by Beth Michele
“Thank you, Gran.” I rub the smooth, tarnished silver between my fingers. “This means a lot to me.”
She reaches across the table and covers my hand with her own. “You’re so much like your grandfather, Dylan. You have that same kind heart and gentle spirit. Sometimes you try to hide it,” she purses her lips then ends on a smile, “but little do you know, it shines right through. And now,” she pats my hand, then stands up, “I’m going to head home before you need to mop up the floor from my tears.”
She leaves me in the kitchen holding a piece of my grandfather—and a reminder that every second matters.
“Okay.” She rolls her pink suitcase to the door. “I think I’ve got everything. I’m going to swing by the diner on my way and say goodbye to Jordan. Now, give your grandma a hug, and make it fast. You know I take issue with goodbyes.”
I throw my arms around her neck and she embraces me—the way she always has. An overwhelming sensation of loss forces my arms to tighten around her. “I’m going to miss you, Gran. I love having you here. Even if it means I can’t drink from the carton or swear.” She laughs and gives me a gentle squeeze.
“I’m going to miss you, too. But I’ll be back soon, I promise.” She pulls herself away and points to her eye. “You see this?” A tear falls and she swipes it with her finger. “I have to go. And no walking me out.”
“Okay,” I agree as she opens the door. “Hey, Gran?”
“Yes?” She stops just short of the porch and swivels around.
“Thank you for this.” I hold up the pocket watch and a soft smile touches her lips.
“Oh, and Dylan. Give Jordan some time. He’ll come around, you’ll see.”
I watch her back out of the driveway and already it doesn’t feel the same without her. Suddenly our small house is way too big. Something resembling sadness yanks on my gut, but I refuse to let it get to me. I have to remember, she’s not gone forever.
Not like everyone else.
THE SMELL OF car fumes and gasoline invade my nose as I enter Braden’s shop. Tools litter the ground, the sound of AC/DC blaring from an old radio. Two thick jean-clad legs are sticking out from the base of a pretty fabulous-looking old Corvette.
“Yo, Braden!” I call out, and he rolls himself out from under the car, covered in grease and oil.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” He rises up from the creeper, grabs a cloth from the counter and wipes his hands.
“I never did drop off the truck, so I wanted to see if you had some time next week.” He motions toward the office and I follow behind him, taking a seat in a chair across from his desk.
His own chair creaks as he slams his huge body down on to it. He opens up a screen on his computer, then glances over at me. “Just tell me when you want to bring it in, you know I’ll make the time.”
“Maybe next Wednesday?”
“Sure, that works.” He gets busy typing on the keyboard, but adds, “I can give you a lift over to the diner after.”
“Cool. So hey,” he swivels his chair around and I nod my chin toward the Corvette, “that’s a sweet ride, what year is that?”
“That’s a nineteen-seventy LT-1, my friend,” he points out, picking up a model car on his desk, “that baby is powered by a three hundred and seventy horsepower, small-block V-eight engine.”
“Holy shit.”
“Right. A friend of mine brought it in.” He lets out a devious laugh. “He’s lucky I don’t make off with it. I’d kill to have that car, especially that year. Imagine the chicks I could score with that baby.” His eyes flick to the car, then back to me.
“Anyway, on to more important things.” He kicks his feet up on the desk, his dirty work boots pointing in my direction. “You look pretty content. If your disappearance the other night is any indication, I’m assuming you finally manned up and got some action, and I say halle-fucking-lujah to that.”
“Like I’m going to tell you in detail if I did?”
“Fuck yes.” His boots hit the ground and his large frame looms over the desk. “You had no issue telling me about Tamara’s snatch, or the time you fucked April in the boy’s bathroom.”
“Okay.” I screw up my face and halt him with my hand. “I think we’re done here. This is Evie, Braden. Sorry, but you’re going to have to remain in the dark on this one.”
“Why that’s very surreptitious of you,” he expresses confidently, and I stare at him like he’s grown a third eye. “What?”
“Surreptitious? Since when do you use big words?” I laugh, ducking my head when he tosses a balled-up piece of paper at my face.
