Amends: A Love Story

by E. J. Swenson

  "I'm glad she's taking care of herself."

  Deegan finally raises his bleary, nervous eyes to mine. "We've talked about getting together. Ember and I. Would you be OK with that, considering everything that's happened? I've always had a thing for her, but she seemed so out of reach." He pauses to think. "I guess we share some of the same struggles, hard as that is to believe."

  I remember Ember's wild, disappointed eyes while I take in Deegan's rough, tired expression, and I worry for both of them. But I'm in no position to tell them what to do. And, who knows, maybe they'll be good for each other. That's what I'm going to tell myself, anyway.

  "Of course. I want you to be happy. And her, too."

  /////////////////////////

  There are more people at the funeral than I expected. I'm glad, because it means I can hang back on the edge of the crowd. I want to be there for Amity, but I'm not sure exactly what that means right now. And I don't want to inadvertently pressure her while I'm figuring it out. Before I can get my bearings, a tiny minister who looks like a bald elf encourages everyone to sit down and review the program.

  I take the first available seat. I look around and realize I'm the only man in my row, which is otherwise occupied by young women wearing what could almost be a parody of mourning: tight black dresses with narrow corsets, sky-high heels, and black veils. I wonder how Amity's grandmother knew these girls, and then it hits me. They must be Amity's old co-workers from the Kat Club.

  After the nondenominational elf gives a short introduction, he invites Amity to step forward and say a few words. Her limp is painfully obvious as she climbs onto the low stage and folds herself behind the podium. Even at this distance, I can tell she's struggling not to cry. When she thanks us for coming, her voice wavers and breaks. I remember her tendency to stammer and hold my breath, hoping she can get through this. I wish I were by her side, holding her hand.

  Amity taps the microphone and begins. "This isn't the first time I've spoken at a memorial service." Her voice is quiet, clear, and steady. She pauses for a moment to dab at her eyes.

  "Almost three years ago, my mother died in a car accident and my father...well, he basically died of grief. They were both only children like me. When they passed, I had no other family, except for one person. And that person was my grandmother." She stops again to wipe away tears.

  "I knew my grandmother as a rock. She was the only kind, stable thing in a world that had changed forever. Those of you who've lost your parents know what I mean. The world is suddenly full of shadows you've never seen before. It's easy to lose your way." I find myself nodding in agreement. Amity takes another, longer break to collect herself. After a deep, ragged breath, she begins again.

  "Gran was a bright, loving candle. She kept me from getting lost in the darkness. I am more grateful than words can express. But Gran wasn't just my grandmother. She was her own person. She worked as a truck driver for more than ten years. She loved woodworking, and it must have broken her heart to sell her beautifully crafted home in the woods of Beaufort, Michigan, so she could come live with me."

  Now Amity is crying in earnest. This time she makes no effort to wipe the tears streaming down her face. The dark smudges around her eyes and mascara streaks on her cheeks are hard-earned badges of grief. I know it's not possible, but I feel like she's looking straight into my soul.

  She whispers four final words into the microphone: "Thank you. Remember her."

  /////////////////////////

  I follow a small caravan of cars to the Lakeside Grill. I park away from the main group and wait for everyone to go inside.

  When I'm finally alone, I step out of my insanely overpriced rental car. It's a warm day, and the full Florida sun is already melting the asphalt. The air smells of rubber and rotting fish. I turn around and realize I'm about twenty feet from the dumpsters. A tall, lanky man with a profusion of evil-looking tattoos is hauling a sack full of empty bottles to the bin marked Recycling. The way he moves is familiar. I search my brain, and all of a sudden I know.

  Holy shit, it's Ethan, Amity's stalker. There is no way I'm going to let him make things worse for Amity on today of all days. Hell, I'm not even sure I should be here. But I know for certain that he needs to be stopped. As I run towards him, I wonder if Amity ever got that restraining order.

  He sees me coming just as he's throwing the bag into the dumpster. He tries to sprint back to the restaurant, but he can barely run in his skin-tight black jeans. He trips and sprawls across the pavement, and I'm on him in less than a breath.

