The Fear of Letting Go

by Sarra Cannon

  “You? Kick the shit out of me? You're joking right?” Jason laughs again and takes another step toward Preston.

  I don't like the way the tension out here keeps building, and I definitely don't want to see a fight break out between these two. I've been called a lot worse than a whore and a loser in my life, and I know myself well enough to know I'm neither of those things. It isn't worth fighting over.

  I tug on Preston's arm, but he shrugs me off.

  “Don't test me, Jason,” he says. “Let me call you a cab, so y'all can get home safely.”

  He pulls his cell phone from his pocket, but Jason smacks his hand and the phone goes flying to the pavement, the screen cracking as it hits.

  Preston's jaw tenses and his hand closes into a fist, but he doesn't throw a punch. “I'm going to let that slide, because you're obviously a stupid drunk, but you need to get your act together before you really piss me off.”

  “Oh yeah?” Jason says. He looks back at his friends as if to say watch this. “You want to know what I think of your girlfriend, here? I think she must be one amazing fuck if you're willing to stand up for a piece of trash like her.”

  Preston rears his fist back and sends it flying through the air at Jason's face. It lands with a loud thud and Jason falls back three steps until his butt hits the door of his car. Preston opens his fist and shakes it out.

  “I warned you, man,” he says.

  Jason shakes his head and takes a moment to recover before taking his revenge. He's shorter than Preston by a couple of inches, but he's bigger in every other way. His meaty fist flies toward Preston, but he's too slow and Preston easily side-steps him and grabs his wrist, pulling it behind Jason's back. He puts his other hand on the back of Jason's neck and forces him to bend forward.

  Jason curses and tries to pull away, but Preston has a good hold on him now. The two girls and the other guy get out of the car, but thankfully don't join the fight.

  I stand there watching them, my mouth open in disbelief. I have never had a guy stand up for me like this, and even though I'm normally the kind of girl who likes to fight her own battles, I'm glad Preston was here when I walked out into this parking lot tonight. Had these guys been out here waiting for me to get off work?

  “Don't you ever talk about Jenna like that again, you understand me?” he says.

  “Shit, man, I'm sorry,” Jason says. “I was just joking around.”

  “Here's what's going to happen,” Preston says calmly. “First, you're going to hand over your car keys. Second, you're going to let me call you a cab so you can go home and sober up. Third, you're never going to speak to me or my friends again until you get yourself some manners. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  “Fine, whatever, just let me go. You're hurting me.”

  Preston lets go and pushes Jason toward his car. He holds his hand out flat. “Keys.”

  Jason rubs his face where Preston hit him and reaches into the car to grab his keys. He dumps them in Preston's palm.

  I bend down and retrieve Preston's cell from the asphalt, but there's a huge maze of cracks all along the screen. It won't turn on, so I take mine out of my apron and hand it to him instead.

  He makes a quick call to the local cab company and throws a twenty on the ground at Jason's feet. For the second time this week, I'm impressed at how well Preston handles even the toughest situations.

  “Don't call my dad, okay?” the Sheriff's daughter pleads with Preston. “He'll kill me if he finds out I've been drinking tonight.”

  Preston doesn't answer the girl. He turns and tosses me the keys to Jason's car. “Do you mind parking that really quick?”

  I catch the keys and nod. “Sure,” I say.

  I pull the car into a parking spot near the front entrance and lock it up. With the keys still inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jenna

  Preston and I climb into his car and leave the restaurant—and the four jerks still waiting outside—in the dust.

  “Does that kind of stuff happen to you a lot?” he asks.

  I shake my head. My heart's still pounding from the confrontation. “First time,” I say. “Thank God you were out there. I don't know what I would have done if I was out there alone. I park out back where it's much darker. Do you think they were out there waiting for me to get off my shift?”

  “I don't know,” he says. “It sounded like they were drinking out in the parking lot, though. Who knows.”

  “So, you're friends with that Jason guy?” I really hope the answer is no.

  Preston makes a face. “Friend is too strong a word. We went to high school together, and we've been at a lot of the same parties over the years, but I wouldn't really say we were friends. And definitely not after tonight. What a douche.”

  I laugh. “You handled it well,” I say. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “One perk of having money. You get to send your kids to classes like karate and kickboxing instead of actually spending time with them,” he says. His jaw tenses, and after our conversation about how his parents ignored him even on vacations, I take it this is a really sore spot for him.

  “Well, my parents were poor and they still didn't spend any time with me,” I say, leaning back against the seat. “I did fun things like stealing my dad's lighter and burning grass and leaves in the backyard. Totally not as cool as karate lessons.”

  Preston laughs and looks over, a flash of something in his eyes that makes my stomach flip. He takes my hand and squeezes it before having to take it back to shift gears.

  “Where do you want to go for this big talk we're going to have, anyway?” he asks. “Want to just go back to my place?”

  “Let's go somewhere neutral,” I say. “Like the beach. But first, I need to go home and change clothes.”

