The Backtrack

Chapter 4

4

S am had fallen asleep, curled up on top of her bedspread, like some overly tired house cat. But she was woken up by a rather loud and boisterous set of bagpipes playing an army call. Further adding to her confusion was the come-hither expression from the Legolas poster tacked to her wall. She reared back and away from his icy-blond perfection, which caused her to accidentally roll off the twin bed and land on the floor. She winced from the instant pain in her shoulder, sat up and rubbed the sore spot. Which is when she saw that a mere foot from her was the CD player.

Her hand reached for it, almost out of old habit, but stopped when she noticed the smell of butter wafting up to her room. It was a sense memory so familiar that she already knew what her grandma was cooking, but her grandma wasn’t supposed to be doing things that required two hands. Sam pushed herself up and bolted down the hall to make sure her grandma wasn’t about to burn the house down.

In the kitchen, Pearl sat at the table in almost the same spot where Sam had left her the night before. Only this time, the bagpipes created the sort of illusion of a built-in dramatic soundtrack. Sam glanced out the window to see Byron, a neighbor she hadn’t thought about in over a decade but who, apparently, still liked to greet the morning wearing a green kilt and playing army songs loudly in the sand.

“Sam!” The voice of Jessie Tran, her grandma’s next-door neighbor, startled her. Jessie and Pearl shared a common love of dirt bike races and comparing rotisserie chickens from local grocery stores.

Jessie was at the stove and wiped her hands across the apron she wore before wrapping her in a hug so tight that Sam thought she might lose consciousness. Jessie had dyed black hair cut into a short bob and long nails painted neon orange that had remained the same color and length as they were when Sam was in high school. “Did Byron wake you up?” Jessie practically had to shout over the noise.

“What would make you think that?” Sam joked back.

“Huh?” Jessie replied.

“Yes!” Sam shouted. “Yes, he did!”

The bagpipes came to a miraculous halt. Outside, Byron saluted the rising sun and marched his way back up toward his beach house.

“You look like a raccoon who gorged at a dumpsite. What happened?” Grandma Pearl asked. All Sam could do was grunt in response.

To be fair, she hadn’t washed her face or showered before passing out—two important things she should do sooner rather than later. She tried to flatten her hair with the palm of her hand. “I need a shower, obviously.”

This day wouldn’t be her best.

“I wouldn’t have recognized you.” Jessie grabbed Sam’s shoulders and gave her an appraising glance. “You used to remind me of Wednesday Addams with all the black, but look at you now, the spittin’ image of your mama, isn’t she?” Sam’s gaze darted to Pearl, who pursed her lips in response. But Jessie just kept on going. “And those legs! Tell me these aren’t the longest legs you’ve ever seen, Pearl?”

“She didn’t get them from me.” Her grandma cough-laughed.

Sam’s mom and grandma were on the shorter side, so she’d gotten her long legs, allegedly, from her dad. She hadn’t known him, and didn’t have strong feelings about him either way, but she’d have the occasional reminder, like when her height became a topic of conversation.

“Speaking of legs, I was worried you’d learned to crack eggs with your feet,” Sam said, deftly switching gears.

“Your grandma said she wanted to make your favorite breakfast, but needed a hand, literally.” Jessie returned to the stove to flip the eggs.

“I managed to unwrap the butter, but cracking the eggs was not working.” Pearl brought the coffee mug to her lips, and Sam was relieved there were still some things her grandma could handle.

“When I came in, there was eggshell on the fridge door handle,” Jessie added.

“Don’t ask me how it got there.” Her grandma held up her wrapped arm as if in defense.

Sam’s favorite breakfast was fried eggs and toast with massive tabs of butter. It was the only thing her grandma could make that was actually edible.

Jessie scooped a fried egg from the skillet onto a waiting plate. “Here,” she said, handing Sam the plate. “And help yourself to coffee.”

Sam took the plate and then opened the closest cabinet in search of a coffee mug, but instead she found bowls. She opened the next cabinet only to find spices and flour. This was the house she’d grown up in, but she didn’t know where the mugs were. Eventually, Jessie took pity and grabbed a mug from the one cabinet she hadn’t opened.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“Pearl’s been bragging about you all morning,” Jessie said.

