Striking

by Lila Felix

  Stockton stared at me in a kind of shocked awe, like I’d opened my mouth and started shouting in ancient Greek. He wasn’t happy with any of my words and I was definitely not going to get some kind of weeping apology, but I thought we were both surprised with everything I laid out for him.

  I regretted every word uttered immediately of course.

  Looking at him, in his tight fitting t-shirt, big, delicious muscles bulging, narrow hips hugged by well-worn jeans and his handsome face contorted with so much pain, my heart shattered into a million more pieces. I loved this man. I loved everything about him. He was great. I regretted that the most. He was a great man. And I wanted desperately to fall on my own knees and beg for forgiveness.

  But I couldn’t-it wouldn’t do any good. I didn’t want to fight with the pain of his past anymore. I was constantly battling his misplaced guilt and wounded spirit. And I was tired of it.

  I had given him all of me, everything I was. But I was still only getting damaged pieces of him. And I wanted more.

  I deserved more.

  So with one last heartbreaking look at him, I left his house quietly. I climbed into my truck without turning back. I drove away, abandoning my heart to the shattered pieces of agony on Stockton’s kitchen floor.

  I gave him a lecture on moving on, of letting go of the past-but instinctively I knew I would never recover from this moment. I had found completion in Stockton and without him I would be a walking shell of regret.

  What-ifs would plague me for the rest of my life and they weren’t even from the dangerous mistakes I had been making before I came here.

  I couldn’t even entirely regret all those misdeeds and wild activities because in the end that behavior had brought me here-brought me to Stockton. And whether he had taken a sledge hammer to my heart or not, he had encouraged me to be a better person, motivated me to be the person I was meant to be.

  No, the greatest what-ifs and regrets I would be forced to live with all revolved around that hillbilly blacksmith and the love he had branded so completely on my soul.

  Tears were streaming down my face and I was hiccupping ugly, snotty sobs as I climbed the steps back to the Macon’s. Mallory was waiting in the kitchen doorway to call me to dinner, but one look at me had her shaking her head and pulling me into a hug.

  I stiffened initially at the full body contact, but soon relaxed into her comforting arms. I shook against her, not able to hold back the torrent of misery.

  She cooed and soothed me by rubbing my back. I was not so far gone in my anguish that I wasn’t surprised by Mallory’s compassion but I was in no place to reject it. I had never been hugged like this before, never offered this much sympathy or attention for some great trauma in my life. I couldn’t help but soak up the gesture like salve for the gaping, bloody wound in my chest.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?” Mallory asked in a gentle voice.

  I tried to talk but just kept shaking and crying. Finally, I managed a croaking, “I c-c-c-can’t.”

  “Is it about your parents? Did you do something to the farm?” she probed.

  Wanting to relieve just a few of her fears I forced myself to admit, “S-S-Stockton.”

  “Alright, Cami, now calm down or you’ll make yourself sick,” she soothed. “Why don’t you go lie down and I’ll be in to check on you later.”

  I nodded because it was all I was capable of and then escaped to the privacy of my room. I didn’t know if Henry had been there to witness me in all my emotional, drama-queen glory or not. And I didn’t even want to think about what he thought about me now.

  I collapsed on my bed under the thick quilt and curled up into a tight ball. I’d never cried over a boy before-not really. Until this moment I had actually kept quite a tight lid on all this substantial pain.

  My parents had once forgotten my birthday-I was eleven. Katie brought it up at dinner to taunt me. And instead of an apology I got a “Don’t be so self-absorbed, Cami.” And then a pony.

  And I wasn’t one of those girls that wanted a pony. Actually they completely freaked me out-probably even more since one was forced on me. And I never cried over that. Not even when my parents forced me to ride it every Saturday for an entire year.

  When I was a senior in high school, my best friend since grade school, Telia Carson, had been jealous of my current boyfriend Garret Trainor. And I had actually kind of liked him. He was sweet in that oblivious-surfer-boy way. But she couldn’t stand that I was semi-happy. So she convinced him I was cheating on him. He dumped me and started dating her a week later.

