I stare at Dad, the tears pooling in my eyes a mirror to what I see in his.
“It was an accident,” he says. “But now, like our family, the Lanfords are faced with losing a critical part of theirs.”
The thought of another kid losing their parent, to know the heartbreak I’d faced in the past year, rips at my insides. But the situation’s bigger than us. “I hate it for his family, but the lawyers have to sort it out.”
“Not necessarily,” he says. “We still have to testify next Friday.”
A lump grows in my throat as Dad’s eyes bore into me. “What are you asking me to do?”
“It’s not what I’m asking. It’s what Mama and Noli-Belle are trying to show us.”
He pulls me to standing and turns my body toward the accident site, forcing me to look at the place I’d been so careful to avoid. Until now.
One look steals my breath. There, in front of the deeply-gashed pecan tree, two makeshift memorials stand in the grass, wooden crosses with Mama’s and Noli-Belle’s names crudely carved in the horizontal piece. And all around them, so thick the grass is blocked out, is a stand of orange daylilies, tall, proud and waving in the breeze—beauty disrupting the somber scene.
I walk over and run my fingers across the rubbery-smooth petals. The spicy-sweet aroma swirls in the air around me. “Where did these come from?”
“They appeared and kept multiplying all summer.” Dad steps beside me and links his arm through mine. “You think maybe they’re trying to tell us something?”
A strange warmth encircles me, like a blanket around my shoulders, and I realize Mama and Noli-Belle are here hand-delivering a message. I’ve lost too much this past year—my family, my friends, my first love—to let this cycle continue. I can be the change. I can be the one who makes sense of the senseless.
With a smile, I lean into his arm. “Yeah, Dad. I do.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Maybe it is noble, but the whole “making sense of the senseless” thing obviously doesn’t come with a handy instruction guide. Translating everything from earlier into some tangible sort of action has me stumped. All the thoughts and feelings refuse to bend into elegant words. Instead, they pile up like a set of clunky Legos whose holes don’t align.
Maybe it’s because being in my own bedroom again reminds me of how it used to be. Maybe it’s because every five seconds I have to remind myself to focus and stop wondering about Jett or if he’s thinking of me.
“I give up,” I grumble, ripping the notebook paper from my spiral binder, then wad it into a crinkly ball. I chuck it at the trashcan beside my desk.
Her fingers land on my shoulder with so little pressure I barely sense them through my shirt. “That’s why I’m here. To make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Em?” We’ve been talking again for weeks, through late-night phone calls and texts, but seeing her face to face, being able to reach out and physically touch her, my heart flutters in my chest.
A pillow sticks out from under her left arm, and there’s a duffel bag on her right shoulder. “Your dad called. He thought you might need a friend tonight.”
Score another one for Dad and all his recent Yoda-like wisdom. He’s backing up this new leaf he turned over with some serious momentum. If anyone can get me through this day, it’s the one friend who’s been by my side since first grade. Even when I didn’t deserve her.
“I know today’s been pretty emotional. We don’t have to talk,” she says, sitting on the corner of my bed. “We can just hang out or watch TV.”
But suddenly I do want to talk. About anything but the accident. Her life, my life, and everything we’ve missed. “Tell me,” I whisper.
“Tell you what?”
“Everything.”
We fall back into our old patterns with ease. I relax against my upholstered headboard, pillow clutched to my chest, and she lies across my bedspread, describing how Trent showed up at her door the morning after he left Edisto with a dozen purple (Em’s favorite color) roses in hand and officially asked her to be his girlfriend. She pulls at her necklace, and Trent’s class ring bobs in the lamp light. I force a smile, instinctively fiddling with my own chain, now naked against my skin. When Jett’s ring was on it, there was a heft to it, a constant reminder of him. Now, I tend to forget it’s even there. It feels so empty.
Em’s gaze burns holes through me. She cocks her head and gnaws the inside of her cheek.
“What?”
“You were daydreaming. Anything…or anyone…you’d like to talk about?”
“What’s there to say?”
