by Jessi Kirby
“You’re not allowed.”
“Light gravy. Turkey bacon.” He grabs my foot through my covers. “Come on. Humor your old man with your company.”
I smile and give in. I am a little hungry. And it has been a while.
We sit in the same booth we always used to when we’d come here before. Breakfast with Dad at Lucille’s was another one of those things, like running, that started out as part of our regular routine, then as business picked up turned into a special occasion, and then finally just fell off altogether. I can’t remember the last time we were here, but nothing about the little country diner has changed. Dad leans over his coffee in its chipped mug, closes his eyes, and breathes in the aroma like it’s the best smell in the world.
“So what’s new with you?” He takes a sip. Savors it. “You’ve become quite the beach bum these days.”
I nod. “I’ve been having fun over there.”
“And Ryan says you’re getting fast again. Says you’re giving her a run for her money.” He takes another sip of his coffee.
“Does she?” This makes me smile, because she’d sooner push herself until she passed out than admit that to me. “That’s funny, because all she says to me is that I can do better.”
My dad laughs. “That sounds about right. You probably can. Your sister calls ’em like she sees ’em. Always has.” He pauses and sets down his coffee to pick up his menu.
I think about the things Ryan said to me last night, about not counting the days, or feeling bad about spending time with Colton, and I want so much to believe her, but it’s hard, knowing that what she sees isn’t the entire picture.
My dad closes his menu and folds his hands on top of it, and I can tell there’s something more to this breakfast trip. I tense, waiting to see what it is and hoping that she didn’t tell him about Colton, or last night, or anything else.
“I was thinking,” he says, trying to sound casual but failing. “You might want to consider signing up for a few classes over at the city college—so you could join the cross-country team. The coach there would love to have you. Said he’d gladly take you as a walk-on.”
“What?” Surprise hides my relief. “You checked?”
“Ryan did.”
“Wow, am I like her service project this summer?”
“No,” Dad says, “she just wants to see you happy. And running again seems to be one of the things that does that for you.” He pauses. “You know, along with the beach, and whoever’s over there. Maybe the not-homely beach kid?”
I look down at my menu, nervous all over again. “Did Ryan tell you that too?”
“She doesn’t need to—your mom and I can see it. And it’s good, Quinn, it’s—”
“Oh my god.” I see a familiar profile stand up two booths behind my dad.
“Honey, it’s really okay—”
I shake my head, motion behind him because I can’t say anything.
He turns around and sees her too, only he’s not paralyzed like I am at the moment. Instead he puts his napkin on the table, stands, and goes to greet Trent’s mom. They hug each other, and I can’t hear what they say, but I see him motion to me sitting at the table before they both come walking over. I stand, feeling guilty all of a sudden that it’s been so long since I’ve gone to visit her.
“Quinn, honey,” she says, opening her arms. “It’s so good to see you!”
“You too,” I say, and aside from the initial shock, it is.
She holds on so long and tight, it’s a little uncomfortable. Finally, she pulls me back by my shoulders. “Look at you! You look amazing!”
“Thank you,” I say. “You do too.” And she does. The dark circles that seemed permanent have disappeared from beneath her eyes, and her hair has color in it again, and she’s even put on makeup. She almost looks like the version of herself that used to tease us if she caught us in a kiss, and who cared about my race times as much as Trent’s. Like herself, before. Almost.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ve been trying to get out more these days, volunteering here and there—keeping busy. You know,” she adds, and there’s a hint of sadness in it.
My dad works to keep the conversation light. “Quinn has been busy too,” he says. “She’s running again, has taken up kayaking. . . .”
He leaves me room to jump in. I don’t. “Keeping busy” seems to be code for “moving on,” which seems insensitive to admit to Trent’s mom, even though she said it herself first.
She tilts her head to the side, reaches out, and lays a hand on my cheek. “That is fabulous to hear, sweetheart, it really is. And what about school?”
My dad clears his throat, and I surprise myself by speaking up; but I don’t want him to have to answer again for me. “I’m still figuring that one out, but I might take a few classes at the city college in the fall—enough to run for them.”
I can feel my dad smile next to me.
Trent’s mom throws her arms around me again. “Oh Quinn, that’s just wonderful.” She squeezes me tight and speaks quieter, close to my ear. “Trent would be so happy that you’re doing so well. So happy.”
I think of how I spent the first four hundred days after he died—for the first time, I really try to imagine what he would’ve thought if he could’ve seen me then. I don’t know if it’s this shift in focus or the sincerity in his mom’s voice, but I believe her. I think if he could see me now, he’d want me to “keep busy,” and make plans, and . . . move on.
“Listen,” she says, “I have an appointment, so I need to get going, but it was so nice to see you both.”
She gives me one more hug, then hugs my dad too. And then before she turns to leave, she says good-bye, but I hear something more in it. Somehow it feels a bit more final than the other good-byes we’ve said. More like letting go. Though it makes me a little sad, I understand it. We’ll always be connected by Trent, and our past, but time has stretched that connection so it already feels weaker, which seems inevitable.