Sam’s mouth cracked into a doubtful smile as she looked to her grandma, but Jessie just continued, “She says you get to fly first class when you travel, and there’s free champagne?”

“I fly in the jump seat,” Sam corrected. “But sometimes if there’s an extra spot in first, they’ll let me sit there.”

“The only first class I’ve ever been to was the first pottery class at the Color Me Mine studio downtown.” Jessie grabbed a piece of toast from the oven and put it on the plate. “So your first class is exciting, is all I’m saying.”

Jessie slid the plate of food in front of Sam; an expectant smile played across her lips as she rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You ever think about moving back to Tybee?”

Without looking up to meet Jessie’s eyes, Sam said, “I live in Paris, so, no,” then took a loud bite of her toast. Her no sat in the room like a whirlpool, sucking in all the air and life and good smells and leaving behind the uncomfortable and unapologetic crunching of Sam eating toast.

“Well,” Jessie said in a twang so thick it sounded like whale . She pinched Sam’s shoulder, which made her accidentally bite her own tongue. Maybe she deserved that, honestly. “We sure are glad to have you home.”

“Yes, we are,” Grandma Pearl echoed. She picked up the toast and took an equally loud bite. “I was getting sick of flying to Paris, truth be told.”

“You were not.” Jessie gave her a half smile.

One of the ways Sam had avoided a return trip to Tybee was by flying Grandma Pearl out to Paris each winter. They’d celebrated the holidays in a charming French hotel, eating baguettes while walking along the River Seine and drinking endless Bordeaux.

“Now that I’m done playing chef, I’m going to let you two catch up.” Jessie lifted the apron over her head. “And, Sam, can I paint you while you’re in town?”

Jessie was a local artist who worked with watercolors and was known for her eclectic nudes. She’d done several of Grandma Pearl that were hard to unsee.

“Excuse me,” Pearl piped up. “Sam’s here to help me because I’m old and feeble, not pose for a painting.”

“I’m old, too,” Jessie said. “Old and in need of a model with those legs. Think about it.” Jessie pecked Sam on the forehead. “I can’t pay you anything, but I make a mean sangria.”

“Will do.” Sam gave a half smile as Jessie walked out the front door.

“That woman won’t stop until she’s painted every fuzzy Georgia peach in this town,” Pearl said. “And I’m not talking about the fruit.”

“Grandma,” Sam chided, though she also loved this unabashedly naughty side of Pearl.

“You know I’m right,” Pearl said through a mouthful of toast, and the two Leto women ate until they’d cleaned their plates of the buttery perfection.

It was just after nine in the morning when Sam and Pearl took the last cups of coffee out to the beach. The sun was already high—Septembers on Tybee were just as hot and humid as the dead of summer—and the air had warmed to a point where sweat started to form along the line of Sam’s spine. Sam briefly stopped when she saw three Adirondack chairs fitted into the sand underneath a generous overhang that provided some shade. There was one for Sam, Pearl and Bonnie. She’d assumed her grandma would’ve at least gotten rid of the third chair by now, which had always sat like a ghost next to them.

When Pearl sat in her designated chair, she tilted her head back and let the warm morning sun cast her face in a healthy glow. A small smile spread across her lips as she closed her eyes. “Isn’t this the most amazing feeling?” Pearl asked. “The heat and the waves. I come out here every morning.”

Sam stared out at the waves gently rolling in, and then quickly getting sucked back out to sea. A handful of terns dotted the shoreline and their spindly legs ran from the water as they searched for their morning grub. Was this the most amazing feeling?

Grandma Pearl saw paradise when she sat on this beach, but the waves crashing into the shore stirred up a kind of restlessness in Sam. Being in the blinding sunshine, but feeling a ball of dark dread in her stomach, made her feel off-kilter. Tybee Island was the place her mom had run from, and where she’d abandoned Sam.

But still, this was her grandma’s home.

“That retirement center is not on the water, you know.” Sam settled herself into the chair. Pearl loved the ocean, and this house and her Adirondack chair. There was no reason for her to leave. “Are you sure you want to move?”

Pearl squinted through her sunglasses. “I’m getting old, Sam. And you’re all the way in Paris.”

