Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  Owning up to last night isn’t enough to right this wrong.

  I have to break up with Seth.

  Tonight.

  I push the penne and artichokes around with one of my twelve forks. Unfortunately, I don’t believe any of these knives possess a blade sharp enough to cut the tension. Grant hasn’t spoken or made eye contact with me since I returned to the table. And then there was that moment when I was recrossing my legs and my foot inadvertently bumped against him. Grant’s knee banged the underside of the table with so much force it spilled several of the water glasses.

  Jackson peppers the uncomfortable bouts of silence with funny anecdotes. Like when Grant was seven, and convinced all the neighbor kids to petition the tooth fairy to get their teeth back. Or the time Charlotte forced Grant to go to bed with Vaseline on his fingers and socks on his hands to keep his skin from splitting when he practiced guitar too much. There are stories of Seth, too….I just…

  Why can’t I remember them?

  Dinner wears on and Seth’s anxious glances become more frequent. And I can’t tell you what Charlotte’s doing. I’m too afraid to look her in the eye for fear of what I’ll see.

  Which leaves me…dying. The emotional, not to mention astrological, fallout of ending my relationship with Seth has me about fetal. And Seth deserves better. How can I have taken so long to see that we will never work as a couple? My hopes and dreams have turned me into a complete fraud. I don’t love Seth. And I never will. My eyes begin to water.

  “Hey,” Seth whispers, “your eyes are really red. Are you still feeling sick from last night?” You could say that. He rests his hand at the nape of my neck, pulling me completely back to the present. “And you barely touched your food. If you don’t like it, I’m sure we can get you something else.”

  My eyes scan the table and discover everyone’s plate is fairly empty, except mine. “No, the food is great,” I whisper back, making a concerted effort to push down the despair with another bite of pasta. I chew and realize it’s pointless. If I continue force-feeding myself, I risk vomiting over the exquisite china—all seven penne noodles and three quarters of a crostini.

  “Ahem.” Charlotte sets her napkin over her plate. “Why don’t the ladies get some fresh air and the guys handle clearing the dishes, all right?”

  My eyes widen a fraction.

  Gosh. I hadn’t thought there could be a worse sentence than this meal. Turns out I am wrong—alone time with Charlotte will be its own circle of hell. Looks like I’ll pay my penance starting now.

  “Great,” I say with as much brightness as I can muster.

  I follow her down a hall that leads to the patio and swimming pool out back; the walls are decorated with rich, vibrant paintings that bear her initials. I’m about to ask her about them when a small cat darts by, letting out a gravelly meow as it paws at the sliding door. Impatiently the feline doubles back and rubs against my leg. I bend down to scratch its one ear since the other is partly missing. It purrs and raises its kinked tail in appreciation.

  “That’s Bob, Bob Dylan. We let the boys get kittens, oh, maybe ten, eleven years ago. Seth’s cat, Spazz, ran away after a couple of years.” She chuckles, turning her eyes on the blue-gray fuzz ball. “Leave it to Grant to pick out the most damaged but resilient kitten at the shelter.”

  “My grandma’s allergic, so we’ve never been able to have them. But Bob seems like a very sweet kitty,” I say, stroking his velvety fur. He purrs to the point of rattling his organs.

  “Well, he is, and he’ll probably outlive us all.” Charlotte tilts her head. “I can see you’ve got a soft spot for those damaged, resilient types, too.”

  “I guess I do.” I rise, brushing the cat hair from my hands.

  She slides open the door. “Off you go, Bob.” He shoots out the door and vanishes under a trellis of climbing roses.

  We step outside. Charlotte kicks off her jeweled sandals, then glances where I stand unmoving. “You know, the water’s a lot nicer with your shoes off.” She bends, rolling up her linen pants as I panic over whether she’s about to fit me with cinder blocks. The indecision must be a neon sign on my face. “Unless you’d rather go back inside?”

  Um, no. Actually, I’d rather stick a hot poker in my eye. Repeatedly. So I take my chances with the cinder blocks and slip off my shoes.

  There’s the soft plunk of her feet submerging in the pool; she looks up expectantly.

