The Backtrack

Chapter 1

1

S am Leto’s calling in life was flying planes. And unlike other pilots, she still got the same rush of adrenaline each time she pushed the throttles up for takeoff. What she wasn’t as good at, however, was playing the “What If?” game with her copilot, Rachel.

“Cabin crew, any updates from the galley? Specifically Row L?” Rachel asked the flight attendants via the cockpit intercom. Her voice bordered on giddy.

Sam waited, hoping Rachel’s bet was wrong. The “What If?” game, as their in-flight crew had so aptly called it, was when they paired unexpecting passengers together to see what could happen. What if they moved the chic lady in Row D next to the nerdy cute guy in first class? What if the guy with the noisy cat had a seat change to be next to the single mom and her precocious tween? The possibilities were endless, and the odds of a successful match weren’t in their favor. But still, they played the game regularly.

“After the rejected takeoff, we’ve been in a steady holding pattern,” flight attendant Javier relayed.

Rachel grimaced at Sam, but Sam raised a triumphant eyebrow. They’d taken a bet—Sam voted that the match between a tattooed short king and a woman who was Lilly Pulitzer’s number-one fan wasn’t right, and Rachel bet that they would hit it off. Rejected takeoff was code for a rough start, and a steady holding pattern meant they hadn’t progressed.

“But...” Javier continued.

“Ohhh, there’s a but !” Rachel clapped. Sam frowned.

“Happy to report that the antics of an unaccompanied minor have brought Row L a friendly runway of opportunity for small talk. They’re sharing a snack from the meal cart and, if I’m not mistaken, have exchanged phone numbers via the complimentary cocktail napkins.”

Sam’s mouth fell open in surprise, then she tightly closed it. She hated being wrong. “Dammit,” she said.

“I told you!” Rachel victoriously fist-pumped the air. “You owe me food court fries. What if we’d swapped 3C instead of 2L? This love connection would’ve never been made.”

“ Or maybe she’ll end up in a relationship with this random person and miss out on the real love of her life, all because you shoved them together.” Sam rolled her shoulders, which always started to hunch when they got toward the end of a long flight.

“Leto, you’re in a real mood today.” Rachel opened the flight manual and pretended to study the page with their descent route. “First you eat all four of those pains au chocolat, and now you’re getting cynical on me. More cynical than usual.”

At the mention of the pastries, Sam glanced down and her stomach cartoonishly rippled under her crisp, white button-up pilot’s shirt. She loosened her pink leather belt in a sad attempt to fix the situation, but it absolutely didn’t.

Rachel gave her the kind of grossed-out expression one might reserve for accidentally touching a wad of gum under a table.

“I’m fine,” Sam lied. She was inarguably not fine, and let out a breath as she sat back in the pilot’s seat. Out the window, just past the nose of the plane, was a perfectly blue sky with one fat gray cloud.

“I did plan to share.” The nonstop flight from Paris to Atlanta required a little sugar boost—more than the banana in her daily oatmeal could offer—so she’d gotten enough for both of them. “But I’m stressed about the trip is all.”

The next few days were going to be hard, to put it lightly, and she hadn’t been this anxious in a long time, including the recent emergency landing she’d had to make. The emergency, as it turned out, was a passenger whose support chihuahua had food poisoning from an airport tuna roll.

Rachel gave a gentle shoulder punch that brought Sam back to the present. Rachel was her very best friend these days—not only because they spent hours together trapped in a small room, but because she always knew how to yank Sam out of her own head. “Are you seriously this terrified of taking vacation?”

Sam blinked several times. She’d told Rachel that she was finally cashing in some overdue time off with an all-inclusive beach retreat at a luxury resort. Not a complete lie, but...a pretty big one. Because when they landed, Sam would rent a car and drive four hours to Tybee Island in Georgia. And even though Tybee was technically a tourist haven—with a stretch of sandy beach, seafood shacks and quaint cottage rentals—it was also where Sam had grown up, and the trip would be anything but a vacation.

