Ignoring the chills skating down my arms, I put my hands on his cheeks and made him look me in the eyes. “Don’t go,” I said. “What if this is how you disappear, like Wyatt and my mom?”
When he leaned in to kiss me, I closed my eyes and tried to lose myself in it. He poured every bit of hope and reassurance and promise into that kiss. “I’m not disappearing,” he whispered with his lips still on mine.
We leaned back against his bed side by side. “I noticed my mom gave you my application materials to look at.”
“I’ve already read them. The essays are beautiful. What you said about Thanet…”
He shook his head. “You know him. You know how rare he is.”
I swallowed and nodded. “But it was beautiful.”
“Will you promise me something?”
“Yes.” I smiled at the softness in his voice.
“Please talk to the counselor about the creative writing program at UW. I know you’ve looked into it because Mr. Landmann said you asked him about it. You are an amazing writer, Meg, and if we can be in Laramie together…”
I touched his hand. “I downloaded the application last week.”
He blew a breath out that was part relief and part joy. “Good. That’s good.” His shoulders relaxed and I felt myself mirroring his easy posture.
“I’m not planning on staying in Nicaragua any longer than is absolutely necessary,” he said. “We’ll be together for the holidays and after that I’ll be home before you know it.”
I sat forward and pushed firmly on his chest. “Wait here.” Then I went in search of my bags so I could give him my gift. I was so excited for him to see it that I’d nearly shown it to him a hundred times already.
I got the wrapped package and rejoined Henry. He took it and pulled the paper off with one firm tug. He studied it and his eyes flickered with something unrecognizable.
“When did she do this?”
“A few weeks ago. I emailed her the picture and told her it would mean a lot to me. I think it was a good thing for her. It made her feel connected to us again.”
I leaned against his shoulder and looked at the framed painting of the two of us. My mom had used a picture that James took of us next to the red door of the horse stables earlier in the spring. Henry was leaning back against the door in the faded red shirt that all his wranglers wore, and frayed jeans. He had one leg bent and his muddy boot rested against the barn door as he held me. I was looking into his face, laughing. My mom captured the moment so precisely that my heart ached to look at it—it was better than the photograph because it was alive with our energy. I loved the way he looked at me.
Henry cleared his throat and spoke softly. “Meg, this is the best gift anyone has ever given me. I’m honored that she would do this for me. I can’t wait to meet her.”
I laid my head on his shoulder. “I’m really glad you like it. You don’t have to take it with you, if it won’t fit in your suitcase.”
He stopped my words with another kiss. “I’m taking it. I’ll carry it on the plane with me.”
***
Early the next morning we drove Henry to Casper to put him on the plane that would take him thousands of miles away. We watched it until it disappeared over the horizon. Miriam cried and Clayton held her tenderly. They made me promise to come to their house every week so we could compare emails and letters from him.
When I finally got back home, I unpacked and sat on the porch, too restless to be inside. Darkness fell and I wondered where the day had gone. Dad came out to check on me several times and finally said he was turning in. I was still sitting in the same place an hour later when headlights flashed into our driveway. A Whitmire ranch truck bounced over the ruts in the drive and I stood to see who was driving. Dylan climbed out of the cab, grinning and holding a ball of fur.
“Hey, Meg. Did your boy leave?”
“Early this morning. What do you have there?”
“Oh, just a little something to keep you company, I think.” He climbed the steps and sat down. He gently placed a wiggling black and white puppy in my lap. “She’s all yours, darlin’. I’ve got her food and supplies in the back of the truck.”
She had a huge pink bow tied around her little pink collar. A heart tag hung from the collar and it was engraved with her name—Mercy. A card was tied to the heart that said, “So you’ll always have Mercy. Love, Henry. ”
She climbed on me and licked my face and, when she got close enough, I saw her little eyes. One was deep brown and the other—brilliant blue.
FORTY-FIVE
Dear Henry—
I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you. You’re my hero, my sweet boy, my lifeline, my favorite book, the voice in my head, the spark in my eyes, the name I say, the face I see, my birthday wish, my protector, my friend, my memory, my jealous heart, my straight and narrow, my oldest jeans, my rose shampoo, my hammock that swings, the wind in my hair, the treasure in my box, the taker of breath, the stealer of resistance, the whisperer of forever, the one who got to me, the dream I dream, the thought I have, the more I want, the holder of secrets, the one I wait for, my first kiss, my campfire, my anchor, my midnight swim, the smile that melts, the lips that free, the arms that hold, my summer night, my snowy day, my no place like home, my only need, my there’s nowhere else I want to be, my future.
Come home soon.
Love, Meg
I set my laptop aside when I heard the front door opening. Mercy whined and raised her eyes to mine, wondering if we’d be getting up. “Come on, girl,” I whispered. “There’s someone I want you to meet. You’re going to love her.”
My lungs twitched like they weren’t sure if I wanted to breathe in or cry out. I opened my bedroom and walked directly into warm, familiar arms.
“Meg,” she said, squeezing me and running her hands over my back and through my hair. “Meg.”
“I’m so glad you’re home, Mom.”