  I settle beside her at the pool’s edge, sucking in a breath at the chill of the cool water contrasting with the balmy air.

  “Refreshing, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I answer, my head tilting upward. But the cloud cover’s too dense to know what the stars are trying to tell me, leaving me abandoned in my hour of need.

  “They’ve said that about you….Your interest in the sky,” she says, and swishes her feet in the water. Crickets in the nearby shrubs continue their cadence. “Seth mentioned your mother was really into the stars. Astronomy? Or was it astrology?” She pauses, waiting for me to interject.

  But I don’t trust myself to speak, because even though I’m not wearing cinder blocks for shoes, I suddenly feel like I’m drowning. Swirling in a torrent of emotions.

  “I—I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just…” Charlotte hesitates. “I remember when it happened, the accident,” she clarifies. Much of Carlisle did. Eleven years ago the tragic car crash was all over TV and the newspapers Gram had tried to hide. “I’m sorry, Wil. I imagine you must still miss her terribly.”

  I nod, staring at my pale feet as they churn the water.

  Charlotte tips her chin upward. “I can understand why the stars would be important to you.”

  “Yes.”

  The grief builds in my chest, threatening to crack it open and make itself known. But I won’t let it. I’ve spent too many years keeping it in check. Too many years believing there must be a divine reason behind everything that happens.

  “You’re a sweet girl, and you deserve every happiness in life.” She lets out a weighted sigh. “Just like my boys.”

  Her boys? I snap my gaze to hers. But her golden eyes give away nothing. I wonder what she sees in mine. Regret? Sadness? Does she see that my presence could never deliver happiness—for either son—no matter how hard I wished it could be different?

  “Charlotte, I…I want you to know that I—” At that moment, the patio door slides open, and as it shuts, so does my mouth. A prickle of anticipation crawls over my skin.

  Charlotte peers uncertainly over her shoulder. Her teeth catch and hold her lower lip, until finally, she speaks. “I’m sorry. If, uh, you’ll excuse me, Wil, I believe I’m needed inside.” The percussive sound of her wet feet slapping against the concrete accentuates the speed of her departure.

  And I feel his advance the way I always do. Take away all of my senses, and I could still detect the very second Grant Walker came near.

  “We need to talk.” His voice is stony.

  “You said you didn’t want to.” I wipe a renegade tear from my face, and draw my feet from the cold water. Which has left me numb, or maybe it’s more the certainty of my actions that’s left behind this cold dread. I stand, slowly turning to face him.

  Grant stops twisting his leather cuff. “I didn’t…I don’t, but…Wil, what are you doing?” The question is far from simple, but I treat it as though it were.

  “Nothing,” I say dully. “I have to find Seth.” Because I have to end this, finish it quickly, like the ripping of a Band-Aid. I move toward the house and Grant catches my arm. His touch feels like its own tattoo on my skin. It always has.

  “So, what…you’re just going to carry on with him? Like nothing happened?”

  “No! I—”

  “Do you have any idea how messed up that was? Sitting across the table while my brother whispered in your ear and put his hands on you. Watching while you smiled and played the part of his girlfriend. Knowing less than twenty-four hours ago, you were in my arms”—he sl
aps his chest—“my arms, Wil.”

  I jerk free of him. “Do you really think sitting at that dinner table was fun for me, Grant? Because if you do, then you don’t know me at all.” But anger doesn’t cleanse the anguish from my tone, the hurt that he could think I’d take pleasure from this kind of pain. “I’m finding Seth and doing what I should have done weeks ago.”

  He crosses his arms. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

  “I’m walking away—from you, from Seth, from your lovely”—my voice breaks—“family. Because there is no other way for this to—”

  “Bullshit. You’re running.” He blocks my path, taking my face in his hands. “Wil.” He pauses. “Goddammit, I told myself I wouldn’t do this. But…look at me right now and tell me you don’t want me. Tell me you don’t think about how right we are together. Tell me every second together hasn’t been the most amazing—”

  “N-no, no, you’re wrong.” I shut my eyes, because when I see Grant, he makes me doubt every truth I’ve ever believed. He makes me doubt the stars above.