  I was upset about Garret, but I was devastated about Telia. We had spent our entire childhood together. And although we were both shallow enough to talk nonstop behind each other’s backs, and were constantly recommending lipo to each other just to be bitchy, I really thought I could count on her—that we would be best friends forever. Stupid necklaces. Still I didn’t cry.

  Not even when all my other friends turned against me and I spent spring semester hiding in the bathroom during lunch instead of facing all my frenemies turned straight up enemies.

  It had been humiliating.

  Still no tears.

  Yet here I was crying entire buckets of tears over a boy-over Stockton. Stupid Stockton.

  Actually, I’d been a crying a lot ever since I got here. Maybe unstable emotions were a side effect of the well water?

  And the worst part, the very worst part of it all was that this time I truly didn’t have anyone to blame but myself.

  I had love-the greatest, purest, most consuming kind of love imaginable-in my hands and I had thrown it away.

  I came here to escape my recklessness, to mature into something more than wild, uncontrollable youth.

  But apparently self-destruction wasn’t something you couldn’t work out of your system. That was something that followed you everywhere-imbedded in every last part of your body and soul.

  A knock on my door pulled me out of one fantastic pity party and I raised my head when Mallory walked into my room.

  “I brought you a plate,” she waved at the dinner in her hand and set it on the small desk across the room from my bed. “Feeling any better?”

  I shook my head and pushed myself more into a sitting position. I wiped at my snot and wet cheeks with a tissue from my nightstand and cringed at the idea of how terrible and pathetic I looked to Mallory right now.

  “Well,” she rocked back and forth on her feet, seeming very uncomfortable, before asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “There isn’t much to talk about,” I whispered. Clearing my throat to sound stronger I admitted, “I did something I shouldn’t have, something that pissed Stockton off. And now he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “Oh,” Mallory frowned. “Well, I’m sure he’ll get over it. Boy is head over heels for your pretty face. He won’t stay mad for long.”

  I tried to smile at that encouragement but my lips felt strained with the motion so I gave up. “I’m honestly not sure if I want him to. We said some pretty ugly things to each other. And the thing is…. maybe we’re just too different. There wasn’t a whole lot of mutual ground for us to meet on anyway, and now…. Now, I don’t know. I’m not going to be around much longer anyway, so it’s not like we had a promising future or anything. I just, I’m just a little heartbroken is all.” Understatement of the millennium.

  “I wanted to talk to you about that, by the way.” She pulled out the desk chair and sat down facing me. “Not about the heart problem. That will work itself out, I’m sure of it.” She smiled sadly at me and I was kind of shocked by the effort she was making. “I wanted to talk about when you wanted to leave.”

  “Oh,” I sat up straighter. I instantly felt nervous for what she was going to say. Part of me wanted to shout “Right now!” and the other part of me had fallen in love with these mountains, with these simple people and the memories with Stockton I would hold onto forever. Part of me didn’t want to
leave.

  Mallory fidgeted a little, never quite meeting my eyes. I realized she was nervous too and that only ratcheted up my anxiety.

  “Well, Henry and I have talked and we think you’ve made some real progress while you’ve been here. You’ve been a huge help to both him and I. And other than some initial problems at the beginning, you’ve shown some real growth, Camdyn.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So we would like to leave your departure up to you.” She shrugged and then wiped her hands on her jeans covered thighs. “You’re welcome to go back to California whenever you’d like. Or, or we’d like to invite you to stay here. With us.”

  My mouth dropped open in complete shock. “Like as a guest?” She nodded and I couldn’t stop the questions that poured out of me. This was just too confusing. “But I thought you hated me? I messed up all the sheep and stuff. I thought you couldn’t wait to get rid of me? I’ve been such a pain in the ass!”