“Since Nora used the word the other night and I went home and looked it up. She’s smart as shit, that girl… and cute, too.”
“Yeah, watch out for her though,” I recline back in my chair, “she’s like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If you’re not careful she’ll end up dissecting you like a frog in ninth grade biology class.”
“I don’t have to worry about it anyway. I asked her if she wanted to go out and she turned me down.” His mouth twists in disappointment and it makes me hesitate for a second.
“Wow, that’s surprising,” I chuckle, “I didn’t think she was that picky.”
“Shut the fuck up, asshole.” He shoots me a devilish grin. “I don’t give up that easy. You should know that by now.”
“Ah, shit,” I check the time on the wall clock, “I’ve gotta go to work.” I stand up and he walks me outside. “Do you want to maybe hang out tonight? We haven’t spent much time together lately and I’m feeling neglected.” I give him what Gran used to call my ‘puppy dog eyes’ and he shoves me away.
“Did anyone ever tell you, you’re an asshole? And you’re pretty cocky now that you’ve got the girl.”
“Not just the girl. The girl of my freaking dreams.” I shoot him with my thumb and forefinger. “I’ll catch ya later.”
MY MIND IS on Evie as I make my way into the diner and collide with a body attached to a curtain of black hair. I glance up to discover it’s The Raven.
“Oh, hey, Dylan.” She touches the sleeve of my shirt. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Warning bells go off in my head and my senses kick into high gear. If she’s about to make a move on me, this won’t end well. “Sure.”
She chews on the corner of her lip. “I just wanted to apologize for kind of accosting you that night at Jamie’s party, and to let you know that I’m not with Jordan by default. I actually really like him.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “He makes me laugh.”
I let out a relieved breath. After all, this is my brother we’re talking about, and I don’t want her fucking with his head.
“Yeah, well, that’s good, because he likes you back.” My answer sounds like I’m in middle school. But really, what changes? Yeah, we get older, saddled with responsibility that we never asked for, but the feelings, they don’t change. Of course, now I’m not talking about Jordan anymore.
“I’m glad.” Her cheeks turn almost as red as her lipstick, and she smiles. “Okay, well, see ya, Dylan.”
“Yup, later.”
The kitchen is bustling and Jordy is shouting out orders to anyone who will listen. He spots me and waves a metal spoon in the air. “Thank God. He’s here. Okay, Dylan. I need you to wait tables today. Two of the servers called in sick.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “Thanks.”
Before I walk out to face the crowd of starving people, I send Evie a text. I can’t stop thinking about her.
His thoughts of her were always in swirls of bright color; crisp oranges and golden yellows like the sun, because her beauty was blinding.
I don’t wait for her to respond. The hungry stares I’m getting from customers is enough to make me snap to and start taking orders.
The morning goes by pretty fast with a steady flow of people, and I have to admit, it’s nice being on the floor for a change and not back in the kitchen. I take a break that ends quickly when Wanda informs me the lunch crowd is pouring in. Inform may n
ot be a strong enough word.
“Get your fine little ass out there, Dylan,” she calls to me, and I hurry away from her so I can avoid the hand that’s now coming toward my ass.
“I’m on it.” I snatch a bunch of menus from the holder by the register as my phone pings a message. I grin like a freaking idiot when I see it’s from Evie.
That made me smile. Thinking about you. Really busy today.
Here, also. Thinking about you too, baby.
I shove the phone in my jeans and get back to work. As I approach one of the tables, I hear a familiar voice.
“Dylan Reid?”
When my eyes find the source, I’m surprised to see Mr. Thomson, the head of the program for troubled teens. It’s been several years since I’ve seen him. His hair is slightly grayer than I remember, and there are a few more creases around his hazel eyes. That familiar cleft in his chin remains the same.
“It is you.” He smiles, revealing a chipped front tooth. On anyone else, it might look odd, but for some reason on him it seems to add character. “Still building rockets, son?”
“Yes sir, I am.” I tap the pencil against my cheek with a grateful smile. “And I have you to thank for that.”