My dad looks at me after she walks out the doorway. “You okay? That was . . . unexpected.”
“I’m okay,” I answer honestly.
“Good,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Shall we finish our breakfast?”
We sit back down at our table, and something in me relaxes—enough that I tell him a little about Colton: how his family owns a kayak rental shop, about the cave and how scared I was to paddle into it, and the cliff where we had a picnic. It feels good to talk about him out loud. Not to keep him so secret and separate from this part of my life. I’m on a roll with little details about all these things when I realize my dad’s just smiling and listening.
“What?” I ask, all of a sudden self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “He just sounds like someone who’s good to be around. Good for you to be around.”
I smile. “He is.”
I miss Colton right then, and I realize today is the first day in who knows how many that I haven’t seen him. I didn’t even get a chance to listen to his message.
When I get home, I close the door of my room and hit the voicemail button on my phone, waiting for Colton’s voice to come on, sounding the way it always does, like he’s smiling while he’s talking.
“Hey, good morning. You’re probably already up and running all over the hills with your sister. I know we were maybe gonna drive up the coast, but I, um, forgot I have to go up north for the day. Something for the shop, so we’ll have to save that for another time. Good news is I’ll be back tomorrow night, so you should definitely come down for the fireworks if you can—if you want to.” He pauses. “I want you to.” There’s another pause, and then he laughs a little. “Anyway. Gimme a call when you can, and have a good day, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow night. I hope.”
I replay the message and listen to his voice a second and then a third time, and when I think of seeing him again, I hope too—that whatever it is we have can be more. That we can be more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“There is no instinct like that of the heart.”
—Lord Byron
IN ALL OUR days spent together, I haven’t yet been to Colton’s house, but he asked me to meet him here tonight. I don’t have to look at the address to guess which one is his, because I see his bus parked in the open garage as soon as I turn the corner. On the stretch of bluff road that’s lined with whitewashed, modern-styled houses, Colton’s stands out, and my first thought is Of course, this is his house. It sits farther back on the property than the others, the shingled face making it look warmer and more lived-in than the surrounding houses, with their sleek lines and cold exteriors. Bright tropical flowers line the edges of the lawn, and a row of towels and wet suits hangs over the railing of the second-story deck.
I slow and park at the curb across the street, and a little wave of nervousness passes through me when I see Colton come through the doorway into the garage and throw a couple of towels into the bus. He’s about to turn around and go back in when he sees me and starts in my direction. I take a deep breath before I get out, now even more anxious because it’s been a day since we’ve seen each other and I’ve never been to his house before. Or maybe it’s because Ryan insisted I wear her dress. Or because this is usually the time I’m heading home. It’s a different feeling, arriving for the evening.
“Wow,” Colton says, meeting me in the middle of his street, “you look . . . wow.”
“Thanks? I think?” I say, silently thanking Ryan.
“I’m sorry, yes. That was definitely a compliment.” He looks down, and I see a flash of self-consciousness in his eyes that makes me smile.
“You look wow too,” I say, gesturing at his now-familiar uniform of surf T-shirt and board shorts. He laughs at this, but it’s true. His shirt clings to his shoulders just enough, and the deep green of it sets off his tan and his eyes.
“Thanks,” he says. “I try.”
We stand there in the middle of his street, taking in the evening air and each other in the twilight, until a car comes around the corner, then slows, snapping us out of our little moment.
Colton makes a motion with his head toward his garage. “I just gotta load the kayak and then we can go.” He glances over at me as we walk up the driveway. “You brought a bathing suit, right?”
“Yeah, it’s in the car. Should I grab it?”
“Yeah. Actually, you may want to put it on here so you don’t have to in the parking lot.”
Though I’m plenty practiced at changing beneath a carefully held up towel by now, it’s nice not to have to, so I go back to my car and grab my suit. When I get back to the garage, Colton’s pushing the kayak onto the roof of the bus.
“Where should I . . .”
“You can use my bathroom,” he says over his shoulder as he shoves the kayak forward, onto the rack above his head. “It’s down the hall, last door on the left.”
“Okay,” I say absently, but I don’t go anywhere.
My eyes have found the thin strip of skin that’s exposed between the waist of Colton’s board shorts and his T-shirt as he reaches up to strap the kayak onto the rack. The skin is so much lighter than his face or his arms, and I know why. He doesn’t ever take off his shirt. I’ve never seen him with it off, have only guessed at his scars and what they look like now, always hidden beneath a wet suit or a rash guard or a shirt.
He catches me looking and smiles before his arms come down, hiding the parts of him he’s not ready for me to see. “You need me to show you?”
Yes, I think. “No,” I say. “I can find it.” I step through the door into the hallway. Exhale.
I make the left turn and head down the hallway, which is almost dark but for a light coming through a doorway down the hall on the right. I’m about to go right past it to the bathroom door, but just as I get to the slice of light coming from the room, something on a shelf catches my eye.