  Finally she met my eyes and actually broke out in a smile. She was a hard woman, deep wrinkles and severe lines around her eyes, overly tanned skin and graying hair-but when she smiled, really smiled, she easily took twenty years off. And she was gorgeous. “I guess we were a little hard on you, huh?”

  “A little?” I gasped, not knowing whether to laugh or start crying again.

  “Well, we didn’t know what to think.” She sobered a little and then explained. “Your dad called down here with all kinds of horror stories about what kind of girl you’d turned out to be. They were desperate for help and thought we could do something about you, so we agreed. But you have to understand, Cami, that we expected the worst. We prepared ourselves for drugs, drinking and all kinds of hell. And when you showed up with that snotty little, never-worked-a-day-in-your-life attitude, we were just waiting for the other shoe to drop. We would stay up at night waiting for the partying to begin, the destructive behavior, our sheep to go missing…” She paused and shot me a smile, “But it turns out that you’re not quite the hell-raiser your parents think you are. Sure, maybe you didn’t always have the best attitude, but we never had to worry about your behavior. You’ve always gone above and beyond here. And we recognize a strong will to work when we see it. I don’t know what you did to get into so much trouble back home, but we’ve come to know a responsible, hard-working side of you that I would be overjoyed to keep. We’ve come to enjoy your presence around here too. We’re not all that excited to see you leave.”

  Still a little dumbfounded I asked, “Even Henry?”

  The smile was back when she replied, “Even Henry.”

  “Mallory, I don’t know what to say,” I blurted out honestly. I was overwhelmed-with her offer, with the family I had been ignoring, with the devastation just done to all of my vital, beating organs. “I mean, I started looking at colleges in the area. I wasn’t planning on intruding on you or anything. I thought I could stay in the dorms or get an apartment. But I…. I was just thinking about it, I didn’t really…. I don’t know.” I shrugged, feeling astounded by emotion. And not just the negative kind. The hole that Stockton wrecking-balled out of me was slowly being filled by the kindness and surprising generosity from my aunt and uncle.

  “That would be a good thing for you. College is a great idea,” Mallory agreed. “Well, why don’t you think about it? It’s not like we need to know by a certain date. Just decide what’s best for you, then let us know what you choose.”

  “Alright,” I agreed. “I can do that.”

  Mallory stood up to leave, walking over to pat my shoulder first. “It seems hard right now, I know that kid. But you’re strong-one of the strongest girls I’ve known. You’ll make it through this, Cami. And when it stops hurting so damn much, you’ll be alright.”

  Coming from Mallory; that was one of the sweetest things I’d heard. “Thank you, Aunt Mallory. For everything. And for the offer. For just… everything.”

  “You’re welcome, baby girl,” she gave me one more smile and one more pat on the shoulder before she left me alone with the pain and misery once again.

  I dropped back onto my pillow but my tears were dry now. I was positive they would come again, but beyond the nightmare of my love life I had something to look forward to. I’d already started collecting college applications for nearby universities, but now I could fill them out-apply for fall admission, just a few months away.

  What happened with Stockton shattered my world into millions of little, jagged, cutting pieces, but life went on. It didn’t just stop and wait for me to gather myself together-I knew this intimately. And so I would go on.

  Even if I’d never reclaim my heart again.

  Even if I’d never stop thinking about the green eyed blacksmith that drew me out of a terrible place and showed me love like I didn’t know existed. He would always be the man I compared all others to, the kisses nothing else would stack up to. He was imbedded in the deepest places of my soul and leaving him like I did was the hardest thing I had ever done.

  I walked over to the desk where Mallory’s dinner sat waiting for me. But instead of indulging in her country delicacies, I grabbed the beautiful plum-colored journal Stockton bought me when I first arrived. I carefully-reverently- opened the smooth, soft leather cover and brushed my fingers over the first blank page.

  Pulling out the fancy pen he had also gifted me with, I started. What I started I didn’t really know. It didn’t have a name or a direction. But it was me writing. It was me doing what I always wanted to do.

  This was my first step to continuing the journey to finding me-to becoming…. me.