“Oh, I think you have a lot to say.” She scoots forward on the covers and grabs my hand. “You shared things with him this summer. He revived you, and even though you haven’t said it, I think you love him.”
And there it is. The exact thing that’s been circulating in my thoughts since I left Edisto. I did love Jett. My heart butterflies its beat. I still love him. But I never told him.
Tears well along my lower lashes, threatening to spill over.
“Have y’all talked?”
I shake my head. Five days have passed since I dropped his ring on that bed table and ended things. I was the one who’d slammed the door on us, but it stings so much when his silence verifies it.
“Have you at least stalked his social media?”
“The opposite actually.” Seeing him will only twist the knife in my gut. Jett and I aren’t over because I wanted to lose him; we’re over because I was afraid of losing him. The logic is all messed up, but there’s a thread of rationality in there somewhere. “I can’t.”
“What if he’s posting about how much he’s missing you?”
What if he’s not?
“Nah, he’s got a big race coming up. Too much other stuff to focus on.”
“You’re totally underestimating yourself.” She leans over me to retrieve my phone from the nightstand and drops it in my lap. “Just check. Get it over with. You know you want to.”
I blow out a breath, clicking open the app, then tap on his name. Four new posts. The first three are tagged from Rachel’s page. Jett’s wearing sunglasses, propped against his racecar with a deadly sneer and the entourage in tow—Jett’s dad, Rachel, Trévon, and even Dani. Her passive aggressive post comment hurts. It takes more than THAT to keep this boy down. #winning #champions #RamseyRacing
My stomach sinks like an elevator plunging ten floors. Em reads over my shoulder. She clicks her tongue, then mutters under her breath, “Bitch.”
“You have no idea.” I manage a giggle, despite the nagging urge to vomit all over my bed. It’s bad enough for Jett to be pissed at me for ending things. It’s worse to know Rachel’s in his ear, poisoning everything we once had.
Em points to the fourth picture. “So that’s Gin and Bo?”
I stare at the picture of Jett sitting on the Johnsons’ rec room sofa. Gin and Bo are squeezed on either side of him. What I wouldn’t give to jump back in time and be there with them. With Em along for the ride, of course.
“That’s them…the gang.” I nearly choke on the words.
“I know you miss your friends.”
“I do. They’re great. You’d totally like Gin, she’s…” Beside me, Em’s silent, gnawing her lip and looking off into space. “Em?”
She sighs. “I’m a tad jealous, okay? I mean, that tone in your voice? That used to be how you described us.”
“It’s still us. No one can take your place, Em.” I nudge her. “You and me, we know everything there is to know about each other. Maybe that was the problem.”
“Huh?”
“Gin didn’t know much about me, so when I was messed up, she didn’t have any expectations about how I should be. It was like having a blank slate. I thought I could erase the past. Start fresh. But it turns out the closer Gin and I got, the more I missed you. The more I realized I couldn’t erase us. And I didn’t want to.”
A smile creeps over her lips. “Aw, yo
u big mushy baby.” Em playfully shoves my arm. “Well then, I guess this Gin’s a pretty good girl. I’d love to meet her someday.”
Someday is a day that’ll never come. I’ve burned all the bridges in Edisto, left my friends without any sort of good-bye, deserted Memaw, and drove away the one I fell in love with. And now, looking at their posts, it’s easy to see, at least for them, life goes on.
Without me.
I shrug. “Y’all would’ve hit it off.”
“Have you talked to her? At least sent an email?”
I wouldn’t even know where to start.
Em lips curled in that pitiful puppy dog way. “How ‘bout I help with that?” she offers. I don’t know how to explain that coherent, eloquent words are not my forte today, but before I can, Em hops off the bed and grabs my notebook from the desk. “Use this to write a rough draft,” she says, tossing it to me. A folded piece of paper falls out and flits to the rug. She picks it up and the paper crinkles as she unfolds it. An image of wild camellias dance across a leafy vine. “What’s this?”
“Nothing.” I grimace and drop my eyes to my hands. These unexpected reminders are bullets.