  “Look at me, Mena”—he gently draws my face closer, stroking my cheek—“and tell me you don’t feel something real for me. Tell me that—and I’ll walk away.”

  What do I say to that? I’ll never know. Because when I open my eyes…

  Grant’s not there.

  “You backstabbing son of a bitch!” Seth shouts at the sloshing water. He circles the pool, where he’s shoved his brother in.

  Grant explodes from the water’s surface, flicking back his hair. He draws a ragged breath and coughs. “I’m the son of a bitch?” He wipes a hand down his face. “Do you ever, for one second, think of anyone beside yourself? Huh?”

  Seth is positively seething, clenching and unclenching his hands, itching for a fight. “You swore you wouldn’t talk to her anymore! Promised you’d leave her alone! Admit it, Grant”—his voice a low growl—“you’ve been wanting my girlfriend from the minute we started dating.”

  “You’re wrong,” Grant sneers. “It was way before that. But you were too selfish and blind to see it. So?” he taunts. “What are you gonna do about it?”

  “Bastard,” Seth hisses, and dives in the pool.

  “No!” I scream. “Stop it!” I race to the water’s edge as the punches start flying. The sickening smack of flesh on flesh overrides the peaceful night sounds. “Stop!” I shout at the top of my lungs. They ignore me, going about beating the tar out of each other.

  Lunacy! Grabbing a neon-green pool noodle, I dive into the chilly water and commence whacking the living daylights out of both of them.

  We are all shouting at each other—so loudly I don’t know who’s saying what. And my pool noodle’s whistling through the air as it slaps their bodies in a vain attempt to end the madness.

  “Enough!” Charlotte’s cry carries over the mayhem. We freeze, soaking and gasping for air. Under different circumstances this might be comical. But no one sees the humor in it now. “What has gotten into all of you?”

  I’m first to speak as the guys work to regain their breath. Grant has a thin stream of blood at the corner of his mouth, and Seth has the makings of a shiner coming on. “Sorry,” I wheeze, “it’s my…I’m so sorry.” My dress feels like fifty pounds of sopping material as I trudge through the waist-deep water toward the steps. I hold my arms over my chest since the fabric has become embarrassingly sheer.

  A deep frown mars Jackson’s face as he takes in the scene. He drags his gaze from Seth and Grant, who are doing their own damage assessments as they slog from the pool. Opening a colorful beach towel, he wraps it around my shoulders. I clutch the fluffy cotton to my shivering body. It smells like dryer sheets—like Grant.

  “Wil, please accept my apology for both my sons’ behavior tonight.” He tosses a towel to each of them, which they clumsily catch. “I expected a lot more from you two.”

  Seth peels off his soaked dress shirt, flinging it over a nearby chair. “And I expected more from that lying sack that’s my brother,” he retorts in disgust.

  Grant glowers as he dabs at his mouth with the bottom of his wet T-shirt.

  Charlotte tilts Seth’s head into the patio light to inspect his eye. “I said enough, Seth, and I mean it.”

  He winces, pulling back. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “So is anyone going to explain what started all this?” Jackson asks.

  After a quick glance in my direction, Charlotte shakes her head at her husband.

  There I stand, still shivering in my shell shock. Weeks of mounting pressure have finally given way to a mass explosion. And my presence tonight all but pushed that button. I break from my trance.

  I move as silently as my sodden dress allows, collecting my shoes and purse and briskly walking toward the gate. Jackson continues giving the brothers an earful while Charlotte assesses Grant’s injury, allowing me to slip away undetected. Until the hinges of the wrought-iron gate let out a rusty cry.

  Damn!

  I take off at a run. The towel billows like a cape in my wake.

  “Wil!” Seth hollers.

  I pick up my pace along the winding sidewalk lined with cypress trees. The Buick is now within my sight.

  Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving.

  Footsteps rush up behind me. “Hey, wait! Hold on!” Seth grabs my shoulder.

  I whirl around to face him. Tears sting my eyes; I’m not strong enough to dam them for much longer. “Why? Why would you want me here? All it’s doing is tearing up your family!”