  "Who the fuck are you?" he asks, incredulous. His eyes widen and then narrow again as recognition dawns. "Jesus Christ! You're that freak who attacked me at Adams College."

  "I told you to stay away from Amity. I guess you have trouble hearing."

  I raise my fist, and he shrieks. "You've got it all wrong! I just work here! I'm the bartender."

  I lower my fist, confused. "Does Amity know that?"

  "Yeah, she does. She came here anyway, because this is where she went after her parents' funerals. She wasn't going to let lil' old me get in the way." His voice is sour with regret.

  I scowl at him. "Are you going to do anything to make her uncomfortable?"

  "Oh God no. I'm not even going to breathe my fetid breath in her precious direction."

  Ah, sarcasm. I raise my fist again, and he flinches. "I'm fucking serious," he yelps. "I'm leaving her alone. Totally. I'm in goddamned therapy, trying to work things out with my fiancée, who has miraculously forgiven me for...well, for a whole lotta shit."

  His handsome, sculptured face is twisted into a sneer, but it's an honest sneer. I believe him.

  "Fine. You're a good boy now. On a leash. But if you even look at Amity funny, I'll crush you. You've got it?"

  He rolls his eyes. "Threat registered and understood."

  Feeling unpleasantly thuggish, I release Ethan and stand up. He brushes himself off and inspects his hand. It's obviously bleeding. "Asshole," he mutters as he stalks back to the restaurant. I watch him duck into the service entrance.

  I'm hot under my formal jacket, and asphalt crumbs are clinging to my pants. I shake them off and see that there's a tear over the right knee. Without my dad's money, it's going to be a while before I'll be buying anything new. This idea of scarcity—that things I need will no longer be freely available—is still unreal to me. I wonder how everyone else deals with it.

  I question again if I should enter the restaurant. I want to see Amity and talk to her and hold her in my arms. But here, in this foul-smelling parking lot, it's starting to feel like I've become a stalker, just like Ethan. Maybe, I think, I should fly back to Adams and give Amity some space.

  I'm about to go back to my car when I smell cigarette smoke. I twist my head, and what I see is like a bright star on a moonless night. It's Amity, exhaling a puff of smoke and wearing a question mark on her face.

  Chapter 29: Amity

  I've been trying to be Gran's smart, plucky granddaughter all day. Now I'm Gran's sad, exhausted granddaughter, who very badly needs a smoke break. I ask Maggie to keep an eye on the guests while I sneak out. As I make my way down the rear stairs to the service entrance—the only place where it's even marginally acceptable to light up—Ethan flies by me without a word, nearly knocking me over.

  Goddamn him. I wanted to come here because it's where I brought everyone after both Mom and Dad's funerals, and I wasn't going to let him scare me away. Maggie called him yesterday and suggested in the strongest possible terms that he leave me alone. Well, whatever she said must have made an impression, because Ethan hides in the back whenever I get close to the bar. I can't believe I ever followed that guy around like a lost puppy.

  When I reach the exit doors, I push them open and blink into the bright sun like a mole. The restaurant is kept in semidarkness—probably to keep the patrons from seeing the stained floor and scuffed tables—so it takes my eyes a few moments to adjust. I squint while I fire up my cigarette
.

  When I look up, I see a tall, familiar male figure bathed in light. I curse the blazing Florida sun and shield my eyes with my hand. As he comes into focus, I realize it's really him. Laird. Somehow, some way, he's here in Triple Marsh, watching me smoke in the parking lot of the Lakeside Grill. A surge of pure, terrified joy pulses through me. My first wild thought is, Oh my God, he's caught me smoking. He doesn't know that I smoke!

  I throw my cigarette to the ground and approach him slowly. I want to run, but I have no idea if he's seeing the girl who held him in the cemetery as we sobbed over our dead mothers, or the girl who fucked his father. He doesn't move towards me, but he doesn't back away, either. As I get nearer, I see a tear creeping down his cheek. His mouth twitches into a half smile.

  I keep coming closer and closer until I can hear the soft sounds of his breath. We both speak at once, each of us an echo of the other.

