The Leading Edge of Now

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  “Dinner,” Andy tells me as soon as I answer the phone. He says it so fast that I can tell he’s been pacing in his room, waiting for me to get home from my violin lesson, just so he can call and inform me of his hunger.

  I prop my phone between my shoulder and ear, unloading my purse and violin on my bed and then toeing off my shoes. “By ‘dinner’ do you mean three meatloaves?” I ask, because Andy’s appetite is huge and unprecedented.

  “Three,” he scoffs. “I would never eat an odd number of meatloaves. Also: I would never eat meatloaf. Too loafy for my taste. We’ll find something glorious to eat. I’ll pick you up in ten.” And then he hangs up.

  It’s late November, so the weather is perfect — more warmth than humidity, more sky than clouds. We keep the windows down in Andy’s car as we look for somewhere to eat. I’d suggest Island Pizza, except I just went there a couple of days ago. Also, it reminds me of Janna, and once I start thinking about Janna, thoughts about Owen will likely ensue. Then I’ll get weird and obsessive about all the crap I’ve been sending him, and I’ll end up skipping dinner altogether.

  So we end up stopping for fast food and then heading over to Marisol’s for her renowned day-before-Thanksgiving apple pie, which Andy basically swallows in one bite without even chewing. Then he bounds to his feet and marches around the patio, poking around in the greenery and sniffing at the plants. He looks profoundly out of place here, a skinny, awkward predator pacing among flowers and twinkle lights. I’m convinced that he’s going to break something or trip on something or squash something.

  “Andy,” I say. “Please sit down. You’re making me crazy.”

  He flops into the chair beside me and spins a fork on his empty plate. “How’d you do on the calc test?” he asks.

  Calc is the only class we have together, so this is a common question. “Calc — that’s the one with all the numbers and symbols, right? Did we have a test? I don’t think I did particularly well.”

  He squints at me. “Clearly you need my tutelage.”

  Tutelage. Good lord.

  “Andy, you say the weirdest things sometimes.”

  He balances his chair on its back legs. “It’s a particular talent of mine,” he says, and then he points to the last couple of bites of my pie. “You going to eat that?”

  Mind you, in the past hour I’ve watched him inhale Big Macs — like, plural — two orders of fries, a shake and a piece of pie. I’ve come to discover that Andy eats in much the same way that Doc Brown fueled the DeLorean at the end of Back to the Future. He just dumps in a bunch of crap and calls it good.

  I point my fork at him. “Touch it and you’ll lose a finger.”

  I look around. Nothing has changed since I was here with Owen. Everything is still green or sprouting or flowered. There’s still a web of lights overhead. The chair is still cool metal underneath me. I can still smell the hibiscus. My fingers are still sticky with apple-pie filling.

  Yet everything is so different.

  I fidget with my napkin, trying not to feel heartbroken. Over the past month, I’ve sent Owen God knows how many texts, left him a dozen voicemails and mailed several boxes of random luck-related items. And I have yet to hear back from him.

  Maybe I should stop trying.

  I close my eyes and try to shove the miserable thought out of my mind. With a sigh, I glance at my watch. Seven o’clock. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and I told Faith I’d be back early to help her with food prep. I should be getting home.

  Home.

  My breath hitches, hard and sudden, an engine starting to turn over. When did Rusty’s become home? My mind scrolls back over the past several weeks, running through all those times I’ve sat in the living room or walked into the kitchen or taken a shower. Every time I’ve bounded up the porch steps and burst through the front door.

  It’s been home for a while now.

  Something catches in my throat, and I press into my eyeballs with my fingers.

  Andy says, “Are you okay?”

  I wipe my eyes. “You know what, Andy? I’m getting closer every day.” Finishing my pie, I stand up. As I reach for my purse, I hear a familiar voice that makes me freeze, perfectly still, like a deer.

  “Grace?”

  I don’t turn around. My heart is suddenly sprinting so fast that I can feel my pulse in my throat. I close my eyes and say, “Owen?”

  The night is impossibly silent.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I want to let out a victory whoop and jog around the patio, maybe even scramble up on the table and do a little touchdown dance. But I don’t. I’m not sure what’s running through his mind right now, or where he stands. Swallowing once, I turn around. He’s hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and an uncertain expression, a plate of apple pie in his hand.

  Our eyes lock.

  I’ve completely forgotten that Andy is there until he clears his throat and says, “Well. I’ll just go inside and look for a vase. Or, like, a spittoon. A guy never knows when he’ll need a spittoon.” He claps a hand on Owen’s back as he walks past him, muttering, “Nice to see you, man.”

  Then it’s just Owen and me. Silence presses in on us from all sides. Owen leans against the doorjamb, his eyes still hooked on mine.

  “You’re here,” I say, rather brilliantly.

  Owen says, “I come here every year, the day before Thanksgiving. It’s apple-pie day.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “This year is different,” I point out.

  His eyes flutter down and his mouth twists a little. “Yeah,” he says softly. His gaze slides across the plane of the patio to my foot. It stays there for an extended moment. I know exactly what he’s going to ask. It’s a question everyone has been asking me over the past several weeks. “Why did you get a sunflower tattoo?” he says.