“I can tell by your face it’s not nothing.”
“Jett drew it.” It’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud today. What used to roll off my tongue so freely now lumbers off in a bitter, stinging mess.
“Flowers on some kind of a twisted branch?” She scrunches her nose; it was the same look she always had in Trig class when she tried to understand secants and cosecants.
“They’re camellias on a vine. It’s a tattoo design.”
“It’s kind of weird shape for a tattoo, right?” She presses the paper against her abdomen as if trying to imagine how it’d look flowing across her belly button.
“No…it’s actually kinda perfect. But not for there. It was designed for a specific location.”
“Oh…kay.” She drags it out, her way of saying tell me more.
“There’s something I need to show you. Then you’ll understand.” I stand up, and in one quick move, pull my T-shirt over my head and toss it on the desk chair. Em’s bewildered gaze turns to wide-eyed awareness when she spots the silvery-pink scar. She reaches toward it, but her fingers never actually make contact. Instead, they hover in the air above it. “My reminder of the accident. Jett said if I dressed it up a bit, maybe it’d be therapeutic.”
Silence. Em says nothing, just continues to stare. I’m not used to showing people this part of myself. Dad refused to look at it for any length of time, and Memaw and Jett were surprisingly chill about the whole mess. But this—whatever this is from Em—is one step from torture. “Em…what is it?”
“I think…” She begins nodding, her smile returning. “You should do it. In fact, I’ll take you myself. Next Thursday, the day before the trial, you’re getting your tattoo, CJ.”
“You think?”
“I know.” She steps forward, lining up the paper with the scar. “What Jett did for you is perfect.”
Beside me, Em snores, a slight breathy gurgling against the pillow sham. After hours of talking, she finally passed out facedown. But I can’t sleep. Instead, I think about Mama and Noli-Belle, about Em and how we found our way back to each other, but mostly, I think about Jett and how he gave me the courage to love again. How he made me believe there was more life to live. I lost sight of that, let fear creep back in, and it’d cost me everything. But if there’s one thing I can do to ensure my love for Jett isn’t in vain, it’s learn from my mistakes and go forward with an eager, unafraid heart.
Without waking her, I ease from the sheets and pad across the rug to my desk. The click of the lamp sends an orange warmth across my notebook and the flowery tattoo design. I unzip my purse and shove the paper inside, then pick up a fresh pen from the stainless-steel holder on the desktop. Important documents should always be written with crisp, flowing ink. And this might be the most important thing I ever put on paper.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The inside looks like I thought it would. Lots of granite columns in the lobby, marble floors and oversized dark-stained wooden doors, way taller than any normal human. It’s like everything has been expertly designed to make you feel insignificant. But despite the grandiose building, nothing makes me feel quite as small as comprehending the gravity of what I have to do and the implications it will have for everyone.
I thought I had at least another day to prepare, but when the lawyer contacted us and said the judge had called a special session one day early, my meager confidence shriveled. Sleep eluded me last night as I stared at the ceiling, begging Mama and Noli-Belle for strength.
The courtroom door squeaks open, and Dad, Em, and I walk down the middle row in single file and take the first three seats on the right. Jacob Lanford is already seated at the defendant’s table, hunched together with his lawyer. He sneaks a few quick glances at us over his shoulder. Behind them, in the row immediately to our left, a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a messy bun and two girls, the oldest looking to be about twelve, sit with their hands folded in their laps, eyes glued to the floor. The courtroom is no place for kids, but when the youngest girl gets up, kisses her fingers, and plants them against Jacob’s cheek, I get it. Family. Love. Support. The eight-year-old is well versed in what’s taken me a year to understand.
The door swings wide again and the prosecutor walks in, stopping to shake Dad’s hand and give a slight nod, an affirmation everything’s a-go. He slides behind the mahogany desk and eases his briefcase onto the top.