She was going back to Tybee—a place she’d worked hard to leave—because her grandma wanted to move into a senior living facility. A raisin ranch , as Grandma Pearl had jokingly called it, but Sam supposed was true. Her grandma’s memory had started to crack at the edges. The last time Pearl visited Sam in Paris, she’d forgotten the name of the airline Sam flew for, and then misplaced the word for paper towel. And while Pearl had lightly joked about the slips— I never hold grudges, because I have a bad memory —she suggested the transition to a smaller place without any prompting from Sam. Sam wasn’t completely sold on the idea of Grandma Pearl joining a retirement home, though, so she was going home to spend the week cleaning out the house and to see if Pearl really needed to leave.

The other, more complicated, reason that Sam was so out of sorts was a text from Damon Rocha.

Damon, her childhood best friend whom she hadn’t seen since she left Georgia after flight school eleven years ago. The guy who knew everything about who she’d been when she lived in Tybee, and who had tried to kiss her so long ago. That almost-kiss was a moment Sam still lingered on. What if she’d kissed him? Would her life be completely different? She thought about that way too much, even though she was a grown ass woman who’d kissed plenty of people since then and could eat four pastries for breakfast if she wanted.

Though that last choice was, admittedly, the wrong one.

Fly safe.

That was all he’d said, but there was so much left unsaid that Sam had spent most of the flight filling in the blanks.

Fly safe, because you ran away and owe me one hell of an explanation.

Fly safe, because you’ve avoided me for long enough.

Fly safe, and I won’t be surprised if you bail.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Damon—quite the opposite. She’d wanted to see him for years. He’d been her best friend, and they had so much history together that whenever she thought of her childhood, he was inextricably entwined in it. She wasn’t avoiding him exactly, but the way she’d left things between them had been...bad. Like, hugging him goodbye, promising to come back soon and then just not making good on that at all. She’d been scared that visiting Damon would mean more than simply returning to the small city she never wanted to live in again. But now she was returning, and he was texting, so there was no avoiding him, or Tybee.

“We’ve got a bumpy landing.” Sam swiftly changed the subject so she wouldn’t have to explain herself to Rachel. She’d worked hard to keep her past in the past. “Do you have a dad joke picked out?” She shifted her long legs, which had gone numb from too much sitting.

Rachel raised her pierced brow as she closed the flight manual. “I workshopped this one with Aubry. Ready to hear it?”

Pilots had a high rate of divorce—with too much time away from home, it was no wonder—but Aubry and Rachel were the kind of couple that gave Sam hope.

“If your wife approved this, then I’m all ears.” Sam was grateful to hear anything that didn’t involve her own sugar-high thoughts of doom. She picked up the intercom and began to talk. “Hello, this is Captain Leto. We’re about to start our initial descent into the Atlanta, Georgia, area.”

“If you’re going to Atlanta, it’s a perfect seventy-five degrees,” Rachel said into the mic. “There are a few air pockets coming up in our approach, so the ride may get bumpy. Just remember that if the landing is rough, it’s not the captain or copiot’s fault. It’s the asphalt.”

Rachel turned the intercom off and looked at Sam expectantly. Sam allowed a few beats of silence to build out the tension, then slid her sunglasses down her nose.

“It was good,” Sam conceded. “Not as good as the four pains au chocolat, but good.”

Rachel sighed, then turned her focus to the instrument panel. “You’re gonna miss my jokes, even when you’re stretched out on a beach with a cabana boy serving you margaritas.”

Sam wanted to tell Rachel that the closest she’d get to a beach would be looking out the window as she boxed up her old memories, but Rachel didn’t know anything about Sam’s childhood—or what she’d run from. So instead of being honest, Sam swallowed down the sick feeling, either from the pastries or the impending trip—or both—and switched off the autopilot to land the plane.

“This is looking like a rodeo approach,” Sam said. There were gusty winds reported, and she’d have to tame the bucking airplane on the descent.

“Your favorite,” Rachel said.

And she was right. Sam prided herself on hand piloting the smoothest landings possible even in extreme circumstances. Being able to focus on the landing meant she didn’t have to think about Damon, either.

“Been meaning to get us another Superior Airmanship Award.” Sam and Rachel had earned the prestigious honor after a flight where there was a fire in the cabin, and they managed a flawless emergency landing. In the forty years since the award started, they were the only women to ever earn the recognition.

