True Love Way

by Mary Elizabeth

  Pulling out of her, I tuck myself back into my dark denim and sit on the bed across the room.

  Pen sits up, tugging her skirt down her thighs as she slides off the dresser. Her navy knee-high socks are bunched around her ankles, and her shoelaces are untied. Standing with unsteady legs, she straightens her sweater and wipes her mouth on the sleeve before letting tears fall.

  “Penelope, I’m sorry,” I say.

  She holds her hand up and shakes her head, closing her eyes as she turns and leaves the room.

  “I don’t know if working so much in your condition is a good idea, Miss Finnel. We’ve made progress over the last five months, but these things are unpredictable at best.”

  Dropping my head back, I blow a large, pink, watermelon-scented bubblegum bubble and let it pop over my top lip and nose. Sucking the gum back into my mouth, I snap it between my teeth and say, “I’m not quitting my job.”

  “No one said you have to quit,” Dr. Judgmental Eyes says, jotting more notes down onto her yellow pad. “But you should consider cutting back the hours you’re working. Your mom said you picked up an extra shift last week and suffered a setback that night. She said she felt like you overworked yourself.”

  “I took the extra shift because I can’t stand being locked in the house with her every day. I’m almost nineteen, and she won’t even let me go to the bathroom without knocking on the door every five minutes to make sure I haven’t offed myself. I’m not suicidal.”

  Dr. Consistently Nodding nods and asks, “And the setback she mentioned?”

  “I wanted to help out and make dinner and needed to chop onions. They made my eyes water, and I accidently cut my hand with the knife. She thought I was trying to slit my wrists or something,” I say, blowing another bubble.

  “She explained it a little differently than that,” Dr. Monotone replies, setting the notepad down onto her desk. She pushes her wire-rimmed glasses through her middle-parted hair. “She said she walked into the kitchen, and you were bleeding with the knife in your hands.”

  “My mother didn’t give me a chance to explain. Like I said, I’m not suicidal.”

  “Maybe you should leave the chopping to your parents so this doesn’t happen again,” Dr. Know-It-All says, picking her notepad back up.

  The left side of my mouth lifts, and I say, “Maybe you should mind your own business.”

  Dr. Nods keeps on nodding, scribbling down more notes about me. “Have you noticed a difference in your mood swings lately, Penelope? Do you often become angry for no reason?”

  “I’m not angry,” I say.

  My therapist purses her lips, but doesn’t give me any other indication of what she’s thinking about. Stone-faced and scratching her lead pencil across the yellow paper, she messes up and flips the pencil around to erase her mistake.

  More writing. More writing. More writing.

  She flips the page.

  I start to bite my nails as heat rushes up my spine, and a bead of sweat pools on my lower back. The curve of each letter she writes and the sound of every T she crosses feels as if it’s being carved into my bones. Clenching my jaw, I grip onto the edge of my seat with bitten-raw fingertips and bleeding cuticles just to keep from running out of this room screaming.

  “What about the boy next door, Pen? Do you want to talk about him?” Dr. Write Master asks. She stops her pencil and waits for my reaction.

  “Why would you ask about Dillon?” I choke out, fighting inner burning and thrashing to seem uncrazy.

  “Because I was told he’s finally leaving town next month.”

  “So?” I ask as tears burn my eyes.

  “Well, you had that run-in with him—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I interrupt her.

  “Your parents are afraid Dillon’s absence is going to devastate your headway. What do you think?”

  Swallowing my gum, I keep my grip on my chair and say, “I think my parents should stop talking to you and start talking to me.”

  “Penelope, we didn’t tell her about Dillon to upset you. We only mentioned it in case it becomes an issue,” Mom says. Her brown eyes briefly meet mine in the rearview mirror before returning to the road in front of her.

