by Jolene Perry
“Relax, Amber. It doesn’t have to all be so serious.”
Her brows pull together. “This is the side of you that scares me.”
“I’m sorry.” Only I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.
“No, don’t be. I just…I guess I need you to know that I’m not ready for anything else, you know?” Once again her thick lashes come up, and her liquid blue eyes push against all the best places in my chest, and also some of the bruised ones. It’s all just become part of feeling things.
“Okay.” I lean forward and kiss her lips softly. “But this is nice, right?”
“Very.” Her breathing has already changed, and she may be scared to go further right now, but I don’t think it’ll take her as long as she thinks it will for her to want more.
“So, you’ll stay in here with me?”
“Maybe.” She pulls away.
“I promise to be nice. Does that help?” I lean over the book to kiss her cheek. That’s a sweet gesture, but I don’t move away. She’s too warm.
“It helps.” Her lips graze my neck and it takes some serious deep calming breaths for my body to not get excited the way it wants to.
“Stay and I won’t touch you unless you beg,” I whisper.
“Right.” Her laugh is light and her lips touch my neck again.
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
And then I take advantage of her moment of weakness, pull her into my arms and hope she won’t pull away—at least not for a while.
- - -
In a desperate attempt to take control of all the crap that feels out of my control, I write to Mom’s manager.
I write. I want to do Mom’s memoir. Can we talk?
Antony
I get an email back almost immediately.
Antony –
I love the idea. I will fly you in from wherever you are.
This makes me laugh. Really? Cause I have no freaking idea where I am. Somewhere in the Pacific.
Let’s meet. I’m sure you have some pictures we’ve never seen. Timing on something like this is everything. I’d love to see you in New York at your earliest convenience.
Mel
And instead of thinking about it I look over my computer. “We’re not far from Vancouver, right?”
“A few hours,” Dad says.
“I need to go to New York. Just for a few days.” The more I say it out loud, the more I know it needs to be done.
He chokes on his eggs, and nearly drops his fork. “What?”
“You’re the one who wanted me to check e-mail. I have a few things I want to take care of.”
“It can’t wait?” His eyes are wide and focused hard.
Can it wait? I don’t know. It’s like I’ve made the decision to go, so I just want it over with. “No. It can’t wait.”
Dad lets out a sigh. “Can I come with you?”
I slump, really wanting to take care of things on my own, and not completely sure if I’m ready to tell him why.
“Never mind. You want to be on your own. But here’s the deal, Antony. No parties like last time. Even though I’m in Seattle, and you’re in New York, I need to know where you are. Got it?”
“Got it.” And as Dad and I slowly understand each other better, I’m not as offended as I would have been a few weeks ago.
“And don’t pull any I’m eighteen now, shit. Okay? You still live with me, and you’re not done with high school.” He even points.
I smile because I’ve never heard my dad cuss. “Okay.” Now I need to tell Amber.
- - -
I packed one small bag for New York. I have stuff there, and now Dad and I are sailing straight for Vancouver Island.
Dad and I are on deck while the girls fix lunch below. The small ribbons on the sails are going all wrong. “If we trim it a little tighter, we should be able to pull an extra knot or two out of it, right?” I point to the mainsail.
“Try it.” Dad doesn’t move. He’s engrossed in whatever email he’s reading on his phone.
“What?” Me?
“You’ve helped with the sails a bit. Try it. See if it works.” He looks up only briefly and then goes back to reading.
Wow. Me. Sailing. I check the autopilot another time and the stand up to find the lines I need to tighten. Everything can be controlled from this one spot on the boat. Now I know. I remember how to wrap the line around the crank, so I find the mainsail lines, work them through, and I tighten. I check the little string things on the sails and they’re more straight back and flowing than before. I step back and check the Garmin. “We gained two knots!”
“Great job.” Dad gives me a wide smile. “And I feel great. I just got another email from my agent. My next book is up, out, and heading to print.”
“I’ve written two.” The words spill before I have time to check myself.
Silence.
“Novels?” Dad asks.
I nod. The surprise and pride in his voice fills me in a really good way. There’s something different about having a dad proud rather than a mom. With moms it feels almost like an obligation. With Dad, it just…I feel guilty even thinking this, but it carries more weight.
“Your mom didn’t say.”
Your Mom. My mom. Sucks that I was afraid to tell her. “She didn’t know.” I check our speed again, and the heading. “She’s read parts of both, but…”
“That’s where Amber’s comment came from. About you writing your mom’s story.” His eyes are on me. My eyes are everywhere but on him. Too personal.
“She’s reading my stuff,” I say.
“Feel weird?” Dad asks with a chuckle.
“Makes me naked,” I admit.
“I remember that—and while we’re on the topic of naked, you and Amber…”
“Are taking things very, very slow.” My eyes are still fixed on navigation.
Dad clears his throat. I’m hoping it indicates a subject change. “What kind of writing do you do?”
Funny that talking about my writing is easier than talking about Amber.