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Rachel said. “Let’s get you to your vacation in one piece, shall we?”

“Ten-four.” Unlike with her personal life, she had no problem focusing on doing her job, the one thing she was truly great at.

When Sam landed the plane, there was a round of applause from the cabin, and she was proud of the reason.

Sam sat in the driver’s seat of the rented Mercedes and maneuvered across lanes of highway traffic, sped past lazy rolling hills and drifted into the flatter land near Savannah. Instead of music, an episode of This American Life featuring David Sedaris walking the streets of Paris played. She thought the episode would remind her that she had a whole other existence in her apartment in Montmartre, but she barely heard the words as she glanced out the window.

She was struck by how different the area looked. Next to the familiar, distinguished live oak trees covered in moss, were new high-rise, modern luxury townhomes and urban sprawl that she didn’t remember being there. The changes blissfully distracted her, and for a few moments during the ride she lost herself completely to the new surroundings. A lot could change in eleven years, she guessed, just as she’d changed, too.

She’d stopped wearing two-for-one thongs from Target—flip-flop or otherwise—for example. Real grown-up decisions had been made.

As the sun steadily dipped lower behind billboards for fast-food stops, she closed in on Tybee Island. A familiar sky-blue hand-painted sign for the town welcomed her, and she rolled the window down. The scent of salt and suntan lotion bloomed in the air like fragrant flowers as she drove through the main street. Despite the fact that it was fall in some parts of the country, in Tybee there were tourists in cutoff shorts and bikini tops strolling the sidewalk past vibrant storefronts advertising souvenirs, beach apparel and ice cream.

It was unnerving how familiar and foreign coming back felt. To recognize the street names, but not the new stores. To have memories of walking across the concrete, but see it replaced with mosaic tile. This had once been the only place she’d known, and now she felt as if she were visiting for the first time. She no longer belonged in her hometown; she was just another tourist. She’d expected to break out in claustrophobic hives as soon as she arrived, but so much had changed that she found herself more dumbstruck than anything else.

Sam turned onto Chatham Avenue, the street where her childhood home was. A handful of original shingle-style beach cottages remained, but were dwarfed by newer modern waterfront mansions. This was the street where she’d learned to ride a bike, drive a car and daydreamed about the life she’d eventually lead. Though, as she glanced down the line of the freshly paved road, those memories were like a foggy dream.

She should feel some kind of buzz, like a Hallmark level of warm and fuzzies that tied her to this place, right? After all, she was home. Home . There was nothing comforting about that word, though, which felt as heavy as a Boeing 747 on her chest.

That heaviness lingered as she pulled into the sandy driveway of her grandma’s cottage, still enclosed by the same chipped white picket fence. She didn’t immediately turn the car off, but stared at the blue front door’s weathered paint. All she had to do was put the car in Reverse, back out of the driveway and head to the airport she had come from.

But she couldn’t run, not this time, because her grandma needed help and Sam owed her that much. The woman had raised her when her mom refused to. So Sam mustered as much positive energy as she could, reapplied her matte lipstick and killed the engine.

When she stepped out of the car, a seagull dropped from the sky, zipping so close to her head that she had to duck. She tried to regain her footing, but the chunky wedges she’d changed into weren’t built for the soft sand and she fell into the car door. And as a final punch, she reached a hand up and the blowout she’d had specifically for this trip was beginning to frizz from the moisture.

Ah, yes, it was good to be home.

Sam grabbed her designer duffel out of the back seat and held it in front of her like a protective blanket. She shook out her shoulders and straightened the tie of her pilot’s uniform. Seeing Grandma Pearl, whom she loved, would be easy; it was walking back inside a place filled with so much pain that worried her.

Sam walked up to the front and rang the doorbell, but there was no immediate answer. She scratched at her fringe, which stuck to her forehead from the heat, and rang the doorbell again. But after another few minutes, still nothing. Her grandma had always been a fan of daily walks and was likely on one. So Sam bent over and picked up the peach-and-brown-striped conch shell next to the welcome mat. She shook it, and it rattled. Then she flipped the shell over and the spare brass key fell into her palm.

