Magnolia Road

by J. Lynn Bailey

  I could make her coffee. Just friends, thinking about the way my hand fit into hers last night as we shook on our agreement. Our just friends agreement.

  Would a friend stop by another friend’s house at seven in the morning for a ride? Yes.

  Would a friend stop by and make coffee this early? Questionable.

  Would friends go as far as we did the other night? No.

  Outside in my truck, I notice there’s a small light on in the kitchen. Probably the one just above the stove. I put the truck in park and wait. If I’m going to make the nine o’ clock, I’ve got to act soon.

  You could drive your truck to Brookline, Ethan.

  And deal with all the traffic? Fuck that shit.

  Robby’s mom’s house is two blocks from the station. I can walk there and get a ride to the hospital. And it’ll be better for Bryce. She’ll have something to drive. Not that she needs a vehicle in Granite Harbor, but it will be nice to have the choice.

  I get out of the truck, quietly shut my truck door, and walk to the front door. Three small knocks, not wanting to startle her, and I wait.

  The door pulls open, and she’s awake, coffee in hand. “Hey. You look like hell. Are you all right? Come in.”

  I walk past her and run my hand over my face. Fuck, I forgot to shave. That’s when you know I’ve got my mind busy on other things. I follow her to the kitchen like a lost puppy dog.

  She pours me some coffee and pushes it to me.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you going to explain why you’re here so early and why you look like death?”

  I barely smile, feeling the weight of Mrs. Rodriguez’s words. “Robby tried to kill himself last night, and I’m headed to the hospital in Brookline,” I say with no emotion.

  What I like about Bryce is, she never overly concerns herself with things. She’s methodical. Logical. And it isn’t because she doesn’t care; I know she does. But she also knows kind words won’t change a fucking thing.

  “What hospital?”

  “Didn’t ask.”

  “Who called?”

  “His mom.”

  She nods. Puts her coffee cup to her lips. Thinks. “When are we leaving?”

  I jerk my head up. “What?”

  “When are we leaving?”

  “I can’t ask you to come with me, Bryce.”

  “You didn’t. I’m telling you. I’m coming with you. When do we leave?”

  “Bryce, that’s not why I came here.”

  “Then, why did you come here, Ethan?”

  “To see if you’d give me a ride to the train station. You can use my truck while I’m gone.”

  Bryce nods. “That’s really nice of you.” She’s being sarcastic. “One of the things I’ve learned about being a friend is that you’re there during the really shitty times, too.” She pauses. “I could just say, Let me know if you need anything, or Call me when you get there. That’s a part-time friend. A shallow friend. As much as you hate to admit it, Ethan, you don’t want to do this alone, and I don’t want to let you do it alone. But the truth is, you’re scared to ask for help, especially from me, seeing as we’ve had sex, but I won’t let you say no to this because good, long-lasting friendships don’t survive on let me know if you need anythings and call me when you get theres. They survive on the really shitty times, too.” She pauses. “So, what time do we leave?” she asks again, sipping her coffee.

  “Train leaves at nine.”

  “Why don’t we drive?”

  “I hate city traffic.”

  “Well, the good thing for you is, I’m from Los Angeles where we take up residence in traffic on our daily commutes. I’ll drive through the traffic.”

  This time, I take a drink of my coffee. The drive from Granite Harbor to Brookline is about three and a half hours. We’d have our own vehicle, which would be nice.

  “Can you leave your work?” I ask.

  “I can work from anywhere.”

  I nod. “This is good coffee.”

  “I know.” She takes one last sip, turns, walks to the sink. Rinses her cup. Puts it in the dishwasher. “You finish your coffee, and I’ll quickly go pack a bag.”

  What in the hell just happened? “Okay.”