“I write fiction that I hope reads more like a literary memoir. I’ve done one set in Eastern Europe, one in Moscow and the one I’m working on now is set in South Africa.” Dad and I are talking…about something we have in common. And I’m sailing his freaking million-dollar boat. Six months ago I would have rolled on the floor with laughter if I thought for a second I’d be doing what I’m doing now. Although, if six months ago someone had told me I’d be living without my mom, I wouldn’t have believed that either. A chill runs up my spine, but again, I’m getting good at shoving things away.
“The travels with your mom helped you out,” Dad says.
“It’s why I started to write. It’s just another way of telling the story of the people that mom wanted to tell.” Really, if it was all so connected to what Mom and I did together, why couldn’t I tell her? She knew I was writing, but didn’t know I was making them into books.
I’m switching screens from close up charts and wind speeds, to charts that show from Alaska to Oregon and our small speck of a boat in-between.
“That’s really amazing,” he says. “I’d uh…love to read one.”
I check our heading again and then check the sails. Our two knots are holding. And I know what I’m about to say, and I can’t believe it’s about to come out of my mouth. “I’ll email you the docs.” Mostly I want him to love them. Maybe part of me even wants him to see some of himself in me. That’s a new one—and definitely is on the list of stuff I never saw coming.
“Thanks.” There’s something almost reverent about Dad’s voice as he speaks. “I’m proud of you.”
I laugh. “Well, you haven’t read them, Dad.” And now I’m sort of terrified about what he’ll think. I may think the kind of writing he does is beneath me, or whatever, but what if mine are crap? And I just think they’re good?
“Is this what your trip is about?”
“Part,” I tell him. I’m not s
ure if I want him in on the whole thing yet. The idea of writing Mom’s story is daunting.
I check our headings again and adjust the autopilot a couple of degrees. I’m slowly learning not adjust more than that. Navigation’s a tricky thing.
Fifteen
I’m in a cab. In New York. No Mom. Being here without her hurts like a weight that follows, digs and jabs at every opportunity. Oh, and no Dad. The crazy thing is that I don’t even feel like taking advantage of it.
Finn’s trouble. Gem’s trouble. David’s in California. And the more I think about it, the more I just don’t care enough to try and get together with anyone else.
Now I’m wishing I’d had the guts to ask Amber to come with me. I held her when the cab came to get me from the marina, and the thought of letting her go was torture, but I did it anyway. I’m not sure this is my home anymore. My place. The air is heavy with memories.
The cab slowly gets closer to my building. MY building. Not the one I share with Mom. Mine. The nagging in my gut starts penetrating my head, my heart. I don’t think I can do this. It’s late. My meeting with Mel Gladsman, Mom’s agent, is tomorrow. I imagine walking into the apartment alone, and my stomach tightens threatening to relieve me of the airplane food I had on my trip cross-country.
I open my mouth to tell him to take me to the plaza, but that’s where Mom’s services were. Now what?
Think, Antony, think. “I changed my mind,” I say.
The cabbie glances at me in his rearview mirror.
“Uh…Waldorf please.”
“No problem.”
I lean back in the seat and pull out my phone. I think about how fun it would be to have a group over to my room at the Waldorf, but I don’t think I could take the stress. The thing is that I care what Amber thinks, and something like that would piss her off. And neither of us has said, “Will you go out with me.” But at the same time, I feel like we’ve shared a lot, and I’m at least smart enough to know that counts for something.
The crazy thing is that I really want it to.
The cab drives up the familiar streets with the ever-changing billboards, and sea of cars and people, even on this late, rainy night. I climb out of the car at the hotel, grab my bag, and I know; outwardly (even with my lack of a haircut) I blend in. I’m wearing my nice shoes, my expensive pants, my Armani coat…But inside, do I still belong here? I have no idea.
I step up to the counter. A young woman, not much older than me, smiles wide. “You’re Mr. Preston, is that correct?” she asks.
I’m stunned into silence for a moment. “That’s me. Yes.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
Crap. “Uh…no. My trip to town was last minute, I…”
“It’s no problem.” Her fingers tap, tap, tap on the keyboard. “Preference for room size?”
“It’s just me.”
“Double or single suite?” she asks.
Shit. I have money, right? I’m only here for a night. “A double would be great, thank you.” Just because.
“No problem.” Her efficient smile, fingers, and mannerisms make me remember what it’s like to be in real civilization. “Can we help you with your bag?”
I chuckle. “Nah, I got it. Thank you, again.” We trade a credit card number for my key, and I head to my room. Alone in the Waldorf Astoria, feeling like an adult and like a kickass New Yorker. So, maybe part of me could belong here still.
As soon as I step inside, I pull out my phone and send Amber a text. MISS U. NOT STAYING IN NY. TOO WEIRD HERE.
I wish she was here with me because I want to share this with her, show her New York.
And it is weird being here, even though right now things aren’t too bad. Also, I figure it’ll help Amber feel better about me being gone if I don’t actually want to be here.
Amber’s text back brings a smile to my face.
SEE U SOON. CALL ANYTIME
Is this what it’s like to be dating someone? Where that person is just sort of there for you? Like I can text her when I’m sad or can’t sleep, or just want to talk.
I have no idea what to do with myself, so I strip down my boxers and my T-shirt and start flipping channels on the TV. It’s been forever since I just vegged out and watched TV. Living out a boat definitely changed what I do with my veg-out time.