When she opened the door, the salty air was replaced with vanilla candles and lavender detergent—the same clean-and-sweet scent that had always been there. While much of Tybee had changed, some things hadn’t, and that truth brought Sam a new confidence. She’d been here before and left. Saying goodbye to this place would be easy, and all she had to do was remember that whenever she began to feel trapped.

“Hello?” Sam waited, but there was no answer, so she continued into the house. Her fingertips trailed along the wall, painted plum and decorated with hanging signs.

In a flip-flop state of mind.

Don’t worry, beach happy.

Toes in the sand, wine in my hand.

She couldn’t help but smirk at a new one, Beach, please!

These small reminders of who her grandma was, and continued to be, stirred a longing that replaced some of the nerves she’d been holding on to. Yes, being home was an out-of-body experience, but Sam wanted to see Pearl and wished she’d walk back through the door already.

As she stood in the living room, her gaze landed on a framed photo of thirteen-year-old Sam, her mom and Pearl standing on the pier near their house, a fishing rod in Sam’s hand. Sam picked it up and eyed her adolescent face—a wide smile of braces and white filmy sunscreen on her nose. Too much black eyeliner, blue eyeshadow and an all-black wardrobe. Her knobby knees, which had earned her the nickname “giraffe,” were covered in freckles. And then there was her mom, with a blond ponytail and fair skin. Her expression was one Sam had analyzed endlessly: a kind of half smile that wouldn’t seem meaningful if her mom hadn’t left them a year later.

She put the photo back on the table, and when she pulled her hand away, a clean thumbprint disturbed the coating of dust. Sam swiped another manicured finger along the frame and came back with a thick layer of grime. A knot of guilt wandered into her stomach as she glanced at the table and saw it was also coated. Maybe she’d stayed away for too long.

She hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder and walked down the tiled floor toward a hand-drawn placard, “Sam’s Room,” which still hung outside the door in glittery bubble letters. She hesitated, but eventually turned the knob.

The room, much like the rest of the house, had not been touched since Sam left, save for some tidying. The twin-size wrought iron bed frame with a dolphin-print duvet was still there, as were the Furby and Hello Kitty dolls resting against the numerous decorative pillows. Over the bed was an Amy Winehouse poster surrounded by CD sleeves for The White Stripes, Muse, Green Day and The Killers. On her desk sat a neat stack of the Twilight hardcover books, alongside a plastic Pizza Hut cup filled with scented gel pens, Lip Smacker balms and a headband with glitter skulls across the top. The corkboard above the desk was littered with tacked-up photos of her intense emo phase...and Damon.

She hesitantly bit her lip as she approached the memory board, but almost instantly landed on a photo taken the night when everything changed. She and Damon were in front of the school bleachers, and his spiked black hair was streaked with red highlights. Sam’s overplucked eyebrows and the cartoon skull on her T-shirt were all a choice . Sam held up a peace sign and attempted her very best duck lips, while Damon’s mouth opened in a genuine laugh.

Despite the fashion that made them relics of the aughts, they both looked happy, and an overwhelming urge to see him laugh that way again flooded through Sam. She took out her cell. Home , she texted Damon. She almost instantly regretted messaging, because where would they start a conversation she’d chosen to end years ago?

Thanks to Instagram, she’d been able to keep up and interact with Damon as if he were an old acquaintance. Over the years, she’d watched as he slowly ticked off all the boxes he’d planned to after graduating high school. He had a house, a job and figured out a style that didn’t involve eyeliner and excessive hair gel. She “liked” his posts. He “liked” hers back.

When she decided to come help Pearl, she’d weighed her options: return home, hide and hope they didn’t bump into each other; or just reach out and see what happened. And because she was more than a little curious to know if he’d respond, she DMed him. To her surprise, he wanted to see her, too. So they exchanged cell numbers—hers had changed; his hadn’t. Damon had grown up, but in many ways still embodied the same indie style. What would he think of Sam?

She pocketed her phone and clenched her jaw. She wasn’t sure when Damon would text back, but was surprised by how impatient she was to hear from him.

She supposed the person she should text next was Pearl, but there was a kind of serenity in being alone in the house. Sam hadn’t been back in her room in so many years. And while she knew she should change and clean up, she couldn’t help but go to the giant map of the world taped to the wall next to her closet. Her flight school acceptance letter and Post-it notes of where she wanted to travel dotted the map. She’d visited almost every one of them, except for Morocco. She tapped the spot with her finger. “I’m coming for you next.”

And then her mother’s parting words popped into her head. Don’t end up stuck in this place.

Well, she hadn’t ended up stuck , as it turned out. Bonnie’s warning had served as a kind of challenge that Sam had met and overcome. Not only had she left Tybee, but she’d also become a better, brighter, far less goth-baby version of herself in the process. Still, just the recollection of her mom saying that—how Bonnie’s voice had shook with the words—caused panic to rise and lodge in Sam’s throat.

Because when it rained, it really poured, Sam’s phone pinged with a new text. She checked the screen. Damon’s name flashed back like a bolt of lightning.

Damon:

Coming over.

Suddenly, all thoughts of her mom vanished as quickly as her styled hair in the humidity. Those two words made Sam jittery. She was an unwieldy wave about to demolish a child’s sandcastle.

Damon was headed to the house and she’d have to see him face-to-face. Now was the time for her to change clothes. She’d been flying all day, then drove straight to her grandma’s and probably smelled like an in-flight barf bag. Yes, she’d wanted to dress to impress Grandma Pearl, but the thought of Damon seeing her also stirred up a need to look better than good. She crossed the small space of the room, bent to pick up her carry-on and came eye level with the shelves under her desk.

Her beloved CD player rested on a pair of laughably ancient headphones in the exact spot where she’d left them years ago. Seeing her old Walkman shouldn’t have stopped her at all, but Sam couldn’t deny that this wasn’t just a CD player. Her Walkman had become a kind of escape. When she put on her headphones and hit Play on a song, the rest of her reality melted away as she slipped into the music. Her mom and grandma had an epic fight at least once a week—screaming, throwing things and, in general, being terrible to each other. Sam couldn’t focus when she could hear them both going at it, but if she turned her music up loud enough, she discovered a new way to block out the noise. And slowly, she realized that zoning out to music gave her space to think about what she wanted: to travel, be independent and never be stuck.

Did she even allow herself time to daydream like that now? Not unless she counted staring at hotel room ceilings in between nonstop flights.

Instead of grabbing her bag, she picked up the CD player. The familiar weight immediately eased the tension Sam had been carrying in her shoulders. The urge to put her headphones on, lean against the wall and let herself slide down to the floor was overwhelming.

“Hello, friend.” She put a hand across the top and let it sit there, the way you might give a reassuring pat on someone’s back. Her thumb pressed down on the open button. And when the top flipped up, she saw the CD that Damon had made for her, covered in a detailed drawing of the moon and the words Thirteen perfect songs to play when you need them written in black permanent marker at the bottom. She exhaled as she traced a finger across his slanted penmanship.

She had never actually played the CD, though. She came close a few times, but couldn’t bring herself to hear the tracks Damon had chosen just for her after she’d all but torn them in two. Instead, she upgraded to an iPod Nano, tucked the CD player away and pretended the thing didn’t exist.

She closed the player as the doorbell rang. She quickly glanced out her bedroom window and there, in the driveway, was a motorcycle. Who the hell did Grandma Pearl hang out with these days? Sam strained to catch a glimpse of the person at the door, which was when she saw the swoop of dark hair—Damon’s dark hair.

Ding-dong. Sam jumped away from the window. “Okay, I can take a hint,” she said to no one.

Sam didn’t have time to change or freshen up. She’d intended not to look like hot garbage when she saw Damon, but apparently, her trip down memory lane had other plans. She stopped at the mirror next to her door and did her best to pat down the frizz around her hair. Then, understanding it was a fruitless endeavor, pulled it all up into a high and tight ponytail. When she reevaluated herself in the mirror, there was a bit of improvement. She picked up the CD player, unsure of what to do with it and not wanting to relegate it to the forgotten shelves under her desk again.