Old people wore muumuu dresses and ate applesauce for dinner at three in the afternoon while watching Yellowstone . They did not go for daily walks and drink beer and make jokes about their best friend’s obsession with painting naked women. “Eighty is not that old,” Sam said.

“A lot has changed since you’ve been gone. I can’t keep up with this place.”

And Sam couldn’t help notice the small tremor in Pearl’s good hand as she raised the cup of coffee to her lips. Then she remembered the layer of grime she’d found on the living room table. And the fact that her room was still fully intact, and perhaps not just because Pearl was sentimental.

Sam had to squint to look over at Pearl, who’d had the good sense to put on a hat. “We should just explore all of the options.” She leaned back in the chair and dug her toes in, letting the sand swallow them whole.

Pearl raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want you to think everything is on you to handle. I called Bonnie.”

Bonnie. Sam’s mom. “You called her? Why?”

“I’m leaving the house she grew up in. I figured she might want to know.” Pearl sort of half shrugged, but also wouldn’t meet Sam’s eye. Probably because she didn’t want to see the flames burning there.

“Well, what did she say?” Sam finally asked.

“She didn’t pick up. I left a voicemail. Told her to come get her things. But you know Bonnie.”

“No, I don’t know Bonnie. I haven’t seen her in eighteen years.” Sam’s fingers fisted her ponytail in frustration. She knew Bonnie wouldn’t show up—she never did—but her mom didn’t deserve a phone call from Pearl.

“You okay?” Pearl asked. “If I’d known you’d get so upset, I wouldn’t have told you.”

Sam gave her a hard look. “Yes, you would’ve. You’re terrible at keeping secrets.”

“That’s true.” Pearl settled back into the chair.

Sam tried not to fixate on the fact that Pearl had called Bonnie, and she stared out at the ocean and did her best to find the sound of the waves soothing. Her attempt at calm, though, was short-lived.

“Morning to ya, Pearl!” a high-pitched voice called out.

Sam squinted at the lean and tanned figure close to the water’s edge. “Is that...?”

“Alligator Alice.” Pearl finished her thought and gave a wave to Alice. “Can you believe she hasn’t dropped dead yet?”

Alligator Alice was nicknamed such because she was constantly out for a walk in the sun and, as a result, her skin was leathery with just as many cracks.

“Not really, no,” Sam said, genuinely in awe that this person from her childhood was still around and mostly unchanged, save for some updated wardrobe.

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” Pearl asked. “I know you’ve probably made a list already.”

Sam was the kind of type-A organized that meant she had a physical and digital running log of her to-do list. But she’d put off coming up with any firm plans for cleaning out the house, mainly because she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to. “I’ll start going through my bathroom,” she eventually said.

“Don’t touch mine unless I’m there. I don’t want you throwing everything out.” Then Pearl perked up. “Hey, do you still have those Beanie Babies? Aren’t they worth money now?”

Sam stood, put a hand on Pearl’s shoulder and readied herself to walk back into the house. “We’ll see what I can find.”

What she found was a hair crimper, cucumber melon Bath & Body Works hand cream and about two dozen half-empty bottles of Urban Decay nail polish. And that was just in one bathroom drawer. Sam grabbed the coffee mug she’d filled with water and three cocktail-size ice cubes and drank the whole thing down in one luxurious gulp.

The little rush of cold fluid fueled her on to the next drawer, but when she pulled it open there was a tube of roll-on body glitter. She picked it up and the shiny blue looked suspiciously similar to the one she’d seen Alt-Sam wearing while making out with Damon.

Her jaw clenched and she dropped the glitter into an open trash bag. It was so ridiculous that she’d had an exhaustion-induced dream in the first place, but even sillier that she’d noticed the body glitter. She was an aughts cliché of a person, clearly.

She stared at the tube in the trash and tapped her foot. She should just go to the brewery. Damon told her to come check it out, so that was a perfectly reasonable and friendly thing to do. Only, the brewery was Damon’s territory—a place where everyone would know him. She’d be the odd person out, the way she always had been in Tybee. But maybe she’d have to accept that when she was here, that was the role she’d play.

“I can casually pop by to see him,” she said as she looked through the open drawer. She pulled out black hair mascara, Proactiv toner, Herbal Essences shampoo and a mood ring, all of which she threw into the trash. In some ways it felt like a nostalgia crime, but also if her CD player was making her hallucinate, who knew what an ancient mood ring could do.

