And he does just that. His hand softly glides across my face, his fingers running through my hair like medicine to soothe the pain. I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I awake nearly an hour later. Austin lies where I left him, static and bruised. It was a dream, him touching me. Just a dream.
A nurse stands in the room now, checking Austin’s vitals. She glances at me and then starts for the door.
Disappointment consumes the sliver of hope I’d been nursing. Come on. What did I expect, that my voice would wake Austin up? I kiss my finger and touch his cheek lightly with it.
“I love you,” I say again, hoping that at least these words will settle into Austin’s subconscious, even if I never hear them again in return.
But then he moves.
Or did I imagine it?
I stare at Austin, frozen, wondering if I imagined his eyelids fluttering. “Nurse,” I say, calling her back. “Nurse!”
Austin’s eyelids move again, unmistakable this time.
My heart leaps. The nurse rushes in and leans over Austin’s bed. “Hun, can you open your eyes?”
Austin’s hand moves, like he’s searching for something.
The nurse continues. “Do you remember your name?”
Austin mumbles incoherently, and the nurse removes a tube from his mouth.
“W-where—”
“You’re in the hospital,” she answers him. “You’re all right.”
Austin’s eyelids open then, his blue eyes resting directly on me. “You,” he says, straining for breath. My heart stops beating. “Forgot—” He continues in broken fragments. “To say it.”
“To say what, hun?” the nurse asks.
“ ’Til next time.”
A ripple of relief runs up from my toes and ends in a smile at my lips. He’s here. He’s alive. He’s awake! And he’s mine. I want to relive this feeling a hundred times in the years to come. Maybe I will.
I slide my hand into his, realizing that’s what he was searching for. “Hey, Austin.”
“W-what happen?” he mumbles, his eyelids drooping.
I smile, trying to convince myself this isn’t another dream. “You were in an accident.”
The nurse gives me an encouraging nod and hurries out, probably to get assistance.
Austin manages a weak grin and his eyelids close slowly. “You,” he says with great effort, his voice strained, “look beautiful.”
As though someone shoved a mirror in front of my face, I suddenly remember my bloodshot eyes and bird’s-nest updo. I’m the wildebeest all over again. I smile anyway because I don’t care, and I know Austin doesn’t either (and, trust me, he’s had better days himself). “Thanks.”
His mouth pulls into a half smile that fades quickly behind bruised, tired lips.
“You came back,” I whisper.
His eyelids open and his brows furrow. “You s-sound surprised.”
I shrug, my bottom lip involuntarily pulling into a grimace as I look him over again.
A smile reaches his eyes. “I look that bad, huh?”
“No,” I lie, trying to sound convincing. I hold his hand, and my mind weaves back through every minute spent with Austin from now to the night we met. I picture myself jumping into the car that first night on Tybee Island, recalling the words my dad spoke so many years ago on River Street when I found that silver dollar.
“I love you,” I say, making sure Austin hears me this time.
A contented smile outlines his lips as he squeezes my hand. Austin’s eyelids open, his blue eyes telling me everything I need to know.
Anything can happen on River Street, Dad once told me. And like always, he was right.
Epilogue
Sienna
Four Months Later
“Are you okay?”
I press my lips together and smile, willing my dad’s voice to sink into my memory and stay there forever.
“Sienna,” he says, and I finally look up. His deep brown eyes search mine, a funny little smile playing at the corners of his lips. Apple trees and a cloudy Virginia sky frame the tall outline of his body. But something is different about this rewind, something I can’t quite place.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Perfect, actually.”
“Perfect?” he says. “How so?”
“Well, for one, you’re here,” I say, noticing for the first time how everything around me is fuzzy, the sky blending in with my dad’s dark hair. Odd. “College is better than I thought. Hard, but good. And would you believe Mom landed a job with that decorating magazine she always kept around, the one Viva Bella was featured in? She makes decent money, too. Spencer hates his new teacher, but his tutor rocks. I think he has a little crush on her, actually. And Austin—”
I pause, a puzzling realization slicing through my train of thought.
“I know,” Dad says and nods like he knew all of this already, even though I’ve never mentioned Austin. Not once. How could I have? Every time I tried to say anything during my rewinds that would meddle with the past, I woke up.
My eyes meet my dad’s gaze and lock. Something isn’t right. Panic bubbles up from deep within, sounding an alarm that puts all of my senses on edge. I’m acutely aware of my dad’s hand as it slowly grasps my shovel, his fingers nearly touching mine.
He smiles. “You can let go now.”
My heart ricochets in my chest, indignant.
“But, Dad,” I say, fixing a white-knuckled grip on the shovel so he can’t take it from me. “The pact. What about our pact? We promised to remember this.”
Dad smiles again, but this time the smile reaches his eyes, reaches everything around him, including me. Everything is getting so blurry. I hold on to the image of his dark eyes and his smile, pulling them in close so I’ll never forget.
“Let’s make a new pact,” he says, his voice almost an echo. His eyes linger on mine with a hint of satisfaction, even pride.