FORTY-SIX
Dear Pittsburgh—
You’ve never climbed a mountain. I realized that last night. When I was thirteen, Kate and John had just started dating and John got it in his head that he would get to know Kate’s baby brother by taking me mountain climbing. They took me to Wind River Peak—it’s a little over 13,000 feet high.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I couldn’t breathe right. I couldn’t see right. My legs hurt. In fact, there was not a darn thing that felt good on my body but there was no way to turn around.
Finally, we made it to the summit and it took everything I had to hold my skinny self upright in the wind at the top. I looked around me…at the trail I’d just come up…at the other peaks…at the sunlight bouncing off boulders…at the blue sky curving down.
I was so proud of myself and so convinced that I was supposed to learn something from the whole experience.
It wasn’t until I met you that I finally understood. I’ve been watching you climb, Meg, since I met you. Every part of you has hurt. There’s been nothing pleasant about all the work you’ve had to do to get to the summit. But, by God, you made it.
It’s that view of where you’ve been. That’s what it’s about isn’t it? Where you’ve been and where you’re going.
Is it any wonder I love you?
I miss you, Meg. I hung the painting on the wall next to my pillow so you’re the last thing I see at night and the first thing I see in the morning. Someday I’ll have the real thing.
Always Yours, Henry
###
Keep reading for a sneak preview of Perfect Glass, the sequel to Glass Girl.
Acknowledgments
I couldn’t live without my husband, Alan, who ran away with my heart nineteen years ago. Our beautiful daughter, Amelia, and handsome son, Anderson, make my life perfect. I thank my parents, Denny and Nancy Anderson, because they show me every day what love looks like. I adore my brother, Stan Anderson, and his daughter, Nancy, because they inspire me to live bigger. I’m crazy about Rosanne
Catalano, my editor, because she understood this book and she understands my heart. I dig my awesome agent, Amanda Luedeke, for finding and loving good stories. I’m thankful for my critique partner, Kathrese McKee, for her patience, good humor, and remarkable eye for detail. And, Marilyn Bennett Jobe, I miss you. I wish I could see what you see.
Friends who have helped me with this book—Natalie Diehl, Allie Mullins, Sydney Gass, and Victoria Roth. I love you.
My Playlist Fiction writing sisters—Stephanie Morrill, Jennifer Murgia,
Rajdeep Paulus, and Laura L. Smith—I’m thankful for you! Our Playlist Fiction Street Team—a group of literature-loving, social media experts! Thank you for all your help!
About the Author
Laura Anderson Kurk is one of those lucky souls who gets to live in a college town. In fact, it’s her college town—College Station, Texas, where she drove in under cover of darkness when she was way too young and proceeded to set the place on fire. (Actually, she stayed in the library stacks for the majority of her tenure as a student at Texas A&M University, but, in her imagination, she was stirring things up.) She majored in English for the love of stories and due to a massive crush on F. Scott Fitzgerald. She continued on to receive an advanced degree in literature and literary criticism.
Laura writes contemporary books for young adults, a genre that gives her the freedom to be honest. Her debut novel Glass Girl is an unconventional and bittersweet love story, and its sequel Perfect Glass makes long-distance love look possible.
Laura blogs at Writing for Young Adults (laurakurk.com). On twitter, she’s @laurakurk.
About Playlist Fiction
Playlist Young Adult Fiction provides your YA fiction fix. With new ebooks and offers available every month from some of the best indie voices in contemporary teen fiction, there’s never been a better reason to download the drama.
Discover other great stories at www.PlaylistFiction.com!
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Sneak Preview of Perfect Glass
Here’s a sneak preview of Perfect Glass (coming June 1, 2013 from Playlist Fiction):
I couldn’t stop crying because it was so intimate, in that way I always thought being physical with him would feel. If someone had walked in they might have thought Henry was barely touching me. I knew the truth of it.
Things get messy when Meg Kavanagh gets involved—first with Jo Russell, the eccentric old artist, and then with Quinn O’Neill, the intriguing loner who can’t hide how he feels about Meg. Her senior year isn’t turning out like she planned, but sometimes the best parts of life happen in the in-between moments.
He commits to one year in an orphanage that needs him more than he ever dreamed. Thousands of miles from Meg and the new punk who has fallen for her, and absent from the ranch that’s in his blood, Henry Whitmire finds out what it means to trust. When you’re so far from home, it’s terrifying to realize you’re not who you thought.
But the perfect glass of calamity makes the best mirror.
From YA author Laura Anderson Kurk comes the sequel to Glass Girl, a lyrical, multi-generational story about love that clouds the eyes, loss that haunts empty rooms, and reunions that feel like redemption.
ONE
Meg
I’d only seen a picture of her, taken in the sixties, as far as I could tell, by some famous photographer. In the fading image, she wore a blue, shapeless dress and stood at her easel, looking at a canvas like it contained all the answers to all the questions. A hip cocked out. One arm hugging her waist and forming a ninety-degree angle with the other arm, which ended in a loose hand supporting a smoky cigarette. A knowing look and a raised eyebrow. I’d memorized the lines and curves and shadows.