When the bailiff requests we all rise, my knees buckle, and I grab hold of the wooden railing like a crutch. Sensing my anxiety, Em interlaces her fingers with mine, physically assisting me to stay upright. The judge takes the bench, signals for everyone to sit, then clears his throat and looks at the jury.
“Early yesterday morning, I met with the prosecution and defense in my chambers to discuss a highly unusual request. It is the nature of this request that inspired me to call this special session. I appreciate everyone rearranging their schedules accordingly.”
The judge glances up from the bench, but no one moves. The atmosphere is heavy as he continues. “The prosecution presented a letter written by the key witness, Miss Camelia Ainsworth, that addresses the court. She has requested to read it aloud. The letter has now been read and reviewed by both myself and the defense, and upon doing so, it has been decided to grant said request. With that being said, the court recognizes Miss Camelia Jayne Ainsworth.”
The judge nods in my direction and holds the folded white paper over the front of his bench. I will my legs not to give way as a clack-clack-clacking echoes around the room. I’m unsure if the noise is coming from the hard bottoms of my sandals or my wobbly knees knocking together.
The paper unfolds easily in my fingers. The black type stares back at me, representing my innermost thoughts and feelings soon to become public record. I take a deep breath and run my tongue along my teeth, trying to generate some degree of moisture in my cotton-dry mouth. With a shaky voice, I begin reading.
* * *
To Whom It May Concern:
Eleven months ago, my life changed in the blink of an eye on a twisty two-lane road. What started out as a night of fun family time ended in a terrible tragedy that still haunts me to this day. Closing my eyes each night only means one more opportunity to hear my sister’s screams or see my mama’s lifeless stare. They echo in the quiet moments of rest and even in my waking thoughts when sleep’s elusive.
That day changed me. It changed my dad, my family, my relationships. And not just in our family, but in Mr. Lanford’s as well. But something—or someone—didn’t change. Two people will remain forever frozen in time. Consistent, steady, true in life, and now in death.
Eleanor Kate Ainsworth and Magnolia Belle Ainsworth. The people they were, the passions they had, the love in their souls still linger here. When I need direction, they are my compass,
my true north. And they are the reason I’m here today.
But for you to understand my request, you must first understand these people, because without them—who they were—I wouldn’t be standing before you the person I am now. So, on behalf of the new Camelia Jayne “Cami” Ainsworth, let me enlighten you.
Eleanor Kate Ainsworth—always Mama to me and my sister, Ellie to my dad, and Wonder Woman to the hundreds of people she touched during her years as a pediatric nurse— was my hero. She had an incredible heart for all people. She loved gardenias and baking three-layer cakes and being a wife and mother. She used to tell me to fight hard and love harder. Always forgive and be free. Stand for something or fall for anything. But mostly, she just told me to live, because the ride is awesome but all too short. She had no idea how short hers would be.
But compared to Noli-Belle, she lived a hundred lives. Twelve years. One hundred forty-four months to be exact. That’s all she got. But man, she made them count. My sister was thirsty—for knowledge, understanding, and her place in this world. So many hours she’d lay on her back outside in the grass with that astronomy book, searching the skies for star patterns and mysteries of the great beyond. She noticed everything. She marveled at everything. She questioned everything. She wanted to be the first woman on Mars. Fearless. Brave. Believing. Four years younger than me, she stood head and shoulders above me. The world has surely missed out on the best she still had to offer.
I could be mad they’re gone. Angry, bitter, and belligerent. I could shake my fist at God and everyone around me, curse fate and point fingers about why these two incredible people were taken away. I could do that. I have done that. But no more.
There’s been a lot of talk about who’s to blame. The truth? We can twist, fold and scrutinize every detail and only discover the blame lies with everyone and no one. It’s a whirlwind of circumstances and decisions that mish-mashed together in what became the worst day of my life, my dad’s life, even Mr. Lanford’s life. I’ve spent the last year wondering what if. What if we’d never left home in the first place? What if we’d taken a different route? What if I hadn’t been the one driving the car? It’s an endless, maddening stream that’s terrorized me, while outwardly, I’ve shoved everyone away.
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