by Becky Wade
“Are your sisters and brother all right? We can give them a ride somewhere, too, if needed.”
“They’re all right. It’s me he got mad at.”
“Where to?” Sebastian asked.
“My friend’s house. Um, do you know Abby Michaelson, Ms. Montgomery?”
“I know who she is, yes.”
“She lives on the west side of town. So if you just drive toward Azalea Avenue, that’ll be good.”
The car swung into motion.
“Sorry to interrupt your day,” Claire said. “I don’t have my license, and neither does Abby. Abby’s mom usually comes by for me, but she’s shopping with friends right now, and I couldn’t think of who else to call.”
“It’s not a problem,” Leah assured her.
Leah and Claire made small talk until they arrived at Abby’s house.
“Should we come back by for you later?” Leah asked.
“No, Abby’s mom can drive me home.”
“Then I’ll see you at school Monday.”
“Yep. Thanks again.”
Wordlessly, Leah and Sebastian watched Claire approach the front door. Abby answered, and Claire disappeared inside.
They headed toward town through a natural tunnel of autumn trees.
Leah contemplated Sebastian’s chiseled profile and strong throat. Dr. Grant. Purveyor of disco ball slow dances to ’80s songs. Surgeon. Orphan. Friend of Ben. The most phenomenal kisser in the universe. Today, he wore a North Face jacket over a collared white shirt and black pants.
“Do we still have time to make the show?” she asked.
“I think so. We might be a few minutes late, but I’m guessing they won’t turn us away.”
Last night—at the football game and afterward at his house—had been something for the memory books. As delicious as a cookie warm out of the oven.
He’d been on her mind every waking minute since. And many of her non-waking minutes, too. After their first date, both her old anxiety dreams and her wonderful Sebastian dreams had given way to silky, dreamless sleep. But last night he’d finally visited her in her dreams again. They’d been caught in a sandstorm in the desert, but when he’d taken her into his arms, a globe of safety had formed around them that the sand hadn’t been able to penetrate.
“Thank you for helping me with Claire,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” His hard jawline didn’t soften. “If she calls you again and asks you to come to her house, will you promise me that you won’t go over there alone?”
She couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked her to promise to behave in a certain way. Which might speak to her independence. Or to her good choices. Or to the fact that not many people were close enough to her to care about her safety.
Before she could formulate an answer, they reached a stoplight. He gazed at her. “If something violent is happening with Claire, do you agree that you should call the police and let them handle it?”
“I do.”
“And if the situation’s troubling but not violent, like today, and you decide to pick her up, I still think you should bring someone. Me, if I’m in town. But since I’m usually not, maybe Ben. Or Ben’s dad, Hersh.”
“I waited for you today because I agree that it’s important to have someone with me if I’m going to drive a student. For many reasons. One being that I’ll have a corroborating witness should a student try to accuse me of doing something I didn’t do.”
“Right. The bottom line here, though, is that Claire’s dad has a temper and a gun. Please promise me that you won’t go to Claire’s house alone.”
“I promise.”
They were five minutes late to the show. An usher had to scurry them to their seats with a penlight. The predicament with Claire had disturbed Sebastian. But as the musical progressed, she sensed his stress level lowering.
By the time they exited the theater, the storm front had tugged away the rain. They strolled Misty River’s quaint downtown on sidewalks glimmering with puddles. They passed the central park, numerous shops, a smattering of office spaces, The Grind coffee shop, the Doughnut Hut. Sitting together at a table with a view of the steel blue river below, they ate an early dinner at Cork and Knife.
She liked him so foolishly much that she experienced a twist of delight each time she remembered that he’d be in town all week, and she’d get to see him every day.
Leah! she said to herself when he gave her a heated look that sent a warm pulse to the backs of her knees. It’s nice to hang out with him, but it’s fine to be apart, too. It’s not like he’s the most important person in your life. It’s not as if you suddenly have to see him every day or die.
Only the words fell like stones plunking into a hollow barrel. While they might have merit, they possessed no power.
I’ve been thinking about what you said to me,” Leah told Dylan the following day. “About how I’m too strict because I’m trying to control you.”
“Yeah?”
They traveled to church in her car every Sunday, so her brother was, effectively, her hostage until she returned him home and he had access to his bedroom or car keys. After the worship service, she’d brought him here, to a dive called The Junction, in hopes that his desire to fill his belly with fried chicken would make him more amenable to talking with her.
“You made some good points,” she continued. “Perhaps I have been trying to control you in an effort to gain control over my life in general.”
He watched her as he chewed.
She stacked her hands on the booth’s laminate tabletop. “When Doves Cry” played on the jukebox. “I know that God’s the one in control and not me. But it really is easy to labor under the misapprehension—”
“Huh?”
“It really is easy to think that I have some control over what happens to you. The more control I imagine myself to have, the safer I feel.”
She’d done some soul-searching and realized that she’d gotten in the bad habit of relying on herself for the majority of Dylan’s welfare and letting God “assist” with the rest. She wanted to trust God with all of it, as she had when she’d first taken over custody of her brother. And yet . . .