I sat in the Jeep staring at her old house. It leaned sharply to the left and had three front doors—each one painted a bright color. The swerving path of sidewalk to the porch only confused the eye more.
Wiping damp palms on my jeans, I moved into that old routine of cracking knuckles. Once. And then twice. But even that ancient and familiar comfort didn’t settle my nerves one little bit. These words, though, summoned to dam the river of panic in my brain, helped—
Henry Whitmire is worth every bit of this and more.
Henry Whitmire is worth a metric ton of gold.
The three doors, all closed and go away, mocked me until the cherry red one in the middle swung open and banged against the side of the house. I jerked down below my steering wheel. I tried to fill the space usually taken up by knees and ankles, and sometimes bags that shouldn’t be there because they might slide under the brake pedal.
I hummed a little to calm myself.
My mom talked about Jo Russell like she walked on water. Her paintings had come to represent the West. The ones with horseflesh and weatherworn faces. But locals knew Jo as much for her unpredictable behavior as her art. At eighty seven years old, she gave new meaning to crazy—a word I didn’t throw around carelessly.
Half closing my eyes, I imagined her pulling her coat around her, smiling indulgently, and dancing to the Jeep to welcome me. I didn’t let the fantasy go far, though, because fantasies had never served me well and life always delivered.
As mean as this woman was rumored to be, she wouldn’t be any more or less than a person. And a person can be known and understood.
I peeked over the dash. She had the advantage, the higher ground. She looked nothing like the picture in my head.
She waved so I grabbed my bag and keys and jumped out of the Jeep. Better to introduce myself while she was lucid, but, halfway up her walk, I realized she wasn’t waving. She was shooing.
“I have a shotgun, little lady.” Her words were steady and unapologetic—just delivering a bit of information I might need in the near future.
I froze in place and put my hands in the air.
“I’m Meg, Ms. Russell.” My voice sounded small. Surprisingly childish for my seventeen years, the last few of which I’d done some overcoming of some odds. This…this meeting a new person, an artist, shouldn’t even get a rise out of me.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
I forced myself to make eye contact and look pleasant. She wore a rainbow-colored wool cap, camouflage ski pants, and a stained white sweatshirt that said I DON’T EAT YELLOW SNOW.
“I’m not selling anything, ma’am.”
“Why are you trespassing?” Her steely-eyed stare unnerved me.
“My mother spoke with you yesterday about letting me help you around the house a little…or interview you. Did I come at a bad time?”
“‘Did I come at a bad time?’” She laughed and cursed at once. “Honey, they’re all bad times.”
She hadn’t let her guard down yet. One hand still clasped the doorknob and one stayed hidden behind the door, probably grasping that shotgun.
My resolution wavered. I needed to actually survive this to make the University of Wyoming plan with Henry work. Instead of an easy volunteer job, my mom had talked me into rehabilitating the crown jewel of Chapin.
She’d looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “Jo Russell is hurting, Meg.” It took one to know one, and Mom knew Jo was sad about something big. “You could take her mind off her problems and convince her to do one last show at the gallery.”
My mom related to Jo in ways I couldn’t begin to understand. So I would prove myself with Jo, threat of buckshot aside. My teeth chattered, and I pulled my jacket tighter against the biting fall wind.
“Ms. Russell, are you really pointing a rifle at me?” I hadn’t meant for that to sound as cheeky as it had.
“Do I look like someone who’d lie about that?”
Yes? No? “I’m not here to bother you. I just…I’m trying to get into a university writing program and my application is kind of boring, I guess.”
“One-dimensional.”
“Pardon?”
“What you mean is your applicat
ion is one-dimensional.”
I smiled because I love people who can’t resist clarifying, especially when they hit the high points with heavy emphasis like they’re accustomed to talking to imbeciles.
“Yes, ma’am, but I heard you might be able to help me.” I knew better than to tell her I was also there to help her with basic daily activities—like washing her greasy hair and eating enough to see tomorrow.
“Who in the world told you I would help you with a blasted college application?”
“My mom…Adele Kavanagh. She’s an artist, too.”
“Never heard of her.” The hand that was supposed to be holding a shotgun slipped from behind the door to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
Ah. Immediate relief. “She’s with the Kaelin Gallery, downtown. She’s met you a few times and you mentioned needing some help with your house.”
“Why would I say that? I don’t want anyone in my house.” She looked me up and down. “Especially do-gooders like you.”
“Oh.” I tried to keep the hurt from registering on my face.
“I’m old, for crying out loud. People think they’re going to come up with something new to tell me. Stupid, stupid, stupid…” Her words dissolved into muttering only she could understand.
“I could just paint your porch there where it’s peeling a little, or help clean up in the yard. I wouldn’t have to come inside.”
Jo shook her head and waved both arms in the air in an exaggerated attempt to get me to Just. Stop. Talking.
I scratched my head. “So…no?”
“No.” She gave me a sarcastic smile.
“Okay, thank you, Ms. Russell. I’m sorry I disturbed you.” I turned to go back to the Jeep. Before I could open my door, I saw Henry’s face in my mind and his brown eyes pleaded with me to give it one more try. “Laramie,” he said. “Together.”
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