“Well,” he chuckles, a deep belly laugh that I remember so well, “first of all, Dylan, you don’t need to call me sir anymore. I think you’re old enough to call me Tim, and second, it’s nice that you’re thankful now.” He emphasizes that last word with a grin. “Someone wasn’t so thankful when I set one on the table at the center and he shoved the box onto the floor. If I remember correctly, the pieces flew all over the place and you refused to pick them up.”
“I was quite the little shit, wasn’t I?” There’s nothing in my tone that exudes pride, if anything, it’s quite the opposite.
“Not really. Just rebellious, and rightfully so. But none of that is important, it’s who you are now, that matters,” he adds with an encouraging nod of his head.
“Yeah,” I respond, but my voice betrays my conviction. I’m still not sure who I am. Sometimes, I can’t separate my own opinion of myself from my father’s words.
It sounds terrible, but there are times where I wish he had hit me. Because bruises turn black and blue, but ultimately they heal. Whereas words, in my opinion, go so much deeper, cutting through layers of skin, hitting bone. They build a foundation filled with cracks, leading to a road paved with self-doubt, and even lower self-esteem.
“Dylan?”
“Yeah, I’m here. So, what do you hear from Luke? We hung out for a while, but then lost touch about two years ago.”
Luke also had a fucked-up home life, suffering abuse, mostly at the hands of his father. When we first met, we were like oil and water, rubbing each other the wrong way at every turn. We were both so angry which didn’t lend well to forming any sort of a bond. But over time, that changed, when we realized we had quite a bit in common—and after we had taken our frustration out on one another.
He winces, the expression on his face falling. “Luke,” he expels a troubled sigh, “Luke passed away, Dylan.”
I hear his words, but am unable to digest them.
“What did you say?” I have to ask the question, hoping that I heard him wrong. Praying that I heard him wrong.
“He took his own life, son. Last year,” he says in a somber tone, almost with a hint of regret. “It was all too much for him. His father, the drugs, he was in so much pain. I think he just wanted some sense of peace.”
“Jesus.” I feel the color drain from my face, barely able to drag in a breath through my lungs. I grab on to the side of the booth, desperately needing something to hold me up.
“Dylan, are you okay?” I run a finger along the jagged edges of my scar, Mr. Thomson’s voice becoming fuzzy and distant.
“Who the fuck are you?” Luke asked when I sat down at the table. He was twirling a lip ring with one hand and picking at his thumbnail with the other. There was no one else there, so I figured there was enough room for both of us. I was dead wrong.
“You don’t need to know who I am, just that I’m sitting my ass here.”
“The fuck you are,” he spat, “this is my table. Find someplace else.”
“Fuck you. I don’t see your name on it.” I turned away from him and stared at the wall, just like I did every day. I refused to play basketball or do any of those stupid games the other kids were doing. I just wanted to be alone so I could wallow in the fact that I had to be here, and my life was shit.
“I don’t think you heard me,” he said again, “leave me the fuck alone.”
“I’m not bothering you, asshole,” I mumbled under my breath before flipping him off and zoning out the window. Suddenly, it felt like I was in prison. If it wasn’t for my father, I wouldn’t fucking be here.
A second later, he was standing in front of me. “What did you just call me?”
“Listen….” I craned my neck up to stare at his greasy black hair and beady dark eyes. He was tall, but definitely not intimidating… not to me anyway. I’d dealt with the master, so this was a piece of cake. But I promised myself I wouldn’t use my fists, I was done with that. “If you’re looking to pick a fight, which I think you are, I’m not interested. So get out of my face.”
I folded my hands in front of me and went back to finding something interesting to look at out the window. Anything was better than his ugly mug. Before I knew what was happening, though, he pushed me off the bench and had me flat on my back. A pocket knife was being waved at me and I blinked a few times, more out of surprise than fear.
“Who’s the tough guy now, asshole?” He held the knife close to my face but I grabbed the hand holding it and bucked him off of me. We rolled around grunting like animals for a few minutes as I tried to wrestle the knife from his grasp. I got a few good hits in with my free hand but unfortunately, he got the better of me and the knife grazed my jaw, just as Mr. Thomson rushed over.