All of it? He was a teenager now, capable of making life-threatening mistakes.
“I don’t want to be a controlling person,” she said. “I want to be a person who trusts God.”
Grease shined on Dylan’s fingertips, which still gripped the chicken. “Does this mean you’re going to let me do more stuff?”
“Potentially, yes. We’ll talk about the things you want to do and decide on a case-by-case basis. I’ll do my best to keep an open mind and view you as what you are now: a high school senior.”
“Almost old enough to vote.”
Lord, help us all.
“This is great timing,” he said. “Braxton’s family is going skiing over Christmas break, and he wants me to come along.”
Lord! Help us all! “Mmm.”
“Also, it would be really cool if you could stop warning me about teenage suicide, drinking, drugs, and everything else.”
“Don’t push your luck, Dylan.”
Dylan took another bite. The crispy skin of his chicken leg crackled. “If you stop all the warnings, I’ll watch Return of the Jedi with you after this.”
“You will?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll take you up on that, darling boy of my heart.”
On Tuesday morning, Sebastian came face to face with a ghost from his past.
He was passing the gas station on the way to Ingles to get groceries when he recognized a blue 1974 Chevy C-10 truck at one of the pumps.
Sebastian U-turned. The C-10 was a beast. A tough-guy’s truck. He parked, walked up to the vehicle, and found it empty. Bracing himself, he pushed his hands into his jeans and waited beneath the cold gray sky.
As expected, Luke Dempsey exited the station’s door. When he saw Sebastian, his expression tightened. Luke came to a halt, facing
Sebastian across two yards of space and two miles of memories.
A powerful sense of déjà vu jerked Sebastian back in time to the earthquake. It had been dim then, too.
The collapsing corridors in that basement hadn’t stopped Luke from trying to run back in the direction they’d come.
Sebastian had lunged forward and grabbed his arm.
“Let me go!” Luke yelled at him. “I have to get my brother.”
“You’ll be crushed.” Luke was one year older, but Sebastian was equally as tall and strong.
Luke wrenched free. But just as he tried to enter the hallway, concrete filled it, blocking it completely.
“No!” Luke had screamed.
All these years later, Luke wore a black motorcycle jacket over a black hoodie and battered jeans. His brown hair was longer than Sebastian had ever seen it—as if he’d had a short haircut nine months ago and hadn’t bothered to trim it since. His five-o’clock shadow was so thick, it had turned into a short beard.
He looked like what he’d become: a man you wouldn’t want to cross. Dangerous.
Even so, Sebastian could see the boy he’d been in the long, aristocratic nose. The sharp, deep-set hazel eyes. The inflexible chin.
They were the same height, though Luke was leaner.
The summer they’d gone on that doomed mission trip, Luke had been the most well-liked, athletic kid in the eighth grade. He’d had every advantage Sebastian had not. A family, a home, upper middle-class money.
Luke’s life had been heading in an upward direction, and Sebastian’s life had been headed down. By the time they left that wrecked building after eight days buried alive together, their trains had jumped tracks. Sebastian’s track had gone up. Luke’s had gone down.
Luke should’ve been a doctor. Sebastian should’ve been a felon.
He couldn’t call Luke a friend, and yet he was more bonded to this man than he was to any of his colleagues or acquaintances.
“How long have you been back?” Sebastian asked.
“A day.”
“Why’d you return?”
“None of your business.”
“I’d like to know.”
Luke regarded Sebastian with impatience. “I have a job lined up in January.”
“What job?”
“A job with an animal rescue charity.”
An animal charity? Sebastian had expected him to say he was going to be working on restoring cars, something he’d been good at once. “Ben, Natasha, Genevieve, and I are meeting for dinner tonight. We’d like for you to join us.”
“No thanks.” He moved to pass.
Sebastian stepped in front of him. “It’s just dinner.” He knew how much it would mean to Natasha and Genevieve, in particular, if Luke would show.
“No.” Luke climbed into his truck and drove off without another word.
After their rescue, when the four of them had repeatedly tried to include him in the things they were doing—traveling to speak to churches, interviews with the media, conversations with the writers who’d handled the book and the screenplay—Luke had refused involvement. Ever since, he’d been stubborn and uncommunicative.
Luke was a pain. And yet there was no way of getting around one fact. Sebastian owed Luke for saving his life.
I’m so bummed that Luke’s not willing to get together with us,” Genevieve said that evening.
Sebastian, Ben, Natasha, and Genevieve were sitting around the table at Natasha’s house, open containers of Thai food standing between their plates. Pad Thai noodles. Rice. Curry shrimp. Beef and basil.
Sebastian had just finished telling them about his interaction with Luke.
“It’s like he’s determined not to acknowledge that we’re awesome,” Ben said.
“When we clearly are,” Genevieve said, “very awesome.”
“‘True humility is not thinking less of yourself; it is thinking of yourself less.’” Natasha winked. “C. S. Lewis quote. It seemed apropos.”