  Sitting in the backseat with the windows down, the near-summer breeze leaves my hair salt-scented and windblown-textured as we cruise through town after my therapist appointment. The sun’s warmth soaks through my skin, heating me from the outside in. A spark of excitement about the pending summer—my first with a driver’s license—sends a rush of anticipation though my veins, flushing out dread and self-disgust. I daydream about days spent on the hot sand, swimming though the salty ocean, and leaving Castle Rain completely for a road trip.

  Then I remember everyone I know has moved on with their lives, and it’ll just be me this year.

  The crazy girl.

  Pulling into the driveway, Mom shuts off the car and turns around to face me.

  With my hand on the door handle, I ask, “What?”

  She beams, lighting up her round face with forced happiness. Dark hair turning gray with age and years of stress—thanks to giving life to a daughter like me—my mother has worry lines set deep around her eyes and fingernails bitten down like mine. I can’t remember the last time I saw her smile and mean it or heard her laugh until she cried.

  “I want you to know Dad and I are proud of you, Pen,” she says. A few strands of hair fall free from her ponytail.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I mumble, getting out of the car.

  I shut the door, about to walk around the back of the Chrysler when the Dillon comes out of his house. With his keys dangling from his hand, dressed in a pair of board shorts and a white T-shirt, the boy next door stops cold at the edge of his porch and stares at me until I can’t take it anymore and move forward.

  “Penelope,” he calls after me.

  Saving us both from the awkward conversation we never had about what happened at Herb and Mathilda’s party and sparing myself from having to listen to Dillon tell me himself that he’s finally leaving, I rush through my front door and run upstairs where I lock myself in the bathroom.

  Resting my hands against the edge of the sink, I look into the mirror and stare at the reflection of a person I don’t want to know anymore. The girl glaring back at me with dark circles under her eyes and a permanent scowl on her face is the same one who chases everyone I love away.

  “Be normal,” I say to her. “Act normal.”

  My heartbeat speeds up as anger tenses every muscle in my body. I slam the ball of my palm into the mirror, sending a ripple through my unchanging reflection.

  “Be fucking normal!” I scream, smashing both of my hands into the looking glass.

  A crack breaks through the center of my face, but nothing else changes. My eyes are detached, my skin looks sick, and my insides feel like deadweight.

  Sending my fist into the glass one more time, it splinters completely until my reflection is unrecognizable. I’m nothing but razor-sharp fragments, a kaleidoscope of wreckage … and he said he wouldn’t leave me.

  I’ve spent the last few months trying to figure out where we went wrong, wondering what I could have done differently and questioning if any of this can be fixed.

  I miss the days when we were kids.

  Young love is so untouchable.

  I long for how simplistic things used to be. When Penelope would ride on my handlebars or when she would get excited about a new pair of sunglasses. We used to play until the streetlights came on and go into the house kicking and screaming, dirt-cake faced and grass-strained. I miss building jumps with Herb and Kyle and hanging with my friends without having a care in the world.

  I miss madness.

  While I was struggling with the decision to finally leave, Dad did a lot of threatening. He threatened to take away my car and my stability at home. He threatened not to pay for school at all and gave me the summer to decide. When none of that worked, he convinced me.

&
nbsp; “Do you want her back, Son? If it works out, what will you have to offer a girl like Penelope without an education?”

  My heart’s in Castle Rain, but I’m leaving for college.

  It’s been months since Herb and Mathilda’s party, and I hadn’t seen Pen until yesterday in the driveway. If how fast she ran away is any indication of her feelings about out last encounter, I’m not surprised.

  I fucked her, literally and hypothetically.

  Betraying her trust in the worst way possible, I took advantage of the only girl I’ve ever loved and let her walk away from me without an apology or explanation, broken and bruised. I should have chased her out of the room, past the party of people who heard everything, and out to her car before she drove home alone. The words I love you to death never passed my lips when they are the only ones I should have said.

  With my room mostly packed and my days in this small town numbered, I look up at open yellow curtains, and I’m tired of being without her.

