I’m so happy for them. I miss them every day, but I’m so happy.
They never forget to mail me letters—not e-mails, but real handwritten letters. I’ve saved them all, from the ones stamped in Argentina and Brazil and Costa Rica and Paraguay to the ones that came from Scotland, Ireland, Denmark, and places all over Europe. I love it that my parents are the way they are, so free-spirited and driven and in love with the World. I admire them. From the stories they tell me about when they were a little older than me, I realize that their lives, even before they met, started out rocky, but eventually everything fell into place. My mom told me about her past and how she used to be very depressed. She didn’t go into too much detail, and I could always tell that she was holding things back. But she wanted me to know that she and my dad would always be there for me, no matter what happens or what decisions I make.
I think she was worried I might make some of the same wrong decisions that she made when she went through some hard times, but honestly, I can’t imagine ever being unhappy.
Mom told me about when she met Dad, too. On a Greyhound bus, of all things. I just laughed. But whenever I think about them and about the things they went through together, I can’t help but be awed by it.
According to Mom, my dad was a little wild back then. She said the way he used to be is the number one reason why it took him so long to warm up to Gavin. She didn’t go into details about that, either, but… dang, my dad must’ve really been… Yuk! Never mind.
But I learned so much from my parents. They taught me how precious life is and never to take a second of it for granted, because any second could be my last. My dad was big on me being myself, standing up for what I believe in, and speaking my mind rather than someone else’s. He told me that people will try to make me just like them, but not to fall for it because before I know it, I will be. My mom, well, she was big on making sure I knew that there is so much more out there in the world than crappy jobs and paying bills and becoming a slave to society. She made sure I understood that no matter what anyone says, I don’t have to live in a way that I don’t choose. I pick my path. I make my life one to remember and not one that will fade into the background of every other uneventful life around me. Ultimately, it’s my choice and only my choice. It will be hard at times, I may have to flip burgers and scrub toilets for a while, I will lose people I love, and every day won’t be as bright as the one before it. But as long as I never let the struggles pull me completely under, one day I will be doing exactly what I want to do. And no matter what happens, or who I lose, I won’t be sad forever.
But what I think I learned the most from my parents is how to love. They love me unconditionally, of course, but I mean the way they love each other. I know a lot of married couples—most of my friends’ parents are still married—but I’ve never quite known two people more devoted to each other than my mom and dad. They’ve been inseparable all my life. I can only recall a couple of arguments between them, but I’ve never heard them fight. Ever. I don’t know what it is that makes their marriage so strong, but I sure hope that whatever it is, they passed some of that magic onto me.
Gavin walks into my dorm room, shutting the door behind him. He sits down on the edge of my bed. “Another letter from your folks?”
I nod.
“Where are they now?”
“Peru,” I say, looking back down into the letter. “They love it on that side of the world.”
I feel his hand on my knee to comfort me. “You’re worried about them.”
I nod again, gently. “Yeah, as always, but I worry about them more when they’re over there. Some places are really dangerous. I just don’t want them to end up like—”
Gavin reaches out and fits my chin in his fingertips. “They’ll be fine, you know they will.”
Maybe he’s right. My mom and dad have been backpacking across the world for two years now, and the worst danger they’ve encountered—by what they’ve told me, anyway—was that my dad was robbed once and another time they had an issue with their passports. But anything could happen, especially being alone like that with only backpacks and the open road.
Apparently, I’m a lot like my mom when it comes to how much I worry.
“Two more years and they’ll be just as worried about you,” he adds, and then pecks me on the lips.
“I guess so,” I say, smiling up at him as he stands from the bed. “My mom will probably be up every night wondering if I got mauled by a lion.”
Gavin smiles a crooked smile.
We decided six months ago that we really want to go to Africa after college. When we first met, it wasn’t so much an idea as it was something we brought up in casual conversation. But now, it has become our goal. At least for now. A lot can change in two years.
I fold the letter and place it back inside the discolored envelope and set it on my nightstand.
Gavin reaches out his hand to me. “Ready?” he asks, and I take it and stand up from the bed with him.
I go to leave the room to celebrate Gavin’s birthday with our friends, and just before I step out into the hall, I look back once at the letter before closing the door softly behind me.
About the Author
J.A. Redmerski, New York Times, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author lives in North Little Rock, Arkansas with her three children, two cats, and a Maltese. She is a lover of television and books that push boundaries and is a huge fan of AMC’s The Walking Dead.
Learn more at:
www.JessicaRedmerski.com
Twitter: @JRedmerski
Facebook.com/J.A.Redmerski
Sometimes life takes you off course…
THE EDGE OF NEVER
To find out how Camryn and Andrew’s journey started
See the next page for a preview of The Edge of Never
1
Natalie has been twirling that same lock of hair for the past ten minutes and it’s starting to drive me nuts. I shake my head and pull my iced latte toward me, strategically placing my lips on the straw. Natalie sits across from me with her elbows propped on the little round table, chin in one hand.
