Prologue
It’s not what happens to you but
how you react to it that matters.
—Epictetus
Francis Sloan didn’t want to go to the dance. Girls scared him. Gaming seemed the better, safer option on a sweltering August night. “No way,” he’d griped, but despite his protests, Kevin, his best friend, had cajoled him into it.
“You never know. You might meet someone. It’s better than a school dance, because they’ll be kids from all over.”
“Yeah, right.” At fifteen, Francis, shy despite his lanky frame and gray-blue eyes, didn’t see much chance of that ever happening, but he’d gone along because his best friend asked—no, begged—him to.
And lately, Kevin hadn’t wanted to do much of anything. Not since his dad’s diagnosis a few months earlier. You didn’t have to be an oncologist to know that Kevin’s dad didn’t have much to be optimistic about—anybody could see that. His sunken cheeks, his wasted body, and his wispy hair all pointed to a future battle lost. Still, he hadn’t lost the light in his eyes. Not like Kevin.
So Francis agreed. When they got to the dance, it was in full swing. The thumping music and swaying bodies didn’t help Francis’s awkwardness. He planted himself in the darkest corner of the gym with the other petrified boys, folded his arms across his chest, put on his best bored expression, and fiddled with his phone. Every so often, when it felt safe, he lifted his hazy eyes to sneak a look at the line of girls against the opposite wall. It would be simpler to leap across Niagara Falls than to take the thirty steps needed to close the distance between them.
Kevin, always in tune with Francis’s thoughts, interrupted his brooding with a friendly elbow jab. “Drink?” He pushed a small silver container into his hand.
Francis accepted the flask gratefully. “How’d you get this by the bag check?” He took a swig, and the fiery liquid warmed his throat.
Kevin shrugged off his friend’s admiration. “That’s the beauty of flasks that double as belt buckles,” he said nonchalantly, taking a long appreciative drink. “There’s not a lot there, but it’s strong stuff.”
They emptied the flask between them, and within minutes, Francis felt like he could breathe again. So when the tall, intriguing girl with the heavy, black eyeliner and arching brows appeared out of the dense vapor of the fog machine, he managed to return her defiant look and keep his knees from buckling.
“Hi,” she said, twirling a strand of dark hair in her fingers.
“Hi,” he muttered. Then, more strongly: “Hello.”
Her eyes softened, and she laughed.
He smiled. But when she asked him to dance, he thought to himself, Are you kidding?
“Sure,” he said, as if this kind of thing happened to him every day.
“I’m Sawyer.” She eyeballed him until he mumbled his name, and then she smiled boldly. “Come on.” She took his hand and pulled him out onto the floor, where they danced under the rainbow lights until the DJ had spun his last record.
By then, Francis felt a foot taller. With confidence he didn’t know he possessed, he pulled Sawyer into a long kiss.
“I think we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other,” she whispered.
Francis smiled. “I hope so.” He wondered if she could hear his heart pounding over the tremble in his voice. What could a girl like her possibly see in a boy like him?
“Hey, let’s go outside,” she said. “You know, get some air.”
He would have gone anywhere with her. He took her extended hand and followed her outside. She skirted the groups of kids drinking and talking and led him to a quiet spot where they could be alone.
He was too caught up in the moment to think about what would happen next and how it might change his life forever. It would have been nice to stand outside the community center and kiss her all night, but Kevin appeared, and his irritating throat-clearing and foot-shuffling made that impossible.
He understood Kevin’s impatience. It hadn’t been easy to talk their parents into letting them walk home, even though they lived only a few blocks away. If they were late, there would be trouble.
“Seems like your friend is trying to tell you something,” Sawyer whispered, an underlying touch of humor in her voice. She pushed him away gently. “See you soon, Francis Sloan.”
He watched her until she disappeared from his sight, then he remembered to say good-bye. “See you,” he murmured to her departing figure, savoring the taste of her on his lips.
He did his best to pull himself together before he joined his friend. “I told you you’d meet someone,” Kevin said with satisfaction as they walked home from the dance. “Did you get her number?”
Francis nodded. “Better. We’re going to see each other tomorrow.”
Kevin let out a whoop and high-fived Francis. “Beats a night of Call of Duty! So you guys have an actual date?”
“Sort of. Her mom isn’t always around, so I’m going to her place.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.” Kevin poked Francis in the ribs. He winked, but Francis knew he felt out of his depth. No wonder—this wasn’t familiar territory—neither of them had been with a girl before. In truth, the whole thing seemed impossible. Still…
“Huh. I wish.” Francis laughed. “She’s pretty hot.”
Kevin rubbed his hands together and whistled softly. “Yeah.”
“What about you?” Francis changed the subject, trying not to be too obvious about it. “I saw you dancing with a hottie. Did you get her number?”
“Yeah, but she got drunk and left before the dance ended, so no luck.”
Francis laughed. He wasn’t ready to talk about his feelings, and besides, he didn’t want to disrespect Sawyer, even in fun, even with Kevin. “She’s older,” he said. “Sixteen. She goes to public school and lives on the other side of town. She’s had a boyfriend too, so she’s experienced.” He could still taste her lips on his and feel her soft skin beneath his hands.