  I hold my arms out wide, almost like I’m introducing myself. Maybe I am. “To remind myself that no matter what, I’ll be okay,” I tell him.

  It feels hugely powerful, saying this.

  Owen nods. “A good thing to remember.”

  A seagull calls out overhead, and I look up. After a moment my eyes drift back to his, and I say, “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Shouldn’t you be home?”

  “I’m catching a red-eye home tonight,” he says. Then, evidently realizing he’s standing in the doorway with a plate in his hand, he walks toward me. Putting his pie on the table, he says, “So I talked to my dad.”

  I’m shocked, but I try not to show it. “Yeah? How’d that go?”

  He barks a laugh, and it’s so unexpected that I flinch. “Oh, it was epic,” he says. “I’ve never screamed so loudly in all my life.”

  “Did it help?”

  The sides of his mouth tug up a little. “It helped me decide that he’s done enough damage. That I won’t let him win. That he’s already taken so much from me, and I sure as hell won’t let him take any more.” I feel the heat of his gaze clear down to the backs of my knees. “That whatever we are — whatever we can be — is more than the sum of his mistakes.”

  Whatever we can be.

  Translation: he wants our Maybe.

  My heart.

  It’s pumping pure hope.

  Owen goes on. “So I came here hoping to find you. Hoping to talk to you in person. Hoping to catch you without your family around. I wanted to —” He breaks off and smiles with one side of his mouth, hooking a hand on the back of his neck. “I wanted to tell you about all the crazy shit I’ve been getting in the mail.”

  I do my best to appear nonchalant as I say, “Crazy shit, huh?”

  Owen rocks back on his heels. His cheeks are flushed pink in a way that makes me want to smile. “Yup,” he says. “I’m wondering what it all means.”

  I bite my thumbnail. “Well, hypothetically speaking, the person sending
those things might have some theories about luck, about throwing wishes up to the universe.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says, faux-casual. “That so?”

  “Um-hm,” I say.

  “That person might be onto something.”

  Owen draws in a slow breath and stares across the balcony at the tangle of flowers and plants, or possibly even beyond that, clear through to the past, to the time we put that turtle enclosure on the beach or when the two of us snuck off to eat bacon donuts. Or possibly he’s thinking about all the things we’ve gone through together. First kisses and last kisses. Tragedies and celebrations and tears. Then he smiles as though he’s decided something. When his eyes slide back to me, they’re soft. He reaches out for my hand and pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around me. I rest my cheek against his shoulder and he props his chin on top of my head, and we just hold each other. Not like friends, not like boyfriend and girlfriend, but like something solid.

  Who knows where we’ll end up? I’d like to think we’ll find our way to something big and bold and beautiful, and if I were a betting sort of girl, I’d place everything I had on it. Thing is, though, nobody really knows where their stories will go. We can only write so much of them, and the rest unfolds on its own as life gets in the way, as we lose people, lose our way, as we become victims and criminals, as we tumble away from each other and fall back together, as we discover ourselves, escape ourselves, grieve, forgive, change, grow. Because it isn’t just a story, it’s life. It’s the chaotic everything. It’s the Big Out There.

  “I don’t have classes on Fridays,” Owen whispers into my hair, his voice a jumble of gratitude and relief. “I was thinking maybe we could make Marisol’s a Friday night tradition? Meet here once a week to talk?”

  And I smile.

  Sixty

  Like so many years in the past, I find myself taking a seat at Rusty’s kitchen table for Thanksgiving dinner. This is the exact place that comes to mind whenever I think about this particular holiday — the table my family has always gathered around, the table where I sat next to Dad year after year, our elbows brushing.

  When I look up, I half expect to see him there beside me.

  And I guess, in a way, I do.

  He’s in the late-afternoon sun slanting into the kitchen. He’s in Rusty’s smile as he hands me the bowl of mashed potatoes. He’s in my every breath, my every move, my every decision.

  All the windows are thrown open, so I can see Luke Simmons in his lifeguard tower, hands curled around the railing, one foot casually kicked to the side, watching a couple of kids chicken-fighting in the waves.

  “Want some stuffing?” Faith asks, offering me a dish.

  I glance down at my already-full plate, considering whether I should throw a scoop of stuffing on top of everything, or start eating so I can make room on my plate, or skip it altogether.

  Then I consider another idea.

  I drum my fingers on the table. I glance at Luke again. I pick up my fork, shove aside my turkey and throw a heaping scoop of stuffing onto my plate.

  My chair makes a scraping sound as I stand.

  Do I really want to do this?

  Yes.

  This is my life. This is how I want to live it.

  Picking up my plate, I spin toward the door before anyone can question me. “I’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder as I burst out of the house, my steps quick and light and free, the ground blurring under my feet.

  If you told me a couple months ago that I’d offer a plate of food to Luke Simmons on Thanksgiving Day, I probably would’ve peed my pants laughing.

  That’s the thing, though.

  You just never know.