  Penelope is all I have. All I need. All I have ever wanted since I was twelve years old.

  I take a hit from the cigarette of a habit I can’t kick before I drop the butt to the floor and snub it out with my shoe. Inhaling a deep breath, I go to her.

  That’s what I do.

  It’s what I’ve always done.

  For her, I will stay awake forever.

  “She’s in the back, sweetie.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Finnel.”

  I pass between our houses and step in wet grass through her backyard. Penelope’s rollerblades, old and dirty, collect dust on the wooden porch I helped Wayne build years ago. A smashed slab of concrete—our hands and a heart—lies beneath it.

  I don’t have to go far to find her.

  Stepping past the tree line, she’s where we spent entire summer days digging up worms or hiding from our parents. Left down and naturally curly like it was the first time I ever saw her, Penelope’s long hair fans around her head as she spins in a circle, dancing to a slow playing song on an old portable radio. Pink painted toes dig into the damp ground beneath her feet, getting stuck under her nails.

  Sitting against the base of an old tree, I cross my arms and watch Pen’s white dress sway across her thin body and sweep against her skinny knees. Penelope sees me and smiles, but she doesn’t stop twirling. She tilts her face toward the sunlight peeking through tree branches covered in thick leaves and closes her eyes as it warms her pale skin and tired eyes, extending her arms and spinning.

  She was born for me to love.

  As one song ends and another begins, the girl next door sits next to me and wipes dirt from the tops of her muddy feet. She looks up at me under her long lashes and smiles, momentarily dismissing the time we’ve spent apart. There are so many words and explanations that need to be said, but none of them feel important enough to say.

  Penelope needs to be taken care of.

  “Dillon,” Penelope whispers. “Sometimes I’m so sad.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I don’t know how to fix it,” she admits. Emotion pools in her brown eyes.

  “I’ll help you,” I say.

  Rising to my feet, I offer her my hand, and she takes it easily. Salty sadness drips to the muddy ground as I wipe her tears away, and we step through them as I lead her out of the woods. Gray clouds cover the bright sky, and small raindrops start to fall by the time we walk through the Finnels’ back door.

  The familiar aroma of just-brewed coffee takes me back to times when I treated this place like home. Sonya looks up from her mug as her daughter and I pass through the living room, hand-in-hand to the stairs. She doesn’t mumble a word, but her relief is apparent by the smile on her face.

  Shutting her bedroom door behind us, my girl climbs into bed and slides under her heavy blankets. I slip out of my shoes and take off my jacket before getting in behind her, noticing that multi-colored marbles and yellow feathers rest on top of her dresser.

  Pushing her wavy hair away from her neck, I hold my girl’s body against mine and kiss her temple before resting my head on the pillow beside hers.

  There aren’t many words for the mending of two broken hearts. It’s as natural as breathing. We lie in the dark, in the middle of the day, making silent promises and voiceless convictions. She holds my hand and kisses my wrist. We fall in and out of sleep, and the entire day passes without a single word spoken.

  “Dillon.”

  I open my eyes to the sound of Mrs. Finnel’s quiet-spoken voice. She stands at the foot of the bed, dimly lit by the yellow-orange light shining in from the hallway. Shifting my heavy-lidded eyes toward the clock glowing from the nightstand, I’m surprised to see it’s after midnight.

  “Is she okay?” my girl’s mom looks toward the sleeping form next to me.

  Nodding my head, I sit up and stretch, prepared to be told to go home.

  “Stay,” Sonya whispers. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  She leaves, quietly closing the door and turning off the hallway light. The glow under the doorjamb goes dark and so does the room.

  “I deal with that every night, and she wonders why I sleep all day,” Penelope says.

  Lying back down, I turn on my side and face restlessness. With prayer-like hands under her freckled face, she blinks heavily and yawns.

  “Parents worry about their kids,” I say.

  Pen closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “When are you leaving?”

  “In a week.”