  While she packs, I finish my coffee, rinse the coffeepot, take out the filter, and put it in the trash. Take out the trash. And, while I’m coming back around to the front, I notice an unfamiliar car parked outside—not in front of the Magnolia Road house, but off to the side and across the street. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. Why I notice this specific car, I have no idea. It’s a black two-door. Tinted windows. I walk to the porch and watch the car, letting the driver know I see him. Or her. I mentally remember the Indiana license plate. For all we know though, it could be a tourist, a leaf peeper. Maybe someone visiting family.

  I walk inside and lock the door. Bryce is at the counter, going through her wallet.

  “Do you know the black two-door coupe outside?” I ask Bryce.

  She looks up. “I don’t think I noticed.” She walks past me and peeks out the window. “Far off from Indiana, huh?” She looks back at me and then back to the window, pulling the curtains back just enough to see the car. “Never seen that car before.”

  I see the split-second pause before she says, “I have something I need to tell you, Ethan.”

  The rev of a car engine gets my attention. “Is that the black car?”

  Bryce looks back out the window. “Yeah. It just left.”

  “We’re going to stay here until I know the car is gone, and it’s not watching the house.” Something about this seems so off. “Tell me what?” I ask.

  Nineteen

  Bryce

  You’ve opened the can of worms, Bryce. You need to tell him.

  Perhaps it was my body’s way of preserving itself by speaking those words. Preserving by trying to alleviate the worry, the fear, the constant looking over my shoulder, the stress that plays on my body.

  But Ethan’s phone begins to ring, interrupting us, and I’m not sure if it’s fate deterring me from telling Ethan or truly an accident.

  “Hello?” he says.

  I look back out the window to be sure the car is gone. It is.

  “Hi, Mrs. Rodriguez.” Ethan looks back at me. He motions for a pen and paper.

  I retrieve a pad and a pen from a drawer.

  Thank you, he mouths as he takes down an address.

  “Got it.” Silence. “How’s he doing?” Another pause. Waiting.

  If Ethan is giving Robby this kind of dedication, his mother this kind of time, Robby has to be someone who is worth every minute.

  You agreed to go with Ethan—no, you told Ethan you were going along with him to Brookline, Massachusetts.

  As friends, I can be there for him. This is exactly what he needs. Maybe someone outside the box. An outsider who hasn’t known him since birth. An outsider who doesn’t know Ethan Casey as he was before he went to war and came back a different man.

  Be this for him, Bryce. And how dare you want to free your mind from worry when Ethan is going to be by his friend’s side. Don’t you dare unload your fears on him.

  He hangs up.

  “I assume Maria is Robby’s mom?”

  Ethan nods. Tears the piece of paper from the pad and shoves it in his back pocket.

  “How is he doing?” I ask, grabbing the ends of my elbows, pinching at the skin.

  When Alex lost Kyle, I watched her. Held her as she cried. Held her when she didn’t cry. Was present for her. Though I’ve never lost anyone close to me. Not like that. So, watching Alex, I learned how to be a better friend. But Robby isn’t dead yet. He’s still alive.

  He sighs. I see the frustration in his face, the way the stripes run across his forehead, creased, like a fan. The short lines from the corners of his eyes tell me more than he’s giving me with words.

  Friends don’t touch each other. They don’t reach out and touch in roma
ntic ways. But they hug.

  I pull him to me by way of his hand, and he moves toward me as if he needs this more than he thinks he does. I put my arms around his middle as my head falls to his chest, and I listen to his roaring heart. I push my ear as close as I can. He finally puts his arms down over my shoulders.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  I can’t tell him this will all be okay because I’m not sure it will. I can’t tell him this will pass because it might not. It will linger. This hurt. It will stay awhile. It will come back on some days. Hurt more. I know this from watching my brother destroy his life. What did this to Robby was brought on by a heart that couldn’t deal with what he had seen, what he’d had to do in times of war. It was a heart that just couldn’t take the sadness, the wreckage. A heart and a head that couldn’t agree upon what’s right, what’s wrong, and just plain coping with life. Ryker, too, did have a pure heart, but somehow, we lose ourselves. We lose sight of what’s important.

