Letting Go

by Molly McAdams

  “I had a feeling you would show up here,” she said on a teasing sigh, her voice reaching me from where she was lying down at the end of the dock.

  I leaned over her and smiled when I found her smiling up at me. “How long have you been here?”

  “About thirty minutes or so. How’d you know?”

  I looked away and stood up, keeping my gaze on the dark water. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

  “Ah.” She laughed softly, letting the sound hang in the air for a minute before saying, “My ‘Jagger 911’: not answering my phone.”

  My lips pulled up in a smile as I moved to lie down next to her. “I never knew why you thought I had ESP or something, it always would’ve been so much easier to know you needed me if you would’ve just called.”

  “But I didn’t because you did have the ‘or something.’ You think I didn’t figure out after all those years how you just knew to show up? I knew Ben would call you.”

  I took a deep breath in and out, and finally said, “Let’s go back to thinking I had ESP.”

  Grey laughed and elbowed me, and as we had done so many times before, we fell into a comfortable silence just staring up at the sky. This dock had thousands of memories, and it never failed, every time I came here I was hit with them all. Every one of them included Grey, and most of them included Ben. We’d spent all our summers out here, and had bonfires near the dock when it became too cold in the winter.

  I’d taught Grey how to throw a punch on this dock, and had ended up with a black eye that she’d apologized for at least a thousand times. This had been the spot where I’d caught Ben kissing her for the first time, and realized that he had snatched her up from under me. It had been the spot where Grey lost her bikini top diving off the dock during a party, which led to a night of skinny-dipping that ended up with more than a dozen of us getting busted. Ben would call me after they’d gotten into a fight, and I’d always find her here. We would spend hours here with her crying and ranting about whatever they’d fought about until I had her laughing and driving back to make up with Ben. The entire summer after Ben died, I found her here every night and would stay with her until she fell asleep from exhaustion before putting her in my car and taking her back to her parents’.

  Good or bad, I would always think of this as our dock.

  “Why are we here tonight?” I finally asked, and listened to her soft exhale.

  “I just wanted it. I wanted the memories.”

  “There are memories all over this town, Grey . . .” I trailed off, the question still there.

  She was quiet for a while before she whispered, “Maybe because I knew you would come. I knew you would face the memories of this place with me, and even though some are hard, they are some of my favorites of the three of us.”

  I turned my head toward her, waiting for her to look back at me, and noticed the wetness gathering in her eyes even through her smile.

  “Some of my favorites,” she repeated before looking back up toward the sky.

  I continued watching her profile for a few seconds before staring up at the star-filled sky. “Tell me.”

  For hours we talked about our favorite times on the dock. A few times I saw her wipe at her cheeks, but even more often her laugh filled the night air. I kept looking for signs that Charlie had said something to her, but when the conversation turned to her visit with Charlie earlier today, there was nothing but the brightest smile from Grey. She adored my little sister, always had. Whatever was going on with Charlie, I would have to figure it out another time, because I didn’t want to worry Grey with it. Not when she was laughing a laugh I hadn’t heard in years. Not when I was smiling more than I had since Ben’s death. Not when I was fighting the urge to pull Grey into my arms so I could ask her the one question I’d been wanting to ask since we were thirteen years old. A question I’d written down in a note I had been planning on giving her before I found her in Ben’s arms that summer day.

  I don’t know why I’d never thrown the note away.

  I don’t know if I’d been waiting for the day Grey would leave Ben, and I could give it to her then, but I’d kept it for nine years. A note with four words on it. A note tucked into the case where I kept all my charcoals. A note I knew the girl lying next to me would never see, and a question I knew she would never read or hear—and still, a note I knew I would never be able to get rid of.

  Grey

  May 23, 2014

  AFTER KNOCKING ON Jag’s door and not getting an answer, I fumbled with my keys as I steadied the hand holding the breakfast sandwiches and stacked drinks. Shoving the key into the lock, I turned it and pushed open the door before putting the end of one of my key chains in my mouth so I could use both hands to carry everything.

  Loud music met me, and I smiled around the key chain. Jagger was drawing. Letting my keys drop onto the kitchen counter, I set down everything and walked through the front room, to the hallway leading to the back rooms. I hadn’t been into the room Jagger was using as a studio since we’d moved last week, and even then, I hadn’t seen him put any of his stuff in here. I was excited to see a space where he displayed everything he worked on.

  As I rounded the corner in the hall, my smile widened when I saw him standing there shirtless, working on a large piece. Just seeing him gave me an overwhelming feeling like I was home, and it didn’t make sense. I’d seen him the night before, and if any place felt like home, it should’ve been my parents’ house . . . but that knowledge didn’t make the feeling lessen. Instead, I seemed to welcome it more and more with each step closer to the man in front of me.

  My smile fell as soon as he bent down to wipe the charcoal off his hands onto a towel and I saw the picture. He grabbed the eraser he’d been using to create the picture on the charcoal-covered paper, and went right back to working within seconds, but those seconds had been enough. There was no mistaking the person he’d created on that paper.