“You fucking cut me, you asshole!” I shouted, pressing my fingers against my jaw as blood dripped down my shirt. He grinned as if he got great pleasure out of seeing me bleed.
The fucked up part. Yeah it hurt, but it also felt good. It was a different kind of pain, and I welcomed it.
“Dylan.”
I’m so lost in the memory that I don’t realize Mr. Thomson is standing beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder. “Here. I got you some water, drink it down,” he urges, and I do as he requests before finally getting my bearings and taking his order. “I’m so sorry, Dylan.” Even his sincerity can’t counteract the numbness setting in as I retreat to the kitchen.
I last all of about a half hour before it feels like poison is eating away at my insides. Air. I need air. When everyone is occupied, I duck out the back entrance.
Bending over with my hands on my knees, I let out a pained howl that scorches my chest as I try to catch my breath. The nausea invading my stomach is brutal, and the next thing I know, I’m heaving until there’s nothing left.
Even with my stomach empty, it does nothing to lessen the excruciating pain of knowing Luke is no longer on this earth. Someone else to add to the list.
I drag a hand across my mouth and stumble to the bathroom to clean myself up. Then I attempt to make it through the rest of the day.
Jordy and Wanda keep asking me if I’m okay. I tell them I’m fine, but I’m far from fine. This is the last place I want to be. And when the day is over, I’m going to be where I belong.
I LOVE THIS time of day. Dusk is falling, the sky on the verge of its daily transformation. Swirls of blue and gray morph into soft pinks, and deep oranges.
It seems strange, even to me, that I’d want to come here at this time. A cemetery is eerie under the best of circumstances. I laugh internally at the irony. I have no problem running in the dark, or venturing into a cemetery when daylight is waning, but I still need to sleep with a nightlight. My father would call me a bit of a ‘head-scratcher.’ It’s a term he used when he would do his Sund
ay crossword puzzles.
My laughter actually slips out then, my eyes darting around to make sure I’m not disturbing anyone. Of course, I’m not. I picture my father, pushing his rounded glasses up on the bridge of his nose and scratching his head, trying to figure out the answer and complete the puzzle. He’d never leave one unfinished.
The smell of freshly cut grass fills me as I carefully step around various headstones until I find the ones belonging to my mom and dad.
Taking a seat in front of them, I place the pink roses, Mom’s favorite flower, next to her stone. I look behind me to the path, picking up a rock that I use to weigh down last Sunday’s crossword section I brought for Dad.
My smile is bright as I stare at my mother’s tombstone. Delores Ava Carmichael, Loving mother, friend, and wife to her one true love, that guy over there, with an arrow pointing to my father. His reads: Daniel Benjamin Carmichael, Loving father, friend, and husband to his one true love, that gal over there, also with an arrow. That, right there, was the essence of my parents.
“Hi, Mom, Dad. It’s Evie. I’m back. I’m sorry I didn’t come by last week, it was pretty hectic. But, I’ve been missing you lots. There’s so much happening right now that I want to tell you about.” I hesitate, trying to figure out where to begin. “So… I’m going to finish my associate’s degree in the fall. Yeah, I figured you might be pleased about that. Nora suggested the local college so I guess I’ll finish out my credits there.
“Speaking of Nora, she’s good. As crazy as ever. Oh! Her parents are getting back together, isn’t that great? She’s worried about her mom being sick though, but she’s such a strong woman that I have a feeling she’ll be just fine. Let’s see, what else.”
I let my eyes drift to the sky, dropping back down with a grin. “So, Dylan is good, like really good.” I look over at my dad. “Stop smiling, Dad, and cover your ears. I need to talk to Mom for a minute.
“Things have changed, Mom,” I whisper, as if Dad can really hear me, “and it’s amazing. He’s… wonderful, and sweet, and he says things that make my stomach do these crazy flips. Remember that heart-pounding love you used to tell me about, the way you felt about Dad. I feel it, Mom. I want to be near him every second, to know everything he’s thinking… I miss him when we’re not together. And I’m… I’m pretty sure he’s my forever. Maybe I’ve always known that,” I giggle, “and I think you were kind of hoping that, too, right, Mom?