I pause in front of the half-open door, not wanting to be nosy, and then glance over my shoulder to make sure Colton’s not coming in too, which makes me feel even more guilty. But when I see nothing but the closed door that leads to the garage, curiosity gets the best of me and I push the door open gently.
I gasp.
Lining every wall of the room are shelves that hold bottles of every size and shape, and each of them contains a ship, floating in the glass. The one I saw from the hall is the biggest, like a large, clear vase on its side, with one of those tall-masted ships with sail after sail billowed out in the invisible wind. In others are smaller ships, sailboats, and other vessels whose names I don’t know. Some bottles are rounded and perfectly clear; others are square, or made of thick glass, hazy with bubbles so that the ships inside have a softer, almost dreamy quality to them.
I can’t help myself. I step fully into the room and pick up one of the smaller bottles. Inside this one is a pirate-looking ship, with torn dark sails that look like they’re whipping around in the wind. I turn the bottle in my hands, then lift it above my head, inspecting the bottom to see if I can tell how the ship was put in.
“That one’s the Essex,” Colton says from behind. His voice sends a jolt right through me. I open my mouth to say something, fumble with the bottle in my hands, and then put it back on the shelf quickly, guilty, guilty, guilty. He takes it gently from the shelf and holds it between us.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to be nosy. I was on my way to the bathroom, but then I saw the ships through the doorway, and I couldn’t— Is this your room?”
Colton laughs, then sets down the bottle and scans the walls, with all their ships and bottles. “Yeah,” he says.
I look around too, not just at the walls of ships, but at the desk, clean but for a few framed pictures of his family and one of those lamps on an extendable arm. Next to it, his bed is made neatly with a simple blue comforter. Above the headboard, painted on the wall in old-fashioned-looking script, is a quote that seems vaguely familiar to me: A ship in the harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.
My eyes travel down to his nightstand, on which sit a bottle of water, a stack of books, and two rows of orange prescription bottles. I look away from those, knowing he wouldn’t want me to see them, back up to the walls of ships. “You collect these?”
Colton clears his throat, nervous or maybe a little embarrassed, I can’t tell which. “Sort of. I mean, I made them.”
“You made them?” There must be hundreds of them, stacked four levels high on all four walls of his room. “All of these? Wow.”
“Yeah, I don’t usually tell people that.” He smiles, but his eyes don’t meet mine. They’re looking over all the bottles too. “It’s kind of an old-man hobby.”
I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not an old-man hobby,” I say, but it doesn’t sound convincing. Probably because it seems like it is.
Colton turns to me now. “No, it really is. My grandpa taught me how to make them a few years back.” He pauses, runs his eyes over the walls of ships encased in glass. “He called them ‘patience bottles.’ Old sailors used to make them out of whatever they could find around their ships when they were stuck out at sea for months at a time. Kind of a way to pass the days.”
I watch him look at them, watch the smile slip the tiniest bit from his face, and the things he says start to connect in my mind—“a few years back,” “patience bottles.”
“I used to have a lot of time on my hands,” he fills in, “and I guess he figured it was a good way to pass it. He brought a set over one day and put it down on the desk, and we worked on it together until it was finished.” He looks at the one in his hands, and now he smiles again. “You picked up the first one I ever made.”
“Can I?” I ask, reaching for the bottle again.
He hands it to me, and I take a closer look at the ship with its tiny sails. “How do you get them inside?”
“Magic,” he says.
I bump his shoulder with mine, and the contact sends a
little flutter through me. “No, really.” I try to sound serious. “How do you do it?”
Colton turns to face me and gently puts his hands over mine on the bottle so that we’re holding it together, in the small space between us. He looks at me over the curve of the glass, hands warm on top of mine. “You build the ship outside the bottle so it collapses flat. And then you put it in, and you hope you did everything right, and you pull the string to raise the mast and sails, and if you’re lucky, it is magic, and they stand up and come to life.”
He pauses and looks down through the thick glass at the ship, but I can’t take my eyes off him. I can see him sitting here in this room with his grandpa, pale and thin like he was in the pictures, patiently building each tiny ship while he waited for his own form of magic. For the thing that would let him stand up and come to life again.
“It’s not complicated,” he says after a long moment. “Just fragile.”
Fragile.
The word catches me, brings me back to what that ER nurse said about Colton’s heart. “They’re beautiful,” I say. “Do you still make them?”
His eyes flicker away for a second, then come back to mine, and he smiles. “Not really. That was . . .” He pauses, seems to catch himself. “No point in building tiny ships that’ll never see the ocean when you can be out in the real thing every day.”
He smiles, a switch flips, and I can feel that we’re done with this conversation. Done here in this room. “Speaking of being out in the ocean,” he says, “we should get going so we don’t miss the fireworks.”
“Okay,” I say, not ready to be done here yet. “I just need a minute to change.”
Instead of leaving, though, I pause—reach out to him, to his chest. Lightly. Carefully.
Fragile, I think.
But he doesn’t feel that way beneath my hand. Not at all. Through all the layers between us—his shirt, the scar that it hides, and the solid curve of his chest— I can almost feel the steady, unmistakable beat of his heart.