  “Why are you here, Dillon?” she asks in a shaky voice.

  “Because I want you to come with me.”

  Changing out of the white dress she slept in, Pen sticks her bare feet into a pair of beat up sweats, and I pull a shirt over her head. She runs her fingers through her unruly curls and blows stray hairs out of her face.

  “Ready?” I ask, taking her hand.

  “Yes.”

  Penelope and I spent most of the early morning talking about time we wasted and how to make the most of our future together. Apologies weren’t necessary, and we easily agreed between soft kisses and light touches that the past is the past.

  It was that easy.

  Listening to Wayne walk by the bedroom door more than once, we waited until nine to get out of bed, hoping he wouldn’t be inclined to murder me in the light of day.

  “They can’t say no, Dillon. I’m nineteen. I won’t—”

  Pinching her lips between my fingers, I smile. “Don’t freak out before we hear what they have to say.”

  Like any other typical weekend morning in the Finnel home, Sonya’s cooking breakfast in the kitchen, and her husband is sitting on the sofa, cleaning his shot gun.

  “What are you doing here, boy? Did you forget my house rules in your absence?” He looks down the barrel of his weapon. “Do you need to be reminded, boy?”

  I push Penelope in front of me and head toward the door. My girl shrieks, but Wayne and Mrs. Finnel laugh. My girl’s father puts the gun down on the table beside an open book about adolescent depression and invites us to sit with him.

  “Did I scare you, boy? Don’t be such a pussy, Dillon.”

  Did he just call me Dillon?

  Cautiously sitting on the recliner across from pending demise, I pull Penelope into my lap and hold her tight in case we need to make a run for it. Coach Finnel offers me a beer, and I decline, knowing it’s a test.

  “Pussy,” he mumbles again, popping the top and taking a drink.

  “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Sonya takes a seat beside her husband. She wrings a red dishtowel in her hands.

  Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, I bounce my foot up and down as the four of us sit in an awkward silence. My eyes shift back and forth between my girl’s parents and the gun I hope Wayne only has out to scare me with. Waiting for Penelope to speak up and tell her life-givers what she wants, my hands start to sweat, and I can feel my heart’s beat in my fingernails.

  Thirty tension-full seconds that feel like dec
ades pass, and sadness still hasn’t pronounced a single syllable, so I say it for her.

  “I’m leaving for Seattle in a week and want Pen to come with me.”

  The college Nazi stands, and his face turns red under his thick eyebrows and salt and pepper colored mustache. His knees hit the old wooden table in front of him, knocking it back a foot, and the black metal weapon tips over and falls to the floor.

  While I wait for it to accidently fire and shoot me in the face, Sonya screams and Penelope starts to cry.

  “I’m only asking out of respect, Coach Finnel. If she wants to leave, she can. But I don’t want it to be like that. Your blessing is important to us.”

  His face turns three different shades of inflamed before ultimately turning purple. “Seattle? Do you realize how far from home that is, boy? She can’t be alone.”

  “She won’t be,” I reply, having thought about this since asking her to move with me. “Herb and Mathilda have been there for a year. Among the three of us, maybe we can work out a schedule so that someone is always with her. Or she can take classes at the community college while I’m at school. We’ll work it out.”

  “You’re my baby. I worry about you.” He shakes his head, directing his dark eyes toward his brittle-hearted daughter. Anger wrinkles and fiery skin color soften and return to normal the moment he takes in her small frame.

  “I know, Dad,” she says softly.

  “Help me understand this, baby,” he says, falling back onto the sofa. “How did I not realize you and the boy are back together? Why do you want to leave?”

  “I love him,” Pen simply answers, wiping tears from her face.

  After the initial shock of our announcement passes, Wayne starts to ask questions about school and how I plan to support his only child and myself. Describing the one-bedroom apartment my dad’s agreed to help pay for as long as I keep my grades up, I think he understands that we won’t be living like royals, but exactly like stereotypical college kids.