The doorbell sounded once more, and she sighed.

As she left her room and made her way down the hall, reality set in. She was about to see Damon . He was just a few feet from her. A surprise flurry of nerves swelled in the pit of her stomach, a kind of apprehension that made her dizzy. Just like when they were in high school, and she’d eagerly wait to see him in the cafeteria, or in the parking lot after school. Because being with him was almost always the best part of her day.

When she got to the door, she looked up at the popcorn ceiling and let out a shaky breath. This won’t be weird. This is Damon. A guy you’ve known your whole life , Sam told herself.

There was no more stalling. It was time for her to face the man she’d left behind. One quick breath in, then out, and she opened the door.

Her stomach flipped, like a fish jumping out of water. Because while this Damon was the same one she’d grown up with, he’d also changed in many ways. His hair, for example, no longer had bright red streaks, but was its natural chestnut hue and fell in a messy way that almost made it look styled. His nose, which she’d never really took note of before, was distinguished and weirdly sexy. Then there was the well-groomed beard, and his tan and toned arms that filled out a forest green tee. All she knew was that he definitely looked better than she remembered. She stopped at the words Band Practice Brews and realized he must’ve come straight from work, just like her.

Sam didn’t say a word, and neither did Damon, but his Adam’s apple bobbed as he seemed to swallow the sight of her. Damon cleared his throat and looked at his shoes. When he looked back up, his eyes revealed the same vulnerable expression she’d remembered them having.

Damon moved to close the gap between them and wrapped Sam in a tight hug. His beard brushed against her cheek. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, along with the coconut scent of him.

“It’s awesome to see you,” he said into her ear.

His voice was strong and sure, so different from the teen version of Damon she’d remembered. When she exhaled, she managed to say, “You, too.”

And it really was . She pulled away, but he kept his hands steady on her shoulders. He squeezed her slightly and licked his lips.

“I can’t believe you’re standing here, Sam-Sam,” he said. Sam-Sam , just as he used to call her. “You look...different.”

Is “different” a good thing? Sure, she’d lost the dark makeup and traded in her fishnet tights for something more professional. But weren’t those changes an improvement?

“You’re wearing a lot less eyeliner,” she said. She was crummy at small talk. She was about to say as much, but then he clocked the CD player still in her hands.

“Oh, wow, I haven’t seen one of those since...” He trailed off, and she wondered if he was remembering the night he tried to kiss her, too. “Well, it’s been a long time.”

She held the thing up, trying to forget the hurt in his eyes. “I know, right? One of the perks of being home.”

“Can I see?” he asked.

The CD he’d made her was still in there. She knew that and, yet, she held the player out for him. As his hand touched the sides, a small electric jolt traveled through her fingers. “Ow,” she gasped. She let go of the player, which Damon managed to catch. She brought her shocked finger to her mouth and nursed her tiny wound. “Geez, did you feel that?”

“Yeah.” He shook out his hand but refocused on the CD player. “So weird.” He turned the player over, then flipped it back and hit the open button on the top. The CD he’d made for her shone up at them. All she knew was that time stopped as Damon stared down at his old drawings. Sam watched him, waiting to see what he’d do.

He looked up at her, and the same jolt of electricity she felt from the player traveled through her again. She shivered. So did he. Then he swallowed, looked back down at the CD and closed the top. When he did, the screen lit up.

Sam stilled, because now that she squinted the screen had absolutely turned on. She was fully aware she might be in for another electric shock but couldn’t not take a closer look.

She grabbed the Walkman from Damon. “Woah,” she said as she flipped the player over in her palms. The screen displayed that the first track on the CD was queued up and ready.

She almost asked Damon if batteries even lasted this long, but something about his expression stopped her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. She’d seen that look on him before, but only once, when she hadn’t kissed him back. And now here he was, standing outside her old house and making her feel like she was in high school again.

“I should’ve started with this, but I got distracted. My dad called me from the hospital.” Humberto Rocha, Damon’s dad, was a registered nurse at the Tybee Island Emergency Room. Sam immediately knew Damon had bad news. “I wanted to tell you in person. He said Grandma Pearl had an accident.”