Chapter 2
2
G randma Pearl, as it turned out, had been on her usual walk around the neighborhood, but failed to see a newly formed crack in the sidewalk from the roots of a nearby gum tree. She’d fallen forward, caught herself with her hands and broken a wrist in the process. After four hours in the emergency room, she was back home and sitting at the kitchen table with her arm propped up in a neon yellow cast, like one enormous highlighter.
“The doctor said I have to shower with a trash bag over my arm. Am I supposed to wash my hair with my feet?” Pearl lifted both feet off the floor for emphasis. She was a short, petite and feisty woman, with Birkenstock sandals and faded tattoos that crawled up her arms. She’d taught herself how to boogie board when she was fifty, was the first woman to run for mayor of Tybee—but lost, sadly—and had won a beachside fried shrimp-eating competition in 2003.
Sam’s grandma wasn’t exactly the cookie-baking, nurturing type that you’d expect from a name like Pearl, but Sam had always liked that she was a bit eccentric.
“Salon de Sam is open for business.” She winked at Pearl, but her grandma did not look amused.
“That’s not reassuring, considering your hair right now.” Grandma Pearl pointed to Sam’s ponytail. Sam reached a hand up and felt the undeniable halo of frizz. She held back an eye roll as she smoothed a palm across the top.
Her grandma could also be totally vicious.
“Hey, at least you didn’t break a hip.” Damon shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, which made his triceps flex. Sam tried not to stare. “Could be worse, right?”
“Not all old people break their hips.” Pearl tsked. Then she got a little glint in her eye. “But you know who did? Peggy Clemens. And you know what? She’s dead now.”
“Jesus, Grandma,” Sam said.
“What? It’s true!” Pearl threw up both hands, then winced as she remembered how heavy her cast was. “So, yes, it could be worse, to your point.”
Damon gave her an amused smile. “My mom’s going to make you more food, too.”
“Please tell her I’m fine.” Pearl’s lips closed into a thin line.
“You know Cathy,” Damon said. “She’s going to insist.”
Damon’s mom had basically been made in a 1950s lab for stay-at-home parents, if that lab was also run by vegans. She was always cooking something for her kids to eat—her tofu muffins were legendary—seemed to be at every school function, and would bring Sam homemade “chicken” noodle soup at the first sign of a sniffle. The opposite of Sam’s mom.
“I’ve gotta get back to the brewery before closing. We’re always slammed on Saturdays,” Damon said as he glanced at his phone. “Do you need anything before I head out? If you have questions, you can call. Or text. I know everyone hates calling. I don’t know why I said that.” He avoided looking at Sam as he puffed out his chest.
And for a moment, she found herself unable to speak. Damon used to be such a goofball, which was one of the things they’d bonded over. He never took himself too seriously, but here he was seemingly self-conscious about an offhand comment.
“We’ll be fine,” Sam said quickly.
He gave a faint smile, then headed to the door.
“Sorry you came home to a mess,” he said low enough for only Sam to hear. “Are you really going to be okay?”
Now this Damon was one she recognized—ever protective of her.
“Thanks, but we’ll figure it out. If I can fly a plane, I can help Pearl. I think.” Sam shot a look at her grandma. The thought of having to clean out the house and assist Grandma Pearl with showers was already feeling heavier than the pressure of flying through an electrical storm.
“I was starting to think I wouldn’t see you again.” His expression turned somber, and she saw another flicker of the Damon she knew from high school.
“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you sooner,” she said. And while she thought she was just reciting one of the many lines she’d rehearsed for this visit, she found that she was sorry. Because even though they’d only been together for a few minutes, there was a long-dormant part of her lighting up with the familiar warmth she’d always felt whenever she was with him.
He let out a long-suffering breath before the next bit. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“Right.” Sam coughed as her throat went dry. She should’ve known better than to think he wasn’t hurt. That she could just show up here and not be questioned. Still...could she crawl out of her skin and leave her body? Was that an option? She’d rather be permanently trapped in an airplane bathroom than face whatever Damon had to ask. But she was stuck there, and for longer than she’d originally thought.
Sam pulled at the end of her ponytail, hoping an escape parachute would open up and release her from this moment. None came, though, so she said something to buy herself time. “I’m just a little jet-lagged from the flight and the drive.”
“I can imagine.” His jaw clenched, which only did him favors in highlighting the dimples in his cheeks. “We don’t have to figure everything out right now.”
Great . She searched his eyes, waiting to see if there was anything more he wanted from her in that moment. And, apparently, there was.
“Oh, almost forgot.” He slapped his hand on the door frame, then turned toward the driveway and waved for her to follow. He took her to his jet-black, flame-decaled motorcycle. He’d lost the red streaks in his hair, but put it on the side of his bike, apparently. He opened the back storage attached to the seat and pulled out a six-pack of beer. She took the pack, and the cold soothed her clammy hands.
Sam pulled a bottle out labeled Thunder Storm IPA . There was an ornate image of a beach with palm trees blowing in a gust of wind. “You made these?”
“I own a brewery. That’s how a brewery works.” He gave her a little shit-eating grin that made her shake her head. “Farrah is the brewmaster, so I can’t take credit for the flavors. But I’m the lead on design, marketing and expansion. You’ll have to come by and see.”
Damon and his sister, Farrah, had dreamed about opening their own bar someday, and now they owned a whole brewery. Their success was impressive, but Sam wasn’t ready to admit that. “I don’t have a motorcycle, though.” Sam pouted. “Am I hip enough to be there?”
Damon playfully rolled his eyes. “You do have this fancy Mercedes. Being a pilot must be treating you well.”
She couldn’t argue there. Sam made a great living, considering all she had to take care of was herself. She hadn’t intended to impress Damon with the car, but...maybe she had. “We’ve both upgraded our transportation since high school. You with your old Ford, and me bumming rides in your old Ford.”
They stood in the thick evening heat, staring at each other.
“I’ll text you,” she eventually said, breaking the silence.
“Don’t call.”
“I would never.” She smiled, and he smiled back and her silly stomach did the fish flip trick again.
“Good to see you, Sam-Sam.” Damon waved a hand, gesturing to the length of her. “The pilot uniform suits you, by the way.”
She almost replied, but couldn’t. Her nickname in his mouth paired with the compliment made her feel like she needed to lie down, close her eyes and sleep for many days until her brain could process everything the past few hours had brought.
Damon.
Grandma Pearl.
Damon’s jawline.
She watched as Damon secured his helmet and revved the engine of the bike, then peeled out of the driveway. This version of him—confident biker dude—while still a bit similar, was also completely new. Part of her wanted to see him again so she could find out all of the ways he’d changed, but the more sensible part of her knew that was ridiculous. She couldn’t expect him to just make room for her.
She numbly walked to the front door, closed it behind her and exhaled as her exhaustion finally caught up. She could curl up on the floor and sleep until morning, really. But then there was a rustling from the kitchen, and she knew she needed to check on Pearl.
When she rounded the corner, Pearl had managed to grab a wooden spoon and was attempting to shove the handle inside her cast. But there was another item already lodged in there—a spatula.
“Grandma,” Sam squeaked as she rushed to Pearl’s side. She dropped the six-pack of beer on the kitchen island, then plucked the spoon from Pearl’s free hand.
“I had an itch. Don’t worry, I got it.”
“I can see that. You also got half of your kitchen accessories in your cast.” Sam gently maneuvered the spatula out and blinked hard. This was going to be a trying week. Or two? She had to sort out how long she’d actually be staying now that Pearl wasn’t supposed to be doing things like lifting boxes or packing up her house. She’d figure out the details with the airline in the morning.
Sam massaged her now-throbbing temple, moved to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair for Pearl. “Just sit and relax. Humbe said you need to give your bones a break.”
“I think my bones already had their break, thank you very much.” Pearl smiled impishly as she made her way to the chair. “I can still walk and talk. I’m not completely useless.”
“I didn’t say you were, but I’m here to help. So you need to let me.” Sam loosened her pink tie and then eased it all the way off, draping it over the back of another chair.
“Okay.” Pearl sat down with a thud, placed her hands in her lap, then looked expectantly at Sam. “Go ahead, then.”
Sam was not immediately sure what to do. What would be a win to Pearl? What would someone of her fried shrimp–champion stature be interested in? She grabbed a bottle from the six-pack on the counter and held it up. “Beer?”
Sam found a can opener and popped it, then placed the still-chilled beverage down. “See? I’m helpful.”
“So helpful. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” Pearl lifted the bottle to her lips and took a sip. “Oh, and this is so tasty. Speaking of which, Damon’s looking good, isn’t he? Seems like you both finally grew into your bodies.” She kept her gaze on Sam, as if waiting for a reaction.
It was exactly the right moment to put the beer in the fridge and forget the reminder that Damon was hot. He was. No doubt about it. He’d physically upgraded from coach to first class, but Pearl didn’t need to know all of that.
“Do you want one of the pralines Damon’s mom made?” Sam reached for the sewing tin on top of the fridge. When she opened the lid, it was stuffed with pecan praline candies that smelled like syrup. Sam popped one into her mouth and practically moaned as it melted against her tongue.
Pearl shook her head, but took one just the same. “Cynthia knows I have high blood pressure.”
“You mean Cathy?” Sam hated correcting her grandma, especially when she knew it was her memory failing her, but she did so, just the same.
“Yes, Cathy, whatever her name is. I swear to God, she sends me a tin every Christmas and pretends like she isn’t torturing me. She thinks just because something is made with soy it’s a health food.” Her grandma took a bite so big she could barely chew through it, but managed to say, “Just one bite won’t hurt.”
Sam had gotten her sweet tooth from somewhere, after all. There was a substantial lull in conversation as Pearl chewed. Sam fidgeted with her hands and the momentary quiet brought back the questions she didn’t have answers for. What was Damon going to ask me? And why does he look so good to me now?
“Did I hear something about you and Damon seeing each other again?” Pearl asked, as if reading her thoughts.
Sam shot her a knowing look; while her grandma may have been out of commission with her wrist, her hearing was certainly in perfect shape. Sam nudged off her shoes and flexed each foot until her toes cracked.
“I bet Damon didn’t know what hit him when he saw you,” Pearl tried again. “You used to wear fingerless gloves in the summer, but now you’re Pilot Barbie.”
“Those were very in style back then,” Sam attempted to defend herself. “It’s definitely been a long time.”
“Yes, it has.” Pearl’s tone was maybe a bit more chastising than she’d anticipated. But instead of further judgment, her grandma simply said, “I’m glad to have you home.”
If ever there was a time where she wished she could hit a pause button, Sam thought this would be a good one. Because while the sentiment was a simple one, it was impossible for Sam to easily echo the feeling back. She loved Pearl, but she wasn’t glad to be home, and she didn’t want to disappoint her grandma by pretending to be.
“I’m going to go unpack,” Sam sidestepped. She was going to unpack, all right. Not just her clothes, but the conversation with Damon and Grandma Pearl. Plenty of things to unpack all around.
Her grandma stared back, because they both knew Sam was just making an excuse to leave the room. But Pearl eventually gave a resigned sigh, reached for another praline and began to chew. Sam took the opportunity to hurry down the hall. She’d been back less than twenty-four hours and in that time she’d gotten flutters from her high school best friend and become her grandma’s caretaker. This wasn’t the fake vacation she’d signed up for!
She gladly closed her bedroom door as a text came in.
Rachel:
How many margaritas have you had?
What she wouldn’t give for a margarita—she’d bathe in one to cleanse the day from her mind. She flopped onto her bed, tossed the Furby to the floor and cuddled the Hello Kitty plush under her arm as she typed back.
Sam:
Not enough.
Rachel:
Are you at least wearing your bikini top as a hat?
Sam snort-laughed. Rachel and Sam were not party girls. And she’d never been, if the “I Love Dolphins!” sticker on her dresser was any indication. But she appreciated the implication that she could be, and she wanted to delight her friend.
Sam:
I can tell you there’s no top in sight...
It was technically true.
Rachel:
omg topless Sam, the beach isn’t ready!!!
Sam:
Who knew that a winky face could hide a scream? The truth was that her exhaustion was turning into a kind of sleepwalking, and if she didn’t close her eyes soon, she’d simply pass out. But then her gaze met the purple painted desk, where the silvery CD player stood out and almost glowed.
Music was something she and Damon had both loved. They’d analyze the lyrics, CD sleeves and music videos, and bond over which bands had sold out or stayed indie. Music had always been just theirs. Flying was her escape now, but she couldn’t exactly hop on a plane. So maybe this was fate giving her a small reprieve from her thoughts. How else to explain the timing?
The CD player still worked. Over a decade later, she’d have a chance to hear the thirteen songs that reminded him of her. When she’d left Tybee, she’d also left behind the music she and Damon had so fervently loved. Listening to any of her emo anthems made her think of him and what might have been. Now, though, she pressed her back against the wall and, as she always used to, slid down until she was seated on the floor with her knees tucked into her chest.
She put on the headphones, and the warm, nostalgic feeling she’d missed when she first arrived finally hit her. Her room and the CD player in her hands— this was home. Her shoulders relaxed as she hit Play and wrapped her arms tightly around her shins.
The unmistakable haunting piano notes of Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life” began to tinkle out. She couldn’t help but grin, because she and Damon had been obsessed with the ethereal feel of the melody. Of course he’d pick this song for her—he knew how transported she felt whenever they’d listen. And she remembered the story of how frontwoman Amy Lee wrote the song about being vulnerable with her now husband.
As Sam’s eyes shut, the music surrounded her and she relaxed back into the bedroom wall. Except, just as Amy Lee sang the first lyrics, the space around Sam grew cold. Goose bumps erupted over her arms. Maybe the AC had kicked in. But then an enormous gust of wind nearly knocked her over.
“Oh, my God,” Sam screeched as she caught herself with the palm of her hand.
Though she wasn’t touching soft carpet anymore; her hand was on top of something hard. Sam’s heart pounded as her eyes quickly snapped open. And then she stilled in a kind of confused horror because, she realized, she was no longer in her bedroom.