“He’s gorgeous,” she says staring off toward the guy who just got in line. “Seriously, Cam, would you look at him?”
I roll my eyes and take another sip. “Nat,” I say, placing my drink back on the table, “you have a boyfriend—do I need to constantly remind you?”
Natalie sneers playfully at me. “What are you, my mother?” But she can’t keep her eyes on me for long, not while that walking wall of sexy is standing at the register ordering coffee and scones. “Besides, Damon doesn’t care if I look—as long as I’m bending over for him every night, he’s good with it.”
I let out a spat of air, blushing.
“See! Uh huh,” she says, smiling hugely. “I got a laugh out of you.” She reaches over and thrusts her hand into her little purple purse. “I have to make note of that,” and she pulls out her phone and opens her digital notebook. “Saturday. June 15th.” She moves her finger across the screen. “1:54 p.m.—Camryn Bennett laughed at one of my sexual jokes.” Then she shoves the phone back inside her purse and looks at me with that thoughtful sort of look she always has when she’s about to go into therapy-mode. “Just look once,” she says, all joking aside.
Just to appease her, I turn my chin carefully at an angle so that I can get a quick glimpse of the guy. He moves away from the register and toward the end of the counter where he slides his drink off the edge. Tall. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Mesmerizing model green eyes and spiked up brown hair.
“Yes,” I admit, looking back at Natalie, “he’s hot, but so what?”
Natalie has to watch him leave out the double glass doors and glide past the windows before she can look back at me to respond.
“Oh. My. God,” she says eyes wide and full of disbelief.
“He’s just a guy, Nat.” I place my lips on the straw again. “You might as well put a sign that says ‘obsessed�
� on your forehead. You’re obsessed short of drooling.”
“Are you kidding me?” Her expression has twisted into pure shock. “Camryn, you have a serious problem. You know that, right?” She presses her back against her chair. “You need to up your medication. Seriously.”
“I stopped taking it in April.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s ridiculous,” I say matter-of-factly. “I’m not suicidal, so there’s no reason for me to be taking it.”
She shakes her head at me and crosses her arms over her chest. “You think they prescribe that stuff just for suicidal people? No. They don’t.” She points a finger at me briefly and hides it back in the fold of her arm. “It’s a chemical imbalance thing, or some shit like that.”
I smirk at her. “Oh, really? Since when did you become so educated in mental health issues and the medications they use to treat the hundreds of diagnoses?” My brow rises a little, just enough to let her see how much I know she has no idea what she’s talking about.
When she wrinkles her nose at me instead of answering, I say, “I’ll heal on my own time, and I don’t need a pill to fix it for me.” My explanation had started out kind, but unexpectedly turned bitter before I could get the last sentence out. That happens a lot.
Natalie sighs and the smile completely drops from her face.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling bad for snapping at her. “Look, I know you’re right. I can’t deny that I have some messed-up emotional issues and that I can be a bitch sometimes—.”
“Sometimes?” she mumbles under her breath, but is grinning again and has already forgiven me.
That happens a lot, too.
I half-smile back at her. “I just want to find answers on my own, y’know?”
“Find what answers?” She’s annoyed with me. “Cam,” she says, cocking her head to one side to appear thoughtful. “I hate to say it, but shit really does happen. You just have to get over it. Beat the hell out of it by doing things that make you happy.”
OK, so maybe she isn’t so horrible at the therapy thing after all.
“I know, you’re right,” I say, “but…”
Natalie raises a brow, waiting. “What? Come on, out with it!”
I gaze toward the wall briefly, thinking about it. So often I sit around and think about life and wonder about every possible aspect of it. I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Even right now. In this coffee shop with this girl I’ve known practically all my life. Yesterday I thought about why I felt the need to get up at exactly the same time as the day before and do everything like I did the day before. Why? What compels any of us to do the things we do when deep down a part of us just wants to break free from it all?
I look away from the wall and right at my best friend who I know won’t understand what I’m about to say, but because of the need to get it out, I say it anyway.
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to backpack across the world?”
Natalie’s face goes slack. “Uh, not really,” she says. “That might… suck.”
“Well, think about it for a second,” I say, leaning against the table and focusing all of my attention on her. “Just you and a backpack with a few necessities. No bills. No getting up at the same time every morning to go to a job you hate. Just you and the world out ahead of you. You never know what the next day is going to bring, who you’ll meet, what you’ll have for lunch or where you might sleep.” I realize I’ve become so lost in the imagery that I might’ve seemed a little obsessed for a second, myself.
“You’re starting to freak me out,” Natalie says, eyeing me across the small table with a look of uncertainty. Her arched brow settles down, and then she says, “And there’s also all the walking, the risk of getting raped, murdered, and tossed on the side of a freeway somewhere. Oh, and then there’s all the walking…”
Clearly, she thinks I’m borderline crazy.
“What brought this on, anyway?” she asks, taking a quick sip of her drink. “That sounds like some kind of midlife-crisis stuff—you’re only twenty.” She points again, as if to underline her next words: “And you’ve hardly paid a bill in your life.”