  "I'm sorry," we say in unison, and that's all it takes. We fall on each other in a fury of need. His lips are rough against mine, and his tongue is hot, liquid nectar. I nibble on his lower lip, first gently and then harder. I weave my fingers into his hair and press myself against him. I want to be bruised by him and marked by him. I crave a physical sign of our connection.

  I'm breathless when he gently pushes me away.

  "We should probably save this for later." He glances at the restaurant. "You should go back inside."

  Of course, he's right. My grandmother's friends and my friends are inside, and I should be with them. He offers his arm, and I take it.

  /////////////////////////

  When we walk into the restaurant, we are greeted with cheers and raucous catcalls. Laird wraps a protective arm around me, and I blush until I'm a bright, glowing pink. I hide my face behind his jacket. When I finally peer out, I see Maggie right next me, grinning broadly.

  "I was standing by the window, drinking my cranberry juice and minding my own business, when I saw you two putting on quite a show." She raises her eyebrows to indicate it was a very impressive show indeed. "I guess you two got everything sorted out, then?"

  I nod shyly.

  "Good!" Her voice is still cheerful, but some of the glee has leaked out of her smile. She holds up a long strip of pale yellow paper as if it's a poisonous snake. "I guess we should see about the bill." She's about to pass it to me for closer inspection when Laird whisks it out of her hand.

  "I'll take that!" He walks with purpose towards the cashier.

  I move to run after him, but Maggie places a hand on my arm. "Let him go," she whispers. "Boys are funny that way. Anyway, didn't you say his father is Josiah Conroy, the famous billionaire?"

  I shush Maggie before everyone can hear her. Then we sit down at a table and sip water, waiting for Laird to return like a conquering hero. Esther and Aliyah settle in beside us. Here in Triple Marsh, they seem like exotic, migratory birds who got lost on the way to somewhere much more fabulous. Esther is wearing a vintage black satin dress with a matching pillbox hat. Aliyah is cool and elegant in a flowing black gown that barely skims the floor.

  "What was that?" asks Esther, obviously referencing what happened between Laird and me in the parking lot.

  "Do tell," adds Aliyah. "My life is so boring right now that I need to live vicariously through others."

  I want to answer them, but I can't. Not really. "I have no idea what's going on," I confess. "I guess we're, you know, back to whatever we were before all the drama. We haven't really talked about it."

  I pause and try to think through why that doesn't bother me as much as it should. "I know I should hate him because he was the other driver in Mom's accident. And he should hate me because I slept with his Dad. But we have this crazy bond, this unspoken understanding, that makes anything possible."

  The girls are gazing at me with wide, open eyes. I can't tell if they think what I'm describing is romantic or insane. Before anyone can say another word, Laird walks back to our table. His shoulders are hunched, and his face has an uncharacteristically pinched, worried look.

  "Amity, can I talk to you?"

  He's obviously upset, and I wonder if he's changed his mind about me. After all, we haven't even talked about anything of substance. Maybe he thinks our kiss in the parking lot was an aberration or some kind of short-lived truce in memory of Gran. My legs are wobbly as I rise to follow him into the bar.

  The girls watch me intently, as if I'm an acrobat working without a net. Good luck, mouths Maggie. I swallow twice. I think I'll need it.

  /////////////////////////

  When Laird and I enter the bar area, Ethan scuttles into the back room like a scared animal. Laird maneuvers me against the wall and takes my hands in his. The low light hollows out his cheeks and hoods his eyes. My breath quickens with desire and anxiety.

  "I'm so sorry, Amity," he says with a pained look on his face, "but I can't do it."

  I gasp. This is exactly what I feared. He's come to his senses and concluded that he doesn't want me in his life. He's probably decided that there's too much bad history between us to ever overcome. And I'm sure he's right. Staying away from each other is the safe bet. The smart bet. The sane bet.

  I squeeze his hands, and my eyes swell with unshed tears. "I'm sorry, too. If you can't do it, then I guess I can't do it, either."