Kevin rolled his eyes. “She’s kind of emo.”
“She’s beautiful,” Francis said with a sigh. “And she’s not emo—she just has her own style. She’s just, well…she’s Sawyer.”
“Man,” Kevin said, “you’ve got it bad.” He shoved his hands into his jean pockets and scowled, signaling the end of the conversation. “So I guess I won’t be seeing you tomorrow afternoon.” It was a statement not a question, and it was true, so Francis didn’t bother to answer.
They cut through the wooded park that bordered their neighborhood, each lost in his own thoughts. It was dark, past midnight, and the air had cooled. Except for the sound of the light breeze in the trees and their breathing, it was quiet. A sliver of moonlight lit the path, but they could have found their way home blindfolded. They’d grown up in this area, and they knew by heart each tree and the narrow trails that wound between them.
The closer the boys got to Kevin’s house, the quieter and smaller Kevin became. His broad shoulders slumped, and his head dropped until his curly blond hair created a veil of protection over his large, sad eyes.
Francis wished it were different. The last six months with Kevin had been difficult. Witnessing his friend suffer through his dad’s illness had been like watching a candle slowly sputter out. Francis felt powerless, guilty. He’d had a blast at the dance; he’d met a girl. He’d kissed that girl and she’d kissed him back. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow afternoon. But Kevin had struck out.
He’d blown off Kevin at the dance without giving it a thought.
They arrived at Kevin’s house first. Except for one room on the ground
floor, all the lights were off in the stately Elizabethan-style home. “Your dad’s up,” Francis noted. They’d converted the den into a sickroom when Mr. Croyden could no longer manage the stairs. There was a hospital bed, and the smell of sickness permeated the once comfortable study. Books still lined the walls, but the desk and soft leather chairs had been removed, the carpets drawn back, and a big flat-screen TV stuck hurriedly on a wall that had once boasted colorful paintings. In the middle of it all, Mr. Croyden slowly expired, all the while doing his best to make everyone feel better—especially his son.
“Yeah. He wakes up for more pain drugs.”
They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds before Kevin turned up the path to his front door. “See you.” His body language spoke for itself.
“Hey,” Francis called after him. “Thanks for making me go tonight.” And, almost as an afterthought, because Sawyer occupied his thoughts, he said, “Say hi to your dad for me.”
Kevin looked away, his voice barely audible. “Yeah. Whatever. Have a good time tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Francis replied. “I’ll catch you later.”
Kevin paused on the stoop, then he ducked inside and the door swung shut behind him.
• • •
In the two weeks before the start of school, “later” never happened. Francis went to see Sawyer the next day and the day after that and the day after that. Because she lived on the East Side, and Francis on the West Side of Vancouver, the meet-ups weren’t easy—a forty-minute bus ride for Francis—but he’d have made the trek if it had been three times as long. He got into the habit of catching up on his summer reading assignment on the bus. He’d text Sawyer as he approached her stop, and she’d be waiting for him when he got off the bus.
At first he felt shy when around her, but by their third date, they’d become inseparable. Francis was a willing tourist in a part of the city he’d never known. Sawyer enjoyed taking him into the small galleries, music stores, and coffee shops that lined the busy street she lived on. “How long have you lived here?” she inquired incredulously, when Francis finally admitted that he’d never set foot on Main Street.
“Well, it’s a long way from my place,” he defended, wondering why he’d missed out on such a vibrant part of the city. “Anyway, I’m here now.”
On warm days, she’d take him to small, heavily treed parks, and they would sit with their arms around each other, kissing and talking in their own world.
On their fifth day together, Sawyer was waiting impatiently at the bus stop for Francis. As soon as his feet hit the sidewalk, she grabbed his hand. “I’ve been waiting for ages. Come on. Follow me.”
She hurried down the street, not slowing her pace until they arrived in front of a tall, blue-and-white, three-story Victorian house with a steep, wide staircase leading to the entrance. Six mailboxes lined the doorframe. “Here we are,” she said, climbing the stairs and pushing open the front door. “My house.” She grinned. “Mom won’t be home for hours.”
Francis’s stomach did a slow flip, and, for a split second, he hesitated. He blinked. So what?
He followed her inside. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except for the thought of Sawyer’s slim, naked body and inviting smile.
Then the impossible happened, and Francis felt the gulf between his old self and his new self widen.
Part One
How frail the human heart must be—a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing—a fragile, shining instrument of crystal, which can either weep, or sing.
—Sylvia Plath
Chapter One
The Sloan house possessed a muted sense of quiet, like a private library, but Sawyer couldn’t have known this when she slammed the front door shut behind them with a thunderous bang. In the apartment she shared with her mother, there were very few rules.
Francis, who had been raised to close doors softly so as not to wake his little brothers, jumped at the thud of wood striking wood. Already feeling tightly wound, he turned on her. “Shit, Sawyer. Go easy on the door!”
The loud noise reverberated through the front hall, announcing their arrival, even though Francis had made sure everybody would be out. It was bad enough bringing his girlfriend over; he couldn’t fathom a parental introduction. Sawyer, as he’d planned, was sure this would be the day she finally got to meet his family, and that was fine with him. It’s what he needed her to believe.