  Seeing my face reflected back at me this way was something in itself—it was perfect. But Jagger didn’t draw people. He drew haunting landscapes, buildings, and abstract designs . . . never people. But when I tore my eyes from him and the piece he was finishing, and looked around at the dozens of drawings hanging throughout the part of the room I could see from where I was standing, I realized I was wrong. There were a handful of drawings of people—no, not people . . . person. Just one. Only me.

  One of me that was so perfectly rendered that I would’ve sworn he’d taken a picture of me just as I’d stopped laughing. Another . . . and the only word to express the look on my face—and feel of the drawing—was “grief.” Others of me in various stages over the last few years, some where I was looking directly ahead, others where I was looking away—at who knew what. Looking back to the one I’d first seen, all I could think of was passion. And why . . . why would he draw me at all, let alone draw me so that I looked like I was in love with the person staring at the drawing—the person creating the drawing.

  I was so wrapped up in what I was seeing, and trying to figure out the whys, that I wasn’t sure when Jagger had noticed me standing there. How long he’d been watching me silently freak out over what was directly in front of me.

  My eyes finally locked on his when the music abruptly stopped, and it took me a few moments to understand that he looked terrified. He took calculated steps toward me, his mouth forming my name, but no sound was behind it—and I matched each of his steps with a couple of my own. Those drawings weren’t something I was ever supposed to see, that was clear in his expression. My head shook back and forth as if I could make all this go away, as if I could try to make myself believe the minutes since I’d entered the room hadn’t happened.

  “Please, let me explain.”

  “What is that?” I asked hesitantly. “Why are you drawing me? Why have you been drawing me?”

  “Grey, I . . .”

  “You don’t draw people, Jagger, you told me that! You told me you couldn’t, that you were bad at it. Why
would you tell me that if it wasn’t true? If you’ve been—” Words failed me as I scrambled for an explanation, but I put my hand out, gesturing toward the large piece as if the gesture alone could finish my sentence. “I don’t understand!” I finally forced out.

  Jagger looked at me hopelessly for long seconds—no longer trying to get me to listen to him . . . no longer trying to even speak.

  “Why are you drawing me?” I yelled, and Jagger flinched, but remained silent as he shook his head slowly back and forth. “Answer me! I don’t—I don’t get it! I don’t know what to think about what I’m seeing, and it’s freaking me out, Jag!”

  Jagger’s head had stopped shaking, his eyes were still boring into mine, and the only sounds coming from his mouth were uneven breaths—like he was struggling to control his breathing.

  “Please, tell me,” I begged. “Tell me what I’m seeing and why I’m seeing it. You lied to me, you told me you couldn’t do this,” I repeated. “And then I come in and find all this? I don’t know if I’m supposed to be flattered, or completely creeped out, but right now I’m leaning toward the latter because this is unexpected and beyond weird.”

  His eyebrows rose at my last sentence, and his deep voice rumbled softly as he said, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Yes, you do! You told me to let you explain, and I’m waiting for you to explain this! Just tell me why I’m on that paper. Why I’m on others. Why there’s no one else—only me.”

  His green eyes dropped to the floor before he turned his head just enough to look at the drawing behind him, but flashed back up to me when he mumbled, “Because I only wanted to draw you.”

  “Why, Jagger?” I pleaded when he didn’t continue. “Why would you want to draw me?”

  Jagger didn’t respond, and I took two steps away from him—stopping abruptly when he admitted, “Because I couldn’t have you, and this was the only way I could tell you how I felt about you.”

  “What?” I breathed.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw as he took steady breaths in and out through his nose, and after opening his mouth only to shut it again, he huffed out a harsh breath and put his hands out to the side. “I love you. I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since we were nine, Grey,” he admitted. “I always felt like you were mine . . . I was in love with you long before I knew what it actually meant to be in love with someone.”

  “No, you can’t. You can’t be,” I mumbled.

  His words from last week flowed through my mind, and I inhaled audibly as I finally heard the double meaning in them. “I’m always moving, Grey. I’m just waiting on you to move with me.”

  Jagger’s hands went out in front of him—as if he was reaching for me—and his face turned pleading, but I turned and sprinted toward the front of the building. Grabbing my purse and keys off the counter, I ran outside and got into my car. It wasn’t until I was pulling away that I realized he could have easily caught up with me—and the fact that he hadn’t meant he hadn’t tried to stop me from leaving. And that made the whole situation worse than it already was.

  Not because I wanted him to stop me. But because I knew I’d just hurt him bad enough for him to not even try, and that was killing me almost as much as his confession had just shocked me.

  I pulled into the driveway at my parents’ house and was out of my car and running toward the door within seconds of putting my car in park. Graham was standing on the stairs, like he’d been coming down them.

  “There you—Grey? What happened?” he asked, his voice rising in alarm.

  “I just . . . he just . . .”

  “Grey, talk to me,” he demanded as he met me in the entryway. “What happened?”

  “Oh my God, what’s wrong?” my mom asked, her steps heavy against the hardwood floor as she quickly approached us.

  “Nothing,” I gritted out. “Nothing, and everything.”

  “What—” Graham began, but I spoke over him.

  “I went to Jagger’s place, and h-he has pictures—drawings of me. He draws me!” I said in exasperation, pointing behind me like Jagger or the drawings would be there. “And he doesn’t draw people, he doesn’t. There were only ones of me.”

  “You’re upset because Jagger draws you?” Mom asked awkwardly, like she was worrying she would need to have me see a therapist, and Graham snorted.

  “Mom, you didn’t see them! They—”

  “Were they dirty?”

  “What? No! But you don’t understand. It—it looked like—you just couldn’t understand if you didn’t see them. And he . . .” I trailed off, I couldn’t force out the words Jagger had told me. A huge part of me was still in denial. Telling someone else would just make this real.

  “No, I think I understand,” Mom said softly, her face falling into the look of sympathy I’d seen so many times from her over the past two years, but this time there was a gentle smile as well.

  When I caught Graham’s expectant expression that was aimed at me, and looked back to my mom, I realized they both understood. “How . . .” I trailed off, and looked to Graham again. “How could you possibly . . .”

  “It’s not a secret, honey.” Mom shrugged and reached out to brush away some hair from my face. “That boy has—”

  “No. No, he can’t.” Oh God. They knew and they looked like they thought it was a good thing!

  “Kid,” Graham said on a sigh. “Come on, think about—”

  “He’s my friend!”

  “Grey,” my mom started again.

  “He was Ben’s best friend!” I yelled. “He can’t—I can’t . . . this isn’t okay!” Hard sobs tore through my chest, but no tears came. “He’s supposed to be my friend, he’s not—he’s not . . . how can he do this? I was going to marry his best friend.” I wasn’t sure I was making sense anymore, but I couldn’t seem to get a grip on what was happening. “I saw the drawings and he got nervous, and he told me he’s always been in love with me! Why would he do that? Why—he can’t do this to us!”

  “When has Jagger ever pushed his feelings on you?” Mom asked. “You had no idea until today, and I would say you still wouldn’t know if you hadn’t seen the drawings. But the rest of us have known since you became friends. It wasn’t hard to see the way he looked at you, or how he still looks at you.”

  “How can you be so okay with this?” I screamed at her. “I was days away from marrying Ben when he died. How can you be okay with someone else wanting to be with me? How can you do that to Ben? How can Jagger?”

  “Honey, it’s been two years.”

  “I know that, Mom! You think I don’t know exactly how long it’s been? But I was with Ben for seven years,” I cried.

  “He’s gone, Grey,” she said as tears filled her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “I know it’s hard, but he’s gone. It’s been years, and you have someone who has loved you and been there for you through everything. Someone who has taken care of you and will continue to. It’s okay to let yourself love someone again. It’s okay to move on.”

  I shook my head slowly as I stepped away from them. “No. I can’t.” Looking to my brother, I gestured toward him. “Why are you looking at me like you think I’m making a mistake. You hate Jagger!”

  “I don’t hate him, kid. I just . . .” He trailed off and shrugged his shoulders as he searched for the right words. “He was in love with my little sister. So was Ben. At that age, I wasn’t okay with any guy looking at you, let alone falling for you. But I’ve never hated either of them, and I respect Jagger for the way he’s stood back all these years, and has continued to just make sure you were okay.”

  “This isn’t happening,” I whispered.

  “If you didn’t like him, then that would be fine,” Graham said. “This conversation could be the last of it. You didn’t know how he felt, and then you find out about all of it the way you did—okay, I get it; he shocked you. But I think you’re taking this so hard because deep down you’re in love with him too—”

&nb
sp; “What? No!”

  “—and you don’t know if that’s okay. Mom’s right, though. As hard as it is, Ben’s gone, and it’s okay to move on. It’s not saying anything about you or the way you felt about Ben by letting yourself love Jagger.”

  “I’m not in love with him!”

  Graham made a face, and my mom looked at me like she was waiting for me to realize something. But I couldn’t. I refused to think about it. Because if they were right . . . no, they couldn’t be. I couldn’t do that to Ben. Not letting my mind go in that direction, I focused on nothing but memories of Ben as I ran up the stairs and to my room.

  Jagger

  May 23, 2014

  LIFTING THE BOTTLE to my lips, I took a long pull of the beer before setting it down beside me, my eyes never leaving the unfinished drawing at the end of the hall as the fingers of my other hand folded and unfolded a nine-year-old note. As the pad of my thumb ran over the worn paper, the words scrawled on it played over and over in my head, as if they were mocking me. Words I’d wanted to say forever, and words I hadn’t even gotten out today. If I’d thought before that they were words Grey would never hear, I knew now for a fact that if she were to hear them, they would destroy whatever remained of our friendship. Crumpling up the note, I tossed it aside and raked my hands over my head and down my face, keeping my face planted firmly in them as I wished for time to go back.

  If only I hadn’t been blasting my music—I would have heard her come in. If only I would have known she was coming over this morning—I wouldn’t have been drawing, she wouldn’t have seen it or the other drawings of her, and I wouldn’t have confessed something that should have never been voiced. A dozen other if-onlys went through my mind as I sat there thinking about her horrified expression when I told her I loved her.

  My phone beeped, and I grabbed it off the floor. I sighed roughly and ground my jaw when I saw the name, but opened the message anyway.