My stomach starts to rumble, so I order room service. I realize my pants and shirt are wrinkled from the flight, so I ask to have them pressed. I stifle the urge to ask someone to run to Armani and pick me up a suit. I’m sure they’d do it. Sort of amazing what I can get while in boxers, in my hotel room.
- - -
I lower myself back into bed, now the proud owner of a nicely pressed shirt and pants, and a full stomach, but it all seems a bit ridiculous.
Dad and I do fine on his boat. Granted, I just learned its a million dollar boat, but still. The everyday stuff just isn’t that hard. Why do I miss this? Not that Mom and I ever spent money for these kinds of extras. But still, what was it about being here that I loved so much?
Mostly the idea of it. The image of it. Of knowing I blend in to a city that feels like the center of everything. The middle of the rest of the world. But in the long run, does that even matter?
To me, it matters that Mom is gone, a thought I have to quickly shove away. It matters that Dad loves me, even though he’s weird. It matters that I have Amber, or that I’m part of whatever’s between us. David, even with his…eccentricities or immaturity, or whatever, is a good friend. Hélèna, such a part of my past, also adds to who I am. Now I kind of feel like shit over Gem. Dad was probably right. She probably did want more, but she was willing to do more, with a lot less than I should have given her.
I leave the TV on, and try to drift off, but give up.
This place feels off without Mom. I don’t belong here anymore. I feel it, the weight of the knowledge that things are different. My life is different, changed, and will never be the same.
Two AM, and I know I’ll be leaving for Seattle tomorrow. I can’t stay here. Not with this weight hanging over me.
- - -
“Antony?” Gem’s voice is unmistakable.
I spin around in the lobby of the Waldorf and almost run into her and her parents. “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Griffin.” I reach out my hand.
“Antony. It’s great to see you,” her mom says. “We’ve missed seeing you around.” And then her sympathetic face hits me.
“Yeah. I’ve missed being here,” I tell her, just trying to hold onto some measure of politeness when every sympathetic looks sends splices of something sharp through me. “Gem, do you have a sec?” I ask. And what the hell am I thinking?
Her eyes flit from me to her parents. Her carefully straightened blond hair swishes around her as her head turns. “Uh, sure.”
I step in next to her, and we walk to the nearest set of small chairs.
“This is crazy, running into you here.” I shake my head.
“Yeah. I mean, we come here for brunch pretty often, but, yeah. Weird. I didn’t know you were in town.”
Right. Now’s when I should say something. My brain just isn’t—
“What’s up, Antony?” She smiles, but it feels different. Wary almost. Not what I’m used to from her.
“I just… I feel like I was never as nice to you as I could have been.” Isn’t that the most important thing?
“Oh.” Her brows pull down.
“I was just thinking, that’s all. I guess, I guess I want you to know that you’re a cool girl, and that I’m sorry if I…” Man, I’m crap at this. “If I ever made you feel like you weren’t important to me, or made you feel bad, or…” I rest a hand on the back of a chair, and I’m like gesturing with the other hand, only I’m crap at that, too. It’s like I left New York and turned into a middle-schooler for real.
“Wow.” She folds her arms, but in a relaxed way, not a frustrated way. “It’s like you’ve changed. I mean. I always felt lucky for being the girl with you when we w
ere together.”
“But, was it enough?” Or was I the jerk off I thought I wasn’t?
Her whole face looks confused—her brow is wrinkled, and her eyes are all squinty. “Are you…asking me out?”
“No!” I say way too quickly.
“Then I’m confused.” She shakes her head.
“Sorry. I just want to make sure that I never made you feel bad.”
“Well, you’re a lot nicer than anyone else I’ve…been with.” Something very real is on her face now.
“Your expectations are way too low,” I tease. “You’re gorgeous and smart and shouldn’t put up with any shit.”
Her brows come down as she starts to turn away. “You’ve changed, Antony.”
“Is that good?” I ask.
“I guess, yeah.” She smirks. “It was good to see you.”
“You, too.” And I may be crap at trying to make things right, but it feels good.
“Thank you.” She pulls me into a short, tight hug before letting me go.
And the crazy thing is that I feel lighter for it.
- - -
As soon as I step outside, the weight of the city, of being here, pushes down on me again, and I shove it away like I’ve been doing with everything else I don’t want to think about. One more stop, and then I’m heading to the airport to go home. Home. To a boat. My life is definitely not what it used to be.
Sixteen
“What happened in your meeting?” Dad asks as we drive away from the airport.
“He told me to start writing. That it needs to be personal, real. He wants pictures no one else will have.” My talk with Mel still unnerves me. I held it together, though. I really did. I sat and we chatted as if we were discussing pros and cons of certain cars and not my mom.
“Are you ready to do this?” Dad asks.
I know what he’s asking. It’s not my writing skills he’s talking about. He’s talking about how Mom’s death still feels—something I don’t want to touch. Not yet. “Almost.” That’s easy enough, right?
“I ask because I’m guessing you still have a lot of loose ends to tie up.” His gaze is pointed at me.