“He hasn’t been open to getting together with us or acknowledging how awesome we are for almost two decades,” Sebastian pointed out. “I think it’s time we accept that’s not going to change.”
Natasha’s fork stopped swirling noodles. “I can’t.”
“Me neither,” Genevieve said. “There’s something within me that simply won’t give up hope of reconnecting with him. He was down there with us. He survived it with us. Only we know what he endured. The fact that he hasn’t been a part of our group since then has been a sore spot in my heart all this time.”
“He told you he was going to work at an animal rescue charity?” Natasha asked Sebastian.
“Right.”
“That seems like a bizarre choice,” Ben said.
“He probably didn’t have many options.” Natasha gave up on the noodles. “Employers aren’t exactly lining up to hire parolees.”
“The only animal rescue charity in town that I know of is Furry Tails,” Ben said.
“Oh!” Genevieve brightened. “Furry Tails is owned by Finley Sutherland. She’s great. She comes out to the farm stand to buy fruit and vegetables almost every weekend. Do any of you know her?”
“I think I’ve met her,” Ben said. “Does she have dark hair?”
“Yes, she looks like a modern-day Snow White. Long black hair. Blue eyes. I love how she dresses . . . very boho chic. She’s definitely a champion of lost causes.”
Sebastian snorted. “Then she’s Luke’s perfect employer.” He checked his watch. He was due at Leah’s soon to watch a movie, and he planned to arrive early.
“Wyatt keeps trying to talk me into visiting Furry Tails and adopting a dog,” Natasha said. “I’ve resisted because if I go, I’ll probably bring home several aging animals. No thank you. My hands are full. I have children.”
“Doesn’t Furry Tails specialize in pug rescue?” Ben asked.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Natasha said.
“Aww,” Genevieve said. “How come you haven’t adopted a pug, Ben? You’d be a great dog owner.”
“You want me to adopt an aging animal?”
“Yes,” the sisters said in unison.
“I wouldn’t want to leave a dog at home all day while I’m working.”
“If it’s aging,” Sebastian pointed out, “it might not mind.”
Genevieve laughed. “Well, in order to see and speak with Luke, a few of us might need to start making regular visits to Furry Tails come January.”
“I’m game,” said Ben, always a team player.
“Not me,” Natasha stated, “for the reasons previously mentioned. But once we figure out where Luke’s living, I’m not above ambushing him there and forcing him into a conversation.”
“If he doesn’t want my friendship,” Sebastian said, “I’m not going to shove it at him.”
Genevieve sliced a shrimp in half. “Speaking of shoving things at people, Leah called me a few weeks ago, Ben. And so, of course, I shoved all your best attributes at her.”
“Anything happening on that front?” Natasha asked.
Ben choked on his water. Sebastian could feel heartburn coming on.
“Can I tell them?” Ben asked Sebastian.
Sebastian nodded.
“So, ladies.” Ben’s face looked like it belonged to a dad who’d been forced to tell his kids about puberty. “Sebastian is dating Leah.”
Genevieve set down her glass and braced her hands on her thighs. “What?”
“Explain everything,” Natasha demanded.
They were going to be here awhile.
Amazing how the chance to see someone for several days in a row could feel like a luxury. But that’s exactly what his days in Misty River had felt like to Sebastian.
His running shoes hit the pavement as he jogged his neighborhood.
He’d arrived here Friday. It was now Wednesday. Six days in a row so far.
Six of his best days.
Because of her.
He could h
ave spent his vacation in Bora Bora or Cairo or London. But there was no place he’d rather be than here. During Leah’s work hours, he slept late, then thought about her while he mowed his lawn or watched soccer or ran errands or did projects around the house. Then, every evening, he got to spend time with her.
Gradually, the pressures of his job had slid off of him. The world had gained color and detail. His lungs could breathe deep. The space suit had gone, and when he was with Leah he was alert, healthy, whole.
Tomorrow after school let out, they planned to go kayaking.
He was already smiling, anticipating it.
As it turned out, kayaking was not to be because, in the early hours of the following morning, Sebastian’s pager yanked him from sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sebastian slit his eyes until the red numbers on his bedside clock came into focus.
3:46 a.m.
With a groan, he pressed himself into a seated position in bed. He was supposed to be on vacation.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, then called in.
“Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Grant.” It was Judy, one of the senior cardiac nurses. “Audrey thinks they may have a heart for Isabella Ackerman.”
Her words swept the cobwebs from his head. “Age of donor?”
“Thirty-three days old.”
“Blood type? Weight? Existing defects?”
She listed the donor’s information. All of it indicated a good fit.
“Cause of death?”
“SIDS. First responders were able to resuscitate. Unfortunately, the infant progressed to brain death.”
“Let’s move forward.” In the past, some of the people in the heart transplant community had been unsure of the efficacy of donor hearts from babies who’d died of sudden infant death syndrome because the mechanism of death in SIDS was unclear. However, recent studies had shown that the prognosis for children who received hearts from SIDS babies was the same as that of other patients.
“Where’s the heart?” he asked.
“Virginia.”
“Who’s the fellow on call?”
“Holmes.”