  Addiction can be a byproduct of circumstances. Addiction can be a byproduct of a pure heart. Addiction is a byproduct of heartache. Robby is the end result. We have two ways of living. One is with the addiction, feeding it, loving it, and hating it. Nurturing it by giving it what it needs. The second way of living is fighting for life. Admitting we need help. But some people have too much baggage to look back. Too much destruction. Too much self-hate that they continue to feed their addiction in hopes that what’s left of their mind, their heart won’t ache anymore.

  When Ethan says, “You ready?” I realize he never answered my question.

  But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I know whether Robby is okay or not. I realize, for the first time in a long time, that I’m right where I’m supposed to be and what will be will be.

  I don’t want to pull away from his chest. I want to listen to his heart in hopes that it will tell me the stories that he’s not ready to share with me. In hopes that, one day, it will beat differently—and not for me, but for him.

  “Yes.” I unlatch my hands from his back, and his arms leave my shoulders. I stare up at him.

  “What?” he asks, nervous under my watchful eye.

  I’ve been naked in front of this man, unclothed, exposed, and he’s never once flinched under my gaze. But, right now, I see a piece of vulnerability somewhere in his eyes.

  “I like the sound of your heart, Ethan. It’s pure and strong. Don’t ever forget that.” And I say this not because I’m undeniably attracted to him. I say this because I want him to know his heart is true. I want him to believe what others say about him and not what his head tells him. I see the fear. That he’ll turn out like Robby. “Everyone is different, Ethan. Every single one of us. Have faith in that.”

  He breaks eye contact with me, and I leave the room to collect my things.

  Ethan’s at the door, looking out onto the street.

  “I wonder if people wonder.”

  I try to walk past him with my bag, but he takes it from my shoulder and follows me out to his truck.

  “About what?”

  “About my truck here at all hours of the night and morning.”

  “Why would anyone care?” I open the truck door as Ethan sets my bag down in the bed of the truck.

  “City girl.” He gives me a half-smile as he walks over to his side of the truck, and we climb in.

  “Who cares what people think, Ethan? We’re two friends who might have had good times together, but more importantly, we’re friends first, doing what friends do for each other.”

  He laughs. “I don’t care what they think, Bryce. I don’t care if they know we’ve fucked.”

  For the first time, I notice how neat it is. Something I didn’t notice about his house—not that it wasn’t. I just didn’t look around to take notice. Maybe because it was dark. Maybe because I was more focused on Ethan without a shirt on. “Is your truck always this neat?”

  “Organized? Yes.” He flips on his blinker.

  “Your house, too?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Why?”

  He smiles again. This time, he looks at me. “Do you not like organization, Bryce?”

  “No, I appreciate organization.” I look in the back seat to see a cluster of bungee cords, color-coded and put neatly into a side compartment. “What if someone took those bungee cords and rearranged them?”

  “Nobody ever has.”

  “Well, I guess I have some work to do.” I smile and place my hands in my lap. I sit back, listening to the low hum of the tires against the road.

  Maine is beautiful in the fall. There’s representation of bright yellows, deep reds, shades of orange, and every variation of these primary colors. It’s an overcast day in Granite Harbor, and I watch as the sea follows us out of town, wishing us well.

  Ethan has one hand on the wheel. His gigantic watch sits on his left wrist. What is it with game wardens and big watches? Eli, Ryan, Ethan, and Aaron all have these watches that can probably cook dinner, fold out into some sort of rescue floatation device, and answer all questions that Google can.

  “Do you miss work?” I ask.

  “I do. Had too much overtime, and they basically tell you, use it or lose it. Guess it gives me more time to get other stuff done.”

  “Like what?”

  “Work on the house. Fix some fence. Help my dad on a few projects. Fish a little.” His sunglasses fit his face just perfectly. They curve with the slight bump of his cheeks.

  Ethan’s jaw is tense, and I know he’s worried about his friend, so I’m going to ask him another question, but before I can, he asks me one, “So, you’re a literary agent. What does that mean exactly?”