I glance down at our hands fixed on my shovel in a sort of tug-of-war, and I know. We’re talking about letting go of a lot more than just shovels here, and I don’t know how I feel about it. Confusion, grief, and even anger slowly unravel, however, setting something free within me.
It’s time.
My gaze meets my dad’s one last time.
“Okay,” I say with a little throb in my throat, letting unspoken words pass between our eyes that mean more than we could ever say.
And I finally let go.
“Welcome to Atlanta, Georgia,” an unfamiliar voice says, booming through speakers all around me and yanking my eyes open. “Local time is four fifty-five. Current temperature is a warm, fifty-one degrees, making a lovely December evening. Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened while we . . .”
I bolt upright, offering a smile of embarrassment to the guy in the seat next to me who saw me awake with such a start. Numb from restful sleep, my body slowly pulls into alert mode as I grab my bag from the overhead storage compartment and toss the empty can of my first ever Dr. Pepper. Not bad.
It isn’t until I step off the airplane that I recall the dream I had during the flight. I pull the flaps of my jacket together in front of me against the chill of the airport. A dream, that’s all it was. I didn’t pass out. I didn’t rewind. Just a dream. And it almost shocks me, the incredible feeling that swells inside as I step off the moving walkway and glance up, like it’s the first step I’ve ever taken.
Austin stands down the hallway just beyond the security checkpoint, the grin on his face indicating that he’d been watching me long before I spotted him. One hand rests in his pocket and the other holds a palm-leaf flower. By the wilting looks of this one, I guess he made it himself.
The scent of fast food and all the bustle of an airport fade into nothing as his gaze holds mine. His feet stand firm beneath him, a miracle to my eyes that last saw him in a hospital bed, bruised and broken.
Tomorrow is the SEC Championship Game, Gators versus th
e Georgia Bulldogs, and it is Austin’s second time back in the game after a remarkable recovery. I’ve worked hard my first four months of college, saving up for this very moment.
I start toward him, unable to help my smile. So many things are uncertain still. Like how much Austin will even be allowed to play tomorrow or what the rest of his college football seasons hold. But one thing is for sure.
Austin holds out his arms, his smile spreading.
Throwing manners to the wind, I start running, bumping my way through the crowd until I can see the dimples that frame his smile. His blue eyes draw me in, setting every ounce of anticipation free until I throw myself into his arms.
Austin crushes me in an embrace, swinging me around once before setting me down. His earthy scent with just a touch of cologne sends so many memories rushing back to the surface. We pull away, and I look up at him, his dark hair, strong chin, and that smile I’ve loved from the moment I first saw him. A scar marks his face, a line that runs from the corner of his eyebrow down to his cheek, reminding me of the accident and the reassuring fact that he’s here.
The pact. I recall the unspoken words my dad’s eyes conveyed during that parting I will never forget.
Austin’s lips meet mine for a perfect moment I will never rewind to. But that’s the beauty of a moment, any moment. Each one is meant to be lived, and lived well. After all, any moment in time can only truly be lived once.
I take Austin’s hand, and together we take our first step into the rest of forever. Where there is no longer a need to rewind.
Don’t miss Laura Johnston’s next young adult novel, coming next February!
CHAPTER 1
Julianna
The moment the door closes behind me, I can feel it: less space, less sunshine, less air. Well, I’ll admit, in Phoenix, Arizona, less sunshine this time of year is a good thing. But I hate this place. Hate.
“Name?” the officer at the desk asks.
“Julianna Schultz,” I say, folding my arms in front of me with every ounce of the Latina attitude I was brought up with. Makes me feel better somehow. I won’t let this place give me the creeps. “I’m here to see my mother.”
The officer raises a brow, looking past my shoulder. “And you, sir?”
I glance over at my dad, his blue eyes, scruffy chin, and bean-pole figure nearly catching me by surprise. I almost forgot he was here. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
Dad steps forward and mumbles, “John Schultz.”
Officer Pugmier clucks his tongue as he scans the approved visitor list. Not only do I recognize him from our last visit, I remember his name. I never imagined I’d know the inside details of a prison like I do now. Pugmier stands and hoists up the belt at his hips with a grunt. At least we’re all uncomfortable to some degree. “Step right over here.”
We go through what’s becoming “the usual.” Pugmier checks my driver’s license that sports a dreadful picture of the old me. A lot can happen to a teenage girl in a year’s time, and thank goodness. I fill out the papers. As I approach the metal detector, my heart races. Officer Pug watches me, just stares. He, of course, is clueless about the nickname I’ve given him. Pug—it fits him, and it makes his stern face not quite so fearsome.
Pug clears his throat, and I snap to, focusing on the detector ahead. No belt, no earrings, no keys. I walk through without a beep and let out a breath of air, despite myself. Not that I’m smuggling anything in. I just hate those things.