“We’ll be old friends, catching up,” Sam said to herself in the mirror. “We can do that.”

“Are you talking to me?” Pearl called out.

Sam rolled her eyes. “No, just myself.”

“Knock it off and get back to work,” Pearl said.

Sam brushed some dust from her fingertips. She’d finish cleaning out the bathroom and then get ready to see Damon. She could do that.

She opened the next drawer and grimaced as she pulled out a scrunchie covered in fake blond hair. “Fashion was really something back then.”

“What’s that?” Pearl called out again.

Sam bit her lip as she threw the scrunchie in the trash and got back to work.

As Sam drove down the stretch of sandy road that served as a kind of beachy thoroughfare—with the water unobscured on her right, and restaurants and shops on her left—she rolled down her window. The cars in front of her drove the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit but the crosswalk blinked her to a stop. A gaggle of teen surfers in board shorts ambled across the road carrying bodyboards, with one even stopping to tie a lace on his sneakers. As a soft breeze blew into the car the light changed, and Sam drove along the path. The sign for Band Practice Brews came into view, lit up in neon with a massive guitar dangling from the corner.

She pulled into the crowded parking lot and past an actual line out the door. There were groups of people in cutoffs and tank tops, cargo board shorts and floral print button-ups. Which made Sam realize that she’d maybe overdressed. Trying too hard to impress someone she didn’t have feelings for. But it was too late now—no time to change. She’d just have to own her heels, silky slip dress and blow-dried hair.

When she walked in, there was the bar itself, which was a rich mahogany with a mirrored back, and bar stools that swiveled. High-top tables lined the walls, and a few corner booths with sleek leather were particularly inviting. There was a wall accented with shiny hanging guitars, while the other walls displayed a few photos of Damon and his family. The photos ranged from fairly normal to borderline absurd: a photo of him fishing with a beer in hand was next to one of his sister, Farrah, in a hospital gown, cradling her newborn while Damon handed her a beer. Though she had to admit, the guy photographed well. She stopped at a particularly enticing photo of Damon as he leaned against an open truck bed with his triceps bulging. A firm hand landed on her shoulder.

She turned and there was Damon in black semifitted jeans, a dark gray tee and a leather jacket. His hair was styled so it spiked up a bit in the front, and his beard had been trimmed from the day before into a respectable shadow. He hadn’t overdressed, but anyone could see that he was a step up from the guy just behind him in camo shorts and flip-flops. And why was the sight of his shirt tucked in just in the front making her want to untuck it with her teeth?

“Hey.” He wrapped her in a hug so warm and tight that if she’d been a stick of butter, she’d have melted. “Didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“I probably should’ve called.” Sam attempted to make a joke but, as she said the words, she realized she really should have.

“I actually only accept calls.” He pressed a palm into the bar, then handed her the nearly full beer in his hand. “Here, give this a try. It’s a sour beer we’re testing. You’ll either love it or hate it, but I’ll enjoy the look on your face either way.”

“Oh, I don’t really drink beer.” She still held the bottle, though, not sure what the hell to do with it. “I’m more of a wine gal.”

Damon squinted, as if unable to process what she’d said. “I’ve met your type, but do me a favor and take a sip.”

Sam’s level of enthusiasm must’ve shown on her face, as Damon laughed and said, “You never were all that good at hiding how you really felt.”

He lifted his own beer and she lifted hers in solidarity before taking a sip. She braced for the impact of hops and bitterness but found there was a tart cherry and peach that lit up her whole tongue and fizzled on the way down.

Her eyes widened as she swallowed. The label on the bottle read Sour Good , and she had to admit it was. “I like it,” she eventually said.

“Phew, I was worried your jet-setting lifestyle had turned you against some of the finer offerings we have here in Georgia. Come on, let me give you a tour.” Then Damon’s hand landed on the small of her back and she stiffened as if she’d never been touched by another human being before. Damon pulled his hand back. “Oh, sorry,” he said.