But a sound from deep inside the house stopped Francis cold in his tracks. Had he imagined it?
Sawyer, close on his heels, bumped into him and swore under her breath. “Jesus, Francis. What’s with you?” Raising her voice, she scolded, “I’m here to meet your mom, not Medusa.”
Her grade eleven class had been studying Greek mythology and she liked to sprinkle her conversation with mythological figures. “Is she like Medusa?”
“Medusa?” Francis rolled his eyes. “You know, most of the time, I don’t know what or who you’re talking about.”
She gave him a funny look. “You seem kind of distracted. Medusa. You know, Gorgon monster, ringlets made of poisonous snakes. One look and you turn to stone. That Medusa.”
She sighed as if this were common knowledge and shrugged off her book-laden backpack. It fell to the floor with a solid thump. Francis winced.
In the few weeks he’d known her, he’d never seen Sawyer do anything quietly. Most of the time, he liked that about her—not now, though.
Why had he agreed to this? Because he found it impossible to say no to her. Because she’d keep bugging him until he agreed.
“You can’t keep putting me off. I want to meet your family.”
So here they were. Francis felt self-conscious about his neighborhood. He felt even more uncomfortable about his house. Today, against the backdrop of a sky the color of concrete, the soft light from the chandelier above them lent the front hall an elegant air. Outside, towering oak trees lined the wide streets like sentries, guarding against non-pedigreed intruders. Sawyer, he guessed, would have a lot to say about all of this later.
“Pretty swank” had been her only comment when they’d turned onto his winding street minutes earlier.
Now she stood in his front hall, twirling her hair irritably, while he removed his shoes and tucked them into the shoe rack. Next, he took off his backpack and hung it on a hook on the wall, and then he did the same with his coat. Sawyer was impatient.
“Come on, Francis! Let’s go and meet your clan. In a house this size, we might have to send out a search party.”
He couldn’t tell if her sarcasm was meant to criticize or amuse.
“Very funny,” he said. “Actually, I don’t think anyone is home, even though I told them to be.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. “Mom never said a word about going out.”
He rearranged his face into disappointment, which became the real thing as a musical giggle floated down the hall.
“No way,” he muttered as a second burst of laughter reached his ears.
In that second, he grasped the full extent of his miscalculation. What if they simply retraced their footsteps and slipped quietly back into the safety and anonymity of the street?
He skidded to a stop. “I can’t do this.”
Sawyer gave him a little push from behind. “What’s that noise?”
“Well, let’s just say I don’t think you have to worry about us finding them.” The clomp-drag of heavy, uneven footsteps came from down the hall. Too late to run for it.
“Oh god.” He turned terrified eyes on Sawyer. “They’re home!”
She gave him a puzzled look. “What’s up with you today?”
“Wait for it.” He held up his hand. “Here they come.” On cue, his mom appeared at the end of the long hallway.
“Hi,” Francis managed, trying to see her through Sawyer’s eyes. She was tall, like him, the same blue-gray eyes,
hers framed by laugh lines. She lurched like a wounded giant to the left and the right, her balance compromised by the twin five-year-old boys who clung to her like monkeys, one on each leg.
“Gosh,” exclaimed Sawyer, eyeing the scene before her.
The little boys were ridiculously cute, with dark skin, curly hair, solemn faces, and large, brown eyes, while their mother was white, about five-foot-eight, with a halo of curly red hair. She wore designer jeans and a black T-shirt that shouted “Pipe Up against Oil Pipelines.”
All three were covered in a light dusting of flour. When Sawyer saw them, she burst into delighted laughter.
Francis’s mom tried, but failed, to shake off the boys.
“I give up,” she said with a laugh, beaming at Sawyer. “Goodness, did you compare me to Medusa just now? Francis, what have you been saying about me? And who is your charming friend with a love of Greek mythology? You didn’t tell me you’d be bringing a guest home after school.”
“Yes, I did,” he mumbled. “At least, I thought I did.”
His mom gave him “the look” and brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, unable to hide her astonishment at seeing her son with a girl in tow, a pretty girl—despite her raccoon eyes and cherry-red lips. Francis wasn’t fooled by his mother’s subterfuge. Her surprised expression reminded him of the big-eyed bullfrog he’d netted in the backyard pond for his young brothers.
“The Medusa thing was just a joke,” Sawyer explained. “I mean, I was teasing Francis. No offense meant.”
“None taken.”
Francis cleared his throat. “I kind of like Medusa,” he said, regaining his composure. “It suits you, Mom—especially when you don’t brush your hair.”
His mom shot him a withering look. “Very funny. Now, introductions please, Francis.”
“I’m getting to that. Sawyer, this is my mom, and the kid on her left leg is Nate. The one on her right is Devon. Mom, this is Sawyer Martin.”
His mom grinned, attempted to shake the twins off her legs once again, then gave up and turned to Sawyer. “Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, we’ve been baking, and I’m covered in flour and kids.” She held up her hands as unnecessary proof.
Saying Good-bye to London Page 1