  He blanches, and his mouth falls open into a shocked little O. "I can't believe I'm so clueless, but what do people do in these kinds of situations? Can we wash dishes or mop floors? I know this sounds awful, but maybe we can ask the guests to contribute, and..."

  I am totally confused. "What in the world are you talking about?"

  He smiles ruefully. "The bill. I can't pay it. My father has cut off my credit cards. My everything, really. He says I'm financially irresponsible and don't think things through."

  Oh. He's talking about the bill. I feel like shouting with joy. Instead, I try to talk too fast and end up stammering. "Oh d-d-don't worry about the bill. The girls and I have got it c-c-covered."

  He smiles with relief. "Oh, thank God. I feel like such an asshole."

  I squeeze his hands again and ask, "Whatever gave your dad the idea you were impulsive and irresponsible with money?"

  I can tell he's trying very hard not to chuckle when he says, "I gave away my two million dollar trust fund to a girl I barely knew."

  It takes us at least five full minutes to control our hysterical laughter and return to the group. I feel happier and freer than I have since...well, ever.

  /////////////////////////

  The sun is setting on Forever Acres. Laird and I are holding hands in what has become, for me, a family gathering place. Mom and Dad's graves are pleasantly overgrown with flowering weeds. Gran's plot is still bare earth. They haven't laid the turf yet.

  Laird's profile is both strong and sorrowful in the fading light. I know the accident has haunted him every day since it happened. In fact, I have a good idea why he came to this exact spot almost three years ago.

  "Laird?" I ask.

  He turns towards me with pensive eyes. "Yes?" His voice is strained, as if he's working hard to keep something large and painful at bay.

  "When we met here, you lied to me. You told me you were visiting your mother's grave. Obviously, that's not true. The wife of billionaire Josiah Conroy wouldn't be buried at Forever Acres in Triple Marsh, would she?"

  He nods. "I'm sorry. I was scared. I should have said something then, but I was too much of a little fucking pussy."

  "No, no," I say, pulling his arm around me. "I don't want you to apologize. I just want to know why you came here in the first place."

  He sighs, and his body goes rigid. "I don't know. To pay my respects. To express my sorrow. To find forgiveness. Of course, I know your mother can't forgive me. It's not possible. I just..."

  Laird's voice breaks and so does the strong, brave front I've been maintaining all day. We both collapse into sobs and into each other. I press myself against him and feel his hot, wet tears on my
neck.

  "I forgive you," I choke out between sobs. "As my mother's only surviving heir, I've inherited the right to speak on her behalf. I forgive you. She forgives you. We forgive you."

  Laird cannot speak, but I know his burden has gotten inestimably lighter. He murmurs something that sounds a lot like "I love you." I silence him with a soft kiss that begets many more. We come together in grief, hope, and desire. Our kisses are hot and searing. They burn through the past and illuminate the present. We hold and touch and kiss each other until our lips are tender and raw. Sighing, I lean against him and press the full length of my body into his. We stay like that, locked in a healing, loving embrace.

  Then the groundskeeper tells us to stop making out in the cemetery, or he'll call the police.

  We hold hands and laugh all the way back to our cars.

  Chapter 30: Laird

  Six months later

  Her long, wild hair is bundled into a hairnet, and she's moving faster than the slow, elegant pace she prefers. She calls to me from across the floor, her voice shaded with impatience.

  "I need two super double-shot mochas, a large half-caf skinny latté, and a medium cappuccino, or your ass is mine!"

  I yell back. "My ass is already yours, sweetcakes!" I imagine her blushing furiously as I work the espresso machine. Quickly and carefully, I pour the caffeinated fluids into their respective cups and glance up at the clock. My shift ends at noon, which gives me thirty minutes to get to track practice.

  I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to stay at Adams after Dad cut me off. But when I explained my unique situation to the dean, she was surprisingly accommodating. I suppose the fact that Dad regularly donates labs and classrooms didn't hurt, either. Anyway, part of the deal was that I join the track team as a shot putter—which basically means I throw around a big, heavy ball with a scowl on my face. I've finally been able to stop smirking when Track Coach tells me to feel the ball.