  He turns on Main Street and navigates to the side of town where my apartment is. I don't say much the rest of the ride, wondering just how big of a talk this is going to turn into. Things were so much easier when I had my walls up and thought there was no chance of a relationship between us. Talking about my past, and why his gifts bother me so much, makes me a lot more nervous. Those are the types of conversations that either lead to pity or dumping, or at the very least some kind of discussion about where this is all heading between us. I'm not sure I'm ready to go there.

  He parks in front of my apartment building and I jump out. “I'll be right back.”

  “Wait,” he says. He opens his door and gets out. “I'm coming with you. I've never seen your apartment before.”

  I stand there, open-mouthed for a second. “Um, it's not exactly the Taj Mahal or anything,” I say. “You're not missing anything, I promise.”

  “I want to see your paper art,” he says.

  I take a deep breath. He really was paying attention the other night. “Okay, but you stay in the living room. No peeking.”

  He laughs and follows me up the stairs to my door. I live on the second floor, just a few doors down from Leigh Anne. The apartments are small and nowhere near as fancy as where Preston lives, but I'm proud of my place, simply because it's mine. I know someone like Preston could never understand that, and I hate that there's this awkward feeling of shame as I open the door.

  No, not exactly shame. Maybe embarrassment is a better word. I'm embarrassed over things that normally wouldn't matter to me, like the fact that I got every single piece of furniture at Goodwill or yard sales on the cheap. There's a large scar across the entire top of my small kitchen table, which is the only reason I got the set for less than fifty dollars. The couch pulls out, which is a nice bonus if someone needs to come stay with me, but the upholstery is stained with wine or juice on one side and the cushions are well-used. I flip the lights on and can't help but glance at him to see his expression as he takes it all in.

  Everything is neat and tidy, but I don't think there's one thing here that isn't used.

  I stifle the desire to make apologies, almost angry that
I feel the need to make excuses about the quality of my things. Why the heck am I bringing someone into my home if they are going to make me feel bad about what I have?

  But Preston doesn't seem to mind the furniture. Instead, he walks over to a picture sitting on the bar, a smile growing on his face. “Is this you?”

  I make a face. “Yes.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Six or seven, I think.” It's a picture of me in my parents' backyard. They had gotten one of those little plastic baby pools at Walmart that summer, and I think I spent every single day sitting in it, pretending I was some glamorous starlet sitting by her pool in L.A. In the picture, I have on a bathing suit that's already way too small—probably another hand-me-down I'd already been wearing for two summers—and a pair of cheap sunglasses. A pair of long clip-on earrings dangle from my ears and my arm is full of bangle bracelets. My legs are crossed and I'm holding a cup of juice up like it's a martini, a toothless smile plastered on my face.

  “I love it,” he says. “You have such a great smile. You look really happy.”

  I bite the inside of my lip. I do look happy. That's one of the reasons I love that picture and keep it with me, to remind myself that it's not healthy to remember only the bad things. Sometimes as a child, I was happy.

  “Have a seat if you want,” I say. “There's beer in the fridge if you want one. I'm gonna go change.”

  “You sure you don't want some help?” He smiles and wiggles his eyebrows.

  I laugh and shake my head. “I'm sure.”

  I head toward the one bedroom in the apartment, glancing back at him before I disappear inside. He's still staring at the picture of me, a smile on his lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Preston

  Jenna's smile gets me every time. Even as a child, she had something special. A charisma that reaches down inside you and pulls the joy from your heart. I set the picture down on the bar and look around to see if there are more pictures, but this is the only one from her childhood. There's a picture of her and Leigh Anne, out at Knox's from last summer, on the side table by the couch, and a framed picture someone took of all of us around Christmas last year at a party at Knox's bar.

  There are no other pictures of her family or childhood.

  I don't see any of her paper art out here in the main room, and I wonder if she keeps it hidden in her bedroom. The thought of her naked in there is incredibly distracting, but I hope, after she gets dressed, she'll let me in to take a look at some of her work.

  Her phone rings and I turn, looking for it. It's sitting on the table with her apron, and I call out to her. “Jenna, it's your phone. Want me to get it?”

  “What?” she calls back, her voice muffled through the door.

  I cross over to the table and pick the phone up just as it stops ringing. The caller ID says Dylan, and underneath, it says there are eighteen missed calls from him. I stare at the name. Who the heck is Dylan, and why is he calling her so much?

  Jenna pokes her head around the corner, a smile on her face. “What did you say?”

  She sees the phone in my hand and frowns.

  “I'm sorry,” I say, setting it back down on the table. I wish I hadn't seen this or picked it up. “I said your phone was ringing. Who's Dylan?”

  Her eyes darken and she takes a deep breath. “Hang on, I'll be out in a second.”

  I step away from the table and wait for her, worry growing in my stomach. From the darkness of her expression, there's something going on with this Dylan guy, whoever he is. An old boyfriend? Jenna and I have never had the “ex” talk before, mostly because she already knows about my two exes. Other than Leigh Anne and Bailey, I have only ever dated a handful of girls and never went beyond a first or second date with any of them.

  I don't know the first thing about Jenna's past, but I can't shake the feeling that her past just called.

  When she comes out of her room, she's wearing a pair of faded jeans, torn at the knee, and a baggy, off-white sweater that hangs down off one shoulder in the sexiest way. A large black tattoo of roses and other flowers covers her shoulder. The sleeves of the sweater hide her hands and she brings them up over her middle.

  “Dylan is part of what I wanted us to talk about tonight,” she says. “But not here. Let's go to the beach. It's nice out tonight.”

  I nod, and let her gather her things. I don't want to push her about the artwork now. I just hope after tonight, I'm invited over to her apartment a lot more often.

  We drive in silence to the beach and start walking. I have brought her out to a section of my family's private beaches so we won't be bothered by anyone. The wind is strong, but it's not too cold out. The sky is completely clear, a million stars overhead as we walk a good hundred yards without talking. I am carrying a blanket I pulled from the trunk of my car, and I nod to a spot just out of reach of the waves.

  “Want to sit for a while?” I ask.

  Other than the night of the tornado, things between Jenna and me have been carefree and fun. Weightless. But there's a heaviness tonight, as if the words yet to be spoken between us carry the ghosts of our past. As if what we say tonight determines the rest of us, and what we might become.

  “Sure,” she says. She still has her arms wrapped around her body like a shield, or a barrier. As if to say—keep your distance.

  I lay the blanket out on the sand and sit, giving her plenty of space.

  Jenna sits across from me, her knees up and her body bent over them, all closed up. She's staring out at the water instead of me, and I hold my fists tight, wondering what could possibly be so bad or so serious that she's shutting down like this. How can I make her feel more comfortable? How can I let her know I'm ready to hear what she has to say, without making her feel rushed?

  I turn my body toward the ocean, my legs straight out with my hands behind me, propping me up.

  “I love the beach in the spring,” I say. “The water's too cold to bring the tourists, yet, but the air is getting warmer. It's peaceful.”

  “I used to come to the beach a lot when I first moved here,” she says. She rests her chin on her crossed arms and stares out at the waves. “I love it out here at night, when no one's around. I love that feeling of just being invisible, as if no one in the world knows where you are or what you're doing at that moment. It's like a secret between me and the universe.”

  I don't miss her reference to being invisible. Didn't she say something similar at the water tower? She chooses such lonely places sometimes, which is the opposite of what I would have guessed about her a few weeks ago. She's always so full of life. Why would she want to feel invisible?

  “Do you still come out here?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Not as much,” she says. “Too much work and not enough time. But it's nice.”

  I want so badly to touch her, but I know now is not the time. I have so many questions, but I have no idea how to get her to talk about the things that matter. So I give her time, letting her stare and think and be. After a long stretch of silence, I notice there are tears on her cheeks.

  “Jenna, you can talk to me,” I say. “I know you think I'm just some rich kid, who has no idea what you've been through, and you're probably right, but that doesn't mean I don't care. I want to understand what I did wrong so I don't do it again.”

  She turns her head to the side and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, still wrapped around her hands. “I try to avoid these kinds of conversations at all costs,” she says. “But I can't keep denying there's something going on between us.”

  When she looks back toward me, our eyes lock and my mouth goes dry.

  “I want there to be more,” I say.

  “Me too, but I'm scared,” she says. “Preston, you and I come from worlds that are so unbelievably opposite from each other, I don't even know where to begin. This is all happening so fast.”

  I don't know what to say. I'm scared, too, but my fear comes from a different place. I'm not a
fraid to be with her. I'm afraid to lose her.

  “Dylan is my brother,” she says.

  I sit up and turn my body toward her, one arm slung over my knee. “I thought maybe he was an ex-boyfriend or something,” I say. “I wasn't trying to be nosy, but I asked if you wanted me to answer it and when I picked it up, it stopped ringing. It said there were almost twenty missed calls from him. Is something going on between you two?”

  “He's been calling me a lot lately, but I can't bring myself to pick up the phone,” she says. “Sometimes he leaves messages saying I need to call him back, but I never do.”

  “Why not?” I try to think of any reason I would ever avoid Penny's calls. We've had our arguments and our differences, but they never last long between us.

  “Things with my family are very complicated,” she says. She doesn't offer more, and I can sense her fear and hesitation. I wish I knew how to comfort her.

  “Jenna, I know this can't be easy to talk about, but I want to know where you're coming from. I want to understand what you're so afraid of,” I say. “I want to take this to the next level, but that means you need to tell me what's going on in your head. There's no question we have a lot of fun together and there's this connection between us that can't be denied, but that's all surface stuff. You have to let me in. What are you so afraid of?”

  She closes her eyes and her jaw tightens. “Preston, I know this is not something you can relate to, but I have worked so hard to build a life for myself. I had to fight and work for every single thing I have right now. My scholarship. My apartment. My independence. As long as I can focus on those things, I know I'm going to be okay,” she says. “But I wasn't counting on this. Whatever it is we have, it's so completely unexpected. I didn't plan to meet someone like you, and have actual feelings that went beyond a good time. I don't know how to deal with this.”

  “So, you're scared if you let me in, I'll somehow ruin what you've got going? That doesn't even make any sense.”