  “How did you know my exact title? Not everybody knows the words literary agent.”

  “Google is a very powerful tool.” His face is still stoic.

  “Basically, I’m the middleman between the author and the publishing houses. I sell books in a sense. Authors pitch their stories to me, and I’ll bite off on the ones I think I can sell to the publishers.”

  “So, you read a lot.”

  “I do.”

  It’s quiet for a bit. I take in the scenery, the ocean, the changing colors, and the lies I tell myself. This isn’t awkward at all. The only reason you came along is to help out a friend. You’re not in love with Ethan Casey.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I ask.

  Ethan’s lean face and long jawline make every muscle in my body want to reach out and touch him—not because of desire, but because I want to know what he feels like under my touch when his face is this still. When he thinks. What his strain after life gets to be too much feels like under my fingertips. I want to feel his heartbeat against my own chest again to see if we match beat for beat, and if we don’t, I’d rather it be that way because different is more important than the same.

  “Blue.”

  “Why?” I respond all too quickly. Nerves getting the best of me.

  Again, he’s quiet. “It was the name of the dog I had, growing up. An Australian shepherd named Blue.”

  I expected him to say something like, I had a blue truck that ran forever, or, Blue is one of the colors on the American flag.

  “I like that name.”

  We pass another body of water surrounded by red maples and sugar maples. The vibrancy of the colors almost takes my breath away.

  In Los Angeles, we don’t have trees. Well, we do, but it’s not often that we see them. We don’t have the beauty, the home that Maine has. It’s as if we were built on an escalator, constantly moving from point A to point B. In the scuffle of life, we don’t slow down, for fear of not meeting a goal, a deadline. Life here is much simpler, much slower-paced. And more beautiful than I’ve ever seen. I didn’t realize I needed simplicity in my life.

  “Are you scared to see Robby?” I whisper, feeling the weight of my own fears. Fears that didn’t generate from the present moment, but fears that h
ad generated when I first saw my brother strapped down to a hospital bed.

  I look at Ethan as he tries to find the answer he’s looking for.

  “More scared for his family,” he says and then coughs to clear his throat. He doesn’t like sharing this with me. The vulnerability of it all because he does the shoulder-pull-back move. Like he’s got to stretch, so he pulls it back in a circle only once.

  That was an honest answer. I wish my family had had an Ethan looking out for them when Ryker overdosed. Especially the third time. How your brother—a once charismatic, fun-loving, smiling, well-raised boy—could turn into a pile of ninety eight pounds with open wounds on his face from incessant scratching, worry, and paranoia, only proves addiction doesn’t care who its takers are. How a young man in his freshman year of high school, who had plans to graduate from high school early and be a doctor, allowed the poison to eat through his veins, turning him into the devil, I wish Ryker would have chosen to walk away instead of taking his first hit.

  Twenty

  Ethan

  Scared.

  Scared is the way I felt when we made our push into Fallujah, Iraq, in the dead of night, waiting for the underbelly of our Humvee to explode.

  Scared is the way I felt when Blue was hit by the car.

  Scared is the way I felt when I first made the call to James’s office, when I knew I couldn’t fight this war inside my head alone.

  Scared is the way I felt the morning I left Bryce wrapped up in her own sheets, terrified I’d never see her again but even more terrified of what I’d do to her if I stayed.

  But these doesn’t compare to this moment right here—petrified that I’m falling in love with Bryce Hayes and I can’t stop.

  “Listen, Ethan, if we’re going to be friends, there are some things I need to know about you.” She pauses. “Ten yes or no questions. Are you ready?”

  “You’re up first.”

  Bryce clasps her hands together. “Are you a late-night snacker?”

  “No.”

  “I totally took you as a late-night snacker.” She shakes her head. “I mean, don’t get me wrong; you’re definitely in shape—everywhere—and your endurance is unmatched, but I just thought you’d slip an Oreo in after nine o’ clock.”