on TV. He’ll fall asleep and nap soon.
“Of course.” Mom squeezes my arm. “Good luck.”
“He thinks I chose Grant. I have to make him see.”
“I understand. Your father and I are all in. Calder Boone has shown us the kind of man he is.”
That’s settled.
Leaving school, I know he’s at the hardware store. I have no idea what reception I’ll get—but I’ll face it head on.
At the front desk, I ask, “Can you get Calder for me?”
“Can I say who’s asking for him?” the girl asks, obviously new.
“Laurel.”
She leans down, keying the intercom. “Calder Boone, you’re needed at the front desk.”
Her phone trills.
She listens and hangs up.
“I’m sorry, Laurel. He said to tell you he’s tied up.”
Normally, my stomach would free-fall hearing that, but I came expecting defeat. He saw me standing here on his camera monitor.
Of course he did.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod. “Thank you.” Ignoring the churning in my stomach, I walk out, my shoulders square. I know he’s watching me.
No. I hope he’s watching me.
I drive straight to his house.
Fine. I’ll wait.
Jesus, Calder. The door’s not even locked.
Walking in—his house is unusually messy. Not like him.
I start picking up clothes he’s left around. Gathering dishes from the coffee table, beer bottles from the side tables. This isn’t like him. His house was always neat as a pin.
The bed’s not even made.
I strip the sheets.
Yes. I’ll act like it’s my house. Because I want it to be.
I start straightening, dusting, washing dishes.
Flowers.
Throwing his sheets in the washer, I jump in the car, speed to town, and buy a flower arrangement in a ceramic pot from Barlow’s, along with everything to cook for dinner, and speed back.
On my return, I put the sheets from the washer into the dryer and set the flowers on the table.
Opening the refrigerator—what do I find in the door but a jar of olives. You don’t like olives, my foot.
I make a little plate of cheese, olives, and crackers, setting it beside the plant.
With spaghetti simmering on the stove, fresh garlic bread from the oven, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter—when he walks in, he’ll know someone’s been waiting on him.
Someone who isn’t leaving.
Time drags.
I make the bed with the fresh clean sheets, glancing out the window. He must have gone by the Dust Devil.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs, frantic as a butterfly trapped in a glass jar. Panic sweeps through me. What if he brings a woman home with him?
What am I doing?
I’ve lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
But I began this fight knowing I probably couldn’t win.
Without warning, another piece of literature comes to mind.
“If, in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor into that seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. ”
I’ve existed in that seasonless world too long.
And that’s exactly where I am right now. By choice. Standing on love’s threshing floor.
I go into the bathroom—take a long look at myself in the mirror—and grab my purse to apply fresh lipstick. “What if he doesn’t want you anymore?”
You’ll face it head on.
I’m sitting in the kitchen—dinner turned off, getting cold on the stove—when I hear the front door swing open, and every muscle in me tightens.
Then he’s standing in the kitchen doorway with an absolutely unreadable face. “What are you doing, Laurel?”
“Fighting.”
He blinks, wide-eyed, like the word slams him square in the chest. He takes a step back, fisting the door frame. “I don’t know that I can survive you again.”
“You won’t have to.”
He stares blankly—looks away, then brings his eyes back to meet mine. “Laurel—”
“I’m not leaving.”
His eyes drift to the table. “Peace lilies?”
“They were fresh out of olive branches at Barlow’s.”
He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, lifting a brow, that dimple threatening to show. “You moving in?”
“If you ask me to.” I take a brave step toward him with my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
“When I was driving down here—just outside of May—I saw a denim shirt snagged on barbed wire, flapping in the wind. They’d plowed, and the dust was pelting it, but that shirt wouldn’t let go. I remember thinking, that’s Texas.
“But I get it now. You’re that denim shirt, Calder and I’m the barbed wire.
And I don’t care how long or hard the wind blows—I’m not letting go.
Because I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you.
I’m here and I’m not going back. I. Choose.
You. Calder Bowie Boone. So, it’s up to you. Do you choose me?”
He stares long and hard—stunned, I think. Blinking.
I swallow hard as he drags a hand over his jaw and fills his chest with air. “I’ve been choosing you since you were sixteen.”
The breath leaves me. “Then choose me now.”
For a moment, he just stands there—like a man at the edge of a cliff that he wants to jump from—but he can’t bring himself to do it.
I’ll catch you, Calder.
“Laurel…”
“Make love to me,” I whisper.
His eyes close like the words hurt. “Dammit, Laurel… if I make love to you again—it’s got to be forever. There can’t be any going back.”
“It’s forever,” I say through tears.
His jaw drops slightly as he shakes his head. “I mean it.”
“So do I.”
A sound escapes him—half-groan, half-prayer—and then he crosses the space in two easy strides and hoists me into his arms, holding me there—his forehead pressed to mine. “I love you with everything in me. Do you understand that?”
“I do.”
“And Bowie. I love Bowie.”
Along with the tears, a laugh slips out of me as I nuzzle my head into his neck. “I know. And he wubs you, too. He told me.”
Calder huffs a laugh—and something inside him finally unclenches.
He carries me toward the bedroom, slow and sure, his eyes roaming my face.
As he lays me gently on those fresh, clean sheets, he begins to unbutton his shirt—slowly, deliberately—and his eyes tell me everything I ever need to know. This is home. This is forever.