  Chapter Twenty

  Stockton

  Rarely, emotional subjects took a toll on me physically. I just wasn’t that person. I can really only remember achiness after the funeral for my parents. But as I saw the lights from the Macon’s truck fade into the night, I could feel my stomach revolt against her words and my throat, confusing food for feelings, and it wanted them out. Bolting from the kitchen table and barely making it to the front porch, I bent over the railing and violently vomited. The last time I’d vomited was when I was six and witnessed Henry castrating one of his sheep. It was gruesome.

  But this—this was a scalpel grinding my insides and no amount of Novocain could numb me. She’d reached inside me, performed her surgery and left me to bleed out.

  I went back inside and rinsed my mouth out with tap water but my guts were still quivering from the revolt. I gripped the sink as reality needled my eyes and stung my temples.

  What had I done?

  Who had I become?

  My father would be ashamed of me.

  My mother would’ve threatened to knock me into next week.

  I was, in fact, that bastard at the bank I’d dreamt about so often. I stood at the edge of the river of my life and watched the muddy water fill my mouth, watched my arms flail in despair, mocked the desperation of my feet as they searched for solid ground. I was that self-loathing asshole who couldn’t ever fully let go of the plague that still lingered in my heart—no matter how much she cleaned and mended my wounds. I had folded my arms in admonition a long time ago and even though I’d superficially let go—it was just a cover up. I hadn’t let go of a damned thing. I held onto it—I chose to cling to the past, walk away and let who I could’ve been drown.

  And I’d taken her love down with me.

  Curled my big hands around its throat and held it down until it stopped fighting me, stopped thrashing around and just gave up.

  Just don’t worry about it.

  I won’t bother you anymore.

  I won’t mess up your life any more than I already have.

  A second trip outside purged me of anything left in my stomach.

  I needed the cool spring air in my face but the front porch was now pissing me off, once being that place I’d first realized who she was under her pretense. I tore through the house and emerged on the other side, on the back porch, and once again tried to cleanse myself with the chilled air. I re
ached for the light switch and flipped the first one I touched, needing some kind of light besides the damned moon. But instead of the porch light, I got the twinkly lights hanging from one of my mother’s pear trees to the other.

  There was just so much a man could take in one night.

  I had nothing left but anger at myself and those lights were about to take the brunt of it whether they did me a disservice or not.

  I stalked down the back stairs and bee-lined for the perpetrators. Those damned lights weren’t gonna be of any use now with Cami gone. And the last thing I needed was a reminder of her and her perfect damn light. I needed to wallow in this grave I’d dug for myself, it was the only comfort I had left. I jerked at the first strand, liberating it from its long lived perch on one of the lower branches.

  “No, Stock, No!” I heard a scream behind me and for the third time that night heard my sister scream.

  “What? It’s just lights!” I continued to pull despite her protests.

  “No, it’s them! Don’t you remember? It’s their lights, Stock, please!”

  She wept before me and frantically tried to replace the damage I’d done.

  “Stop, Willa,” my voice had finally come down from a yell, “I’ll put them back.”

  I placed every strand back in their previous position and then turned to apologize and console my sister, the first of my grave mistakes that night, but saw only the screen door slamming behind her.

  I looked back up to the lights and they flickered once, just once and it broke me.

  I’d just dug my hole a little bit deeper—a little bit closer to Hell.

  Just where I belonged.

  Walking back into the house, I stopped to inspect how I’d flipped the wrong switch. And even though I’d stuck a piece of duct tape over the switch that controlled the Christmas lights on a long time ago, it was in the on position, still under the duct tape.

  And every other switch was off.

  I’ve gone insane.

  Now that the anger was gone, what had begun as physical illness was now an ever growing, piercing ache dead center in my chest. I had to temporarily hold onto the back of the couch to steady myself while I grew accustomed to the pain. I let it fester for a minute so my chest could get used to the weight. It was so heavy, I feared if I let go I wouldn’t even be able to walk.