She takes another sip; an obnoxious slurping noise follows.
“Maybe not,” I say, thinking quietly to myself, “but I will be once I move in with you.”
“So true,” she says, tapping her fingertips on her cup. “Everything split down the middle—Wait, you’re not backing out on me, are you?” She sort of freezes, looking warily across at me.
“No, I’m still on. Next week I’ll be out of my mom’s house and living with a slut.”
“You bitch!” she laughs.
I half-smile and go back to my brooding, the stuff before that she wasn’t relating to, but I expected as much. Even before Ian died, I always kind of thought out of the box. Instead of sitting around dreaming up new sex positions, as Natalie often does about Damon, her boyfriend of five years, I dream about things that really matter. At least in my world, they matter. What the air in other countries feels like on my skin, how the ocean smells, why the sound of rain makes me gasp. “You’re one deep chick.” That’s what Damon said to me on more than one occasion.
“Geez!” Natalie says. “You’re a freakin’ downer, you know that right?” She shakes her head with the straw between her lips.
“Come on,” she says suddenly and stands up from the table. “I can’t take this philosophical stuff anymore, and quaint little places like this seem to make you worse—we’re going to the Underground tonight.”
“What?—No, I’m not going to that place.”
“Yes. You. Are.” She chucks her empty drink into the trash can a few feet away and grabs my wrist. “You’re going with me this time because you’re supposed to be my best friend and I won’t take no again for an answer.” Her close-lipped smile is spread across the entirety of her slightly tanned face.
I know she means business. She always means business when she has that look in her eyes: the one brimmed with excitement and determination. It’ll probably be easiest just to go this once and get it over with, or else she’ll never leave me alone about it. Such is a necessary evil when it comes to having a pushy best friend.
I get up and slip my purse strap over my shoulder. “It’s only two o’clock,” I say. I drink down the last of my latte and toss the empty cup away in the same trash can.
“Yeah, but first we’ve got to get you a new outfit.”
“Uh, no.” I say resolutely as she’s walking me out the glass doors and into the breezy summer air. “Going to the Underground with you is more than good deed enough. I refuse to go shopping. I’ve got plenty of clothes.”
Natalie slips her arm around mine as we walk down the sidewalk and past a long line of parking meters. She grins and glances over at me. “Fine. Then you’ll at least let me dress you from something out of my closet.”
“What’s wrong with my own wardrobe?”
She purses her lips at me and draws her chin in as if to quietly argue why I even asked a question so ridiculous. “It’s the Underground,” she says, as if there is no answer more obvious than that.
OK, she has a point. Natalie and me may be best friends, but with us it’s an opposites attract sort of thing. She’s a rocker chick who’s had a crush on Jared Leto since Fight Club. I’m more of a laid-back kind of girl who rarely wears dark-colored clothes unless I’m attending a funeral. Not that Natalie wears all black and has some kind of emo hair thing going on, but she would never be caught dead in anything from my closet because, she says, it’s all just too plain. I beg to differ. I know how to dress, and guys—when I used to pay attention to the way they eyed my ass in my favorite jeans—have never had a problem with the clothes I choose to wear.
But the Underground was made for people like Natalie, and so I guess I’ll have to endure dressing like her for one night just to fit in. I’m not a follower. I never have been. But I’ll definitely become someone I’m not for a
few hours if it’ll make me blend in rather than make me a blatant eyesore and draw attention.
* * *
Natalie’s bedroom is the complete opposite of OCD clean. And this is yet another way she and I are so completely different. I hang my clothes up by color. She leaves hers in the basket at the foot of her bed for weeks before throwing them all back into the laundry to be washed again because of the wrinkles. I dust my room daily. I don’t think she has ever actually dusted her room, unless you count wiping off the two inches of dust from her laptop keyboard, cleaning.
“This will look perfect on you,” Natalie says holding up a thin, half-sleeve tight white shirt with Scars on Broadway written across the front. “It fits tight and your boobs are perfect.” She puts the shirt up against my chest and examines what I might look like in it.
I snarl at her, not satisfied with her first pick.
She rolls her eyes and her shoulders slump over. “Fine,” she says, tossing the shirt on the bed. She slides her hand in the closet and takes down another one, holding it up with a big smile that is at the same time a manipulation tactic of hers. Big toothy smiles equal me not wanting to crush her efforts.
“How about something that doesn’t have some random band plastered across the front?” I say.
“It’s Brandon Boyd,” she says, her eyes bugging out at me. “How can you not like Brandon Boyd?”
“He’s all right,” I say. “I’m just not into advertising him on my chest.”
“I’d like to actually have him on my chest,” she says, admiring the tight-fitting V-neck top made much like the first one she tried to show me.
“Well, then you wear it.”
She looks across at me, nodding as if contemplating the idea. “I think I will.” She takes off the top she’s already wearing and tosses it in the laundry basket next to the closet, then slips Brandon Boyd’s face down over her huge boobs.
“Looks good on you,” I say, watching her adjust herself and admiring what she sees in the mirror at several different angles.
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