  “Wil, it’s not your—”

  “Look at you! You have a black eye—from your own brother.” As long as I’m standing here flayed and mortally wounded, I’d rather bleed out completely than suffer a slow death. “I can’t…” A sob breaks loose. I cup a hand to my mouth, choking and swaying my head. I try one more time. “I’m sorry. I can’t be with you, Seth. Now…or ever.”

  Seth looks gut-punched as he swallows. “No, you don’t mean that.” But his tone is unconvincing. “You’re just upset. Come here.” He tries to pull me to his chest, but I recoil. “Baby, I’m sorry, that was stupid. Grant and me…I don’t know—we’ll figure it out. We will.”

  And I believe him. Just not with me in the picture. I place a shaking hand to his warm chest, and gaze up through blurry eyes. “Do something for me?”

  “Name it,” he whispers, wiping the tears trickling down my cheeks. “I would do anything for you.”

  The part of me wanting to confess what transpired in the gardens is dominated by my awareness of the selfishness of the action. Unburdening myself at this point would only be cruel.

  I pull Seth close enough to lay a kiss on his chlorine-scented cheek. “Forget me.” The two words escape like wisps of smoke; the tendrils of their meaning hold Seth in suspended animation.

  Dropping the towel, I wrench the Buick’s door open, then slide behind the wheel, pulling the door shut and hitting the auto lock.

  Seth pounds on my window. “Don’t do this! You’re upset…you…don’t leave like this! You don’t mean it! Come back, Wil!”

  The floodgates open. Hot, salty tears cascade over my cheeks and fall to my chest. I throw the Buick in reverse, peeling out of the driveway.

  The last image is of Grant in my rearview mirror, barefoot, his wet clothes clinging to his body. He stands beside a cypress tree under the glow of the porch lights, and watches me fade into the night.

  Something’s wrong. Gram never sits idly on the porch swing without a book, or crossword, or a notepad where she’s scribbling down her latest confectionary stroke of genius. And more unsettling—she sits in darkness. I recheck the time before getting out of the car. I’m not late, even with my aimless driving and gas station pit stop. I must’ve punched that hand dryer button twenty times to get my dress somewhere in the vicinity of dry.

  I gather the wads of napkins I’ve been crying in from the passenger seat, shoving them in my purse. The half-moons of mascara remain stubbornly beneath my eyes. But between
night’s veil and Gram’s questionable eyesight, it’s likely she won’t notice anything amiss in my appearance anyway. Which is good, because I’m not ready to talk about it.

  The front steps protest with their usual groans when I climb them. “Gram? What’re you doing out here in the dark?”

  She doesn’t glance in my direction. Instead, she fixes those steely blues on the tinkling wind chime hanging from the porch ceiling. “I’m sitting here wondering where I went wrong with you, Wilamena Grace.”

  “I—what?” Okay, that is about the last answer I expected, and the first to strike a whole lot of fear in the worn-out organ miraculously thumping in my chest. And she used my middle name—Mama’s name. That heightens my alarm more than any line on her face could. My mind flips through the possibilities like the rapid shuffle of a card deck.

  She gently rocks in the swing. Patient. Waiting. Confident I’ll unpuzzle the meaning of her words. And still, she doesn’t look at me.

  Then it clicks. Oh…no.

  “The dress,” I blurt, drooping against the porch railing. In my mind’s eye, I see the balled-up green dress carelessly left in my overnight bag along with all the other damning evidence.

  Gram ceases her rocking. “Course, I’ve gotta ask myself what a girl who’s having a sleepover would need with a fancy dress. Do you know what I came up with?”

  The question’s unwinnable. So I don’t answer.

  “There was no girls’ night in. Was there, Wilamena? You lied to me. I trusted you, and you broke that trust with your lies.”

  Beneath my haze of exhaustion are the fiery sparks of anger. I push off from the rail. “But…you went through my things! How can you sit there lecturing me about trust?”

  “Child, don’t change the subject!” Gram booms.

  “But—”

  She holds up a hand. “No!” She takes a steadying breath. “Wilamena Grace, you are grounded. So grounded you’ll be tasting the dirt through summer’s end. Do you hear me?”

  My anger ignites. “You can’t! Gram, you have no idea what I’ve been through tonight! None! And I’m practically eighteen! I have a right—”