Sam had never thought it possible to die of humiliation but well, her cheeks were so hot that she was certain she might explode. She shook the stiffness off. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not used to that.” Maybe the beer was already hitting—she’d had a day of cleaning out half-used body glitter tubes—but the goose bumps trailing up her arms gave her pause.

Coming here wasn’t a good idea, not only because she found herself leaning into Damon as he led them outside, but also because she just couldn’t ignore the way her body reacted to him.

And that draw caused her to slightly trip as they stepped out the back doors. Damon caught her so she was tucked into his side. When she looked up, he was backlit by the bistro lights strung in careful waves above them and highlighted like an otherworldly being. She stared for probably a beat too long.

“Probably not the best place to wear heels,” he eventually said. “But you managed to not spill the beer, which is impressive.”

She wordlessly slipped off her shoes and walked barefoot past him, trying to muster the confidence she’d come in with, and failing.

The space was dotted with teak chairs surrounding firepits, creamy white sand and two beach volleyball nets. There was also a small stage pressed against one side of the wooden fence, where a live band was doing a mic check. Damon nodded to a server who quickly cleared off a high-top table for them.

“Is it nice being the boss?” Sam asked as she settled onto a stool. “I don’t think I’ve ever nodded at someone and had them read my mind.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it looks. Half the time, when I nod, I just have to go and explain what I want. What kind of raw deal is that?”

“Good help is so hard to find.” Sam looked away and took a sip from her beer. Maybe it was being near Damon, or the heat, but the drink was growing on her. Though she still felt a little stiff, like she wasn’t totally sure how to act around him.

“Cheers.” Damon raised his glass and she raised hers. “To you finally coming home.”

His finally could’ve meant nothing or everything, and she wasn’t sure if he was holding on to some hostility, or just trying to be friendly. Still, their glasses clinked, and she took a quick sip. Damon tilted his beer bottle toward his mouth, and she watched as his lips wrapped around the glass.

“Farrah will be sad she missed you. She doesn’t work Fridays. She has kids, or something like that.”

Sam gave a half smile, then kicked her toes in the sand and sent a shower of the stuff toward Damon. His mouth opened in shock, but then he kicked some sand back at her.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“Farrah was way cooler than us. I doubt she’d even remember me.”

“She’d never forget you.”

Heat spread across Sam’s chest. Not because Farrah remembered her, but the way Damon had phrased it.

“I’m impressed.” She waved the beer bottle to the space around them. “When you said you owned a brewery, I didn’t realize the whole town knew about it, too.”

“It’s not all me. Sundays are seafood boil night, and there’s a Fall Out Boy cover band.” Damon pointed to the stage, but Sam practically gasped.

“Oh, no,” Sam said. “That means we’re old enough to have cover bands of our favorite people.”

He gave her a side smile and, as he did, the unmistakable rumble of an overhead plane engine broke through. Sam spotted a fighter jet, likely on its way to training, and a little part of her calmed at the familiar hum from the sky.

“I used to hear planes, look up and wonder if it was you flying them,” Damon said.

Sam was not blushing exactly, but knowing that Damon thought of her in those moments was a bit of a boost. “You could’ve messaged me to ask.”

Damon bit his lower lip, as if holding something back. Then he said, “But could I have called?”

Sam burst out laughing at the same time a pocket-size woman wearing hospital scrubs hugged Damon from behind. He turned and his expression changed into something altogether warm. Her sneakers had a streak of gold glitter on each side, her hair was long and dark and parted down the middle without any evidence of frizz, and her cheekbones were so high you could safely rest a latte on one. Then she got on her tiptoes, fluttered her wildly thick lashes and kissed him on the lips, and he kissed her back, and Sam blinked as she watched in confusion. Who was this person?

“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” Damon said as they broke apart.

“I got off early.” The woman’s eyebrows rose expectantly as she turned to Sam.

Eventually, Damon turned to Sam, too, and said, “Sam, this is Marissa. She was a grade above us in high school.”

“Marissa?” Well, of course the guy riding a motorcycle who had those attractive veiny forearms and owned a wildly successful brewery had a Marissa. Why wouldn’t Damon have a cute little hamster to kiss? Only, he’d gone and put his hand on the small of Sam’s back. “Marissa,” she said again, but much quieter and almost to herself.

And then, the Polly Pocket chimed back with, “That’s me!”