  Who knows whether this shaggy-haired guy will become a friend? Who knows where the story goes from here? The only guarantee is that there is no guarantee — just the now, and whatever truth or tragedy it holds. Just the perfectly imperfect moment, the next thirty seconds or whatever second I’m paying attention to. The little gasp of story I’m living, right here, right on the verge of everything, right on the leading edge of now.

  I come to a halt under the tower, grinning up at Luke, big and bright and happy.

  This life, this terrifying and beautiful life. And this now, this terrifying and beautiful now.

  It’s mine.

  “Hey,” I shout up. “I brought you some dinner.”

  Acknowledgments

  The Leading Edge of Now is a story I was compelled to write, a story that grew out of a painful experience in my past. And while my circumstances were vastly different from Grace’s, the feelings were the same, so please understand that this book carries a little bit of my heart.

  That being said, writing this story was a lot like jumping off a cliff. The second my feet left the ground, I was praying, hyperventilating, imagining my own demise, screaming, laughing, crying, wishing I didn’t eat those nachos for lunch. It was the best thing I’ve ever done. But also, it was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. And there was a huge, magnificent cast of hundreds who were either brave enough or foolish enough to grab my hand and leap along with me. While I’d love to thank all of you by name, space doesn’t permit, so please forgive me for keeping this brief.

  First and always, thank you to my family. To my husband, Paul, I’ve loved you since the beginning. You never cease to amaze me with your sense of humor and generosity of heart and spirit. I cannot thank you enough for your constant, unrelenting strength. To my kids, Talon and Blaise, I’m so grateful for your bottomless laughter, your biggest and most beautiful Nows, and your constant reminders of what really matters. I love you two to forever and back. You are, and always will be, my heroes. As for my parents, Janet and Merle, I’m enormously thankful for your boundless love and support. Thank you for what you do for the foster kids who have been lucky enough to live under your roof. This book is better because of you. This world is better because of you. I am better because of you. And to my sister, Cari, eternal thank-yous for your carefree sense of humor and unending encouragement. You are a gorgeous gem in my life.

  I also owe unbounded appreciation to Kathleen Rushall, my agent, whose talents are legion and who resolutely stood by me and this book’s sensitive subject matter. Grace’s story would not exist without you. There aren’t enough thank-yous in the universe for that. And while I’m thanking agents, buckets of recognition and acknowledgment to my foreign agent, Taryn Fagerness, for scattering The Leading Edge of Now across the ocean and beyond.

  Next, I owe tremendous gratitude to the Kids Can Press and KCP Loft team, who have made me feel like a member of their family since the very beginning. Ceaseless thank-yous to Kate Egan, my amazing editor. With your guidance, brilliance and tolerance, you’ve helped me blow the dust off the heart of this novel. Your talent and insight are truly magical, and I now understand why you’ve charmed and enchanted this entire industry. And to Lisa Lyons Johnston, I have no idea how you saw potential in that first draft of mine, but I thank my lucky stars that you did. I’m so very grateful for your faith in me. To all the others who have worked behind the scenes at KCP on my behalf, I’m endlessly thankful for your support, earnestness and dedication to this story.

  A massive shout-out goes to my publishing friends, far and wide. To my critique partners and early readers — Lola Sharp, Lindsay Currie, Jan Gangsei, Laurie Flynn, Sharon Huss Roat, Samantha Joyce, Shannon Parker and Marley Teter — all of whom had to endure my struggling (and by struggling I mean STRUGGLING) draft of this story. Thank you in every way for your encouragement, talent, love, expertise and reassurance. You are goddesses.

  To my extended family and friends, too many to name here, but you guys know who you are: You’re the ones giving me constant encouragement when I’m battling a deadline. You’re the ones out there shoving my books into strangers’ hands. You’re the stampede of love that follows me everywhere. I’m forever grateful
and honored.

  Loads and loads of thanks to the librarians, bloggers, booksellers and teachers who have advocated this story. I’m so blessed to have you all in my corner. You’re thoughtful and kickass, and I’m not sure what I ever did to deserve you.

  And as always, thank you to my readers worldwide. I count my blessings every day because of you. I love you epically and infinitely, and am so very thankful to be trusted with your hearts.

  Lastly, I’m most appreciative to the one in six — the one in six of you who have experienced sexual assault in your lifetime. It means more than I can say that you read this story, because I wrote it for you. Please remember that you are survivors, that you are not alone, that you are not to blame.

  The past is in the past. Go live your Now.

  Author’s Note

  The statistics of sexual assault are extremely alarming. According to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network, the nation’s largest anti–sexual violence organization:

  women the ages of 16–19 are four times more likely than the general population to suffer sexual assault

  one out of every six women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime

  every 98 seconds, someone experiences sexual assault

  seven in ten rapes are committed by someone the victim knows

  two out of three rapes go unreported

  If you are a victim of sexual assault, please reach out. There are so many resources waiting for you. The National Sexual Assault Hotline is always ready for your call: 1-800-656-HOPE (4673). RAINN (the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) is the nation’s largest sexual violence center, and it offers help in every way at www.rainn.org. NSVRC (National Sexual Violence Resource Center) offers a breakdown of resources by state at www.nsvrc.org.