As if this wasn’t enough to give me a stupid wave of anxiety, Pug asks me to step aside for a pat down. I freeze before collecting myself enough to cross my arms again and throw him a look between narrowed eyes. “A what?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s a random search.”
He calls to a female officer to assist.
Why does this place make me feel like a criminal? I’m no angel, but I’ve never stolen, never cheated, nothing. Still, this place has my skin crawling. And when my lovely pat down is finally over and I’m walking down the long hallway with no purse, no car keys, and no cell phone, I understand why. Even for a visitor, entering a prison means giving up a piece of your freedom.
The door opens and Dad hangs back. “I’m going to grab something at the vending machine, Julianna.”
Good. I made it clear on the drive up here that I wanted a moment alone with Mama. I know exactly what I need to say. Even in prison, my mom is far more sensible and easier to confide in than my dad. I sit and scoot my chair closer to the table, the legs scraping the tile with a grinding echo. And then she walks in.
I pop back up, a myriad of emotions unfurling within me. The first genuine smile I’ve felt for weeks tugs the corners of my lips upward. Words evade us both as she approaches the table. So not normal. My mother is Mexican, and I like to claim the same even though I’m only half. She’s everything to me. We’re best friends who love to chat and laugh and hug.
She wraps her arms around me in a crushing embrace.
“Mama,” I say, burying my face into her shoulder. Hugging her back.
It’s her, all of it. Her dark hair, light brown eyes, warm smile, and her scent—like a fresh breath of air. Yet something is different. I pull back, then glance around. Excessive displays of affection are prohibited. One hug, one kiss, that’s all. It’s the craps.
We both sit on opposite sides of the table. Usually we’d kick back side by side on the living room couch for hours, exchanging stories and outbursts of laughter.
That’s when I realize what’s different: everything. I take in my mom’s uniform, my gaze drifting down her baggy outfit before snapping back up. Mama notices.
“It’s as ugly as sin,” she admits and then shrugs. “But really, it’s not that bad.”
I raise one brow, giving her a look that says otherwise. This earns a crack of laughter from her in return. At least I made her laugh. Mission one accomplished.
She leans forward and clasps my hands from across the table. Her nails have been chewed off. “Oh, my chica joya, I have missed you!”
How I’ve missed her—her voice, her rich accent. Chica joya is her own way of calling me her little jewel. Only Mama can call me that.
I bite back on the crude words that would accurately describe how much the past three weeks without her have sucked, settling for a grin instead. You know that one thing you can’t bear the thought of living without? I’m staring at mine.
“I’ve missed you too,” I say.
My eyes sweep the cinder-block walled room, the fluorescent lighting making my eyes wig out. I blink, then glance down at the ratty edges of her nails again. “How’s it going in here, Mama?” I ask, diving right into mission number two.
She doesn’t budge, just glances away for a nanosecond and then flashes a smile. “Really, I can watch TV. Read books. They have a library.”
This breaks my heart, Mama looking for the positive. She’s too optimistic, too sweet. And the last person who deserves to be behind bars.
“Come on, Mama.”
“What?” she says.
“Cut the crap.”
“It’s not crap.” The hitch in her voice betrays her. Mama never was a good liar.
I take in the angular line of her jaw, her hollow cheeks. Mama’s always had an uncanny metabolism, but this is something else. “How’s the food?”
She diverts her gaze with a little grimace. I got her. We Mexicans know food. “Bland,” she admits. “All right, it’s like going to a really awful restaurant.”
“I knew it.”
“But let’s not dwell on these things, Joya,” she says.
“Fine,” I say.
“How was your last week of school?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“And work?” she asks.
“Good,” I say.
“Are you sick of chocolate yet?”
I give her an absurd look.
She throws a glance upward in defeat. “How dare I ask?”
It’s a good
thing I’ve got a good metabolism too or working at The Chocolate Shoppe would really suck.
“I’ll bet you’re already looking forward to soccer this fall,” Mama says, keeping this conversation way too light for comfort.
“Mainly just looking forward to it cooling off; it’s only the first week of June and we’re already way over a hundred degrees,” I say, ignoring the stabbing reminder that Mama won’t be around to see any of my games this fall.
Mama pauses, no doubt fishing for another trivial question I’m not about to let her ask.
“How’s your roommate?” I ask. “You said you were getting someone new?”
“Good, good,” she says.
I pause and try to read her mind. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
Mama feigns innocence. “Really, Julianna, there’s nothing to say.”
“Mama,” I say with a dramatic folding of my arms to make my point. “This is me you’re talking to. There’s always something to say. Out with it!”
Mama laughs, a weak little chuckle with no life in it. “Okay, okay,” she concedes with a hesitant roll of her eyes that lets me know something big is coming. Something she’d rather not talk about. “My new roommate,” she begins and lowers her voice, “was convicted of second-degree murder.”
“What?” I shriek.
“I know.”
“How? How did she get into a minimum security? And why does she have to be your roommate?”
“We all share a dormitory,” she says. “I have many roommates.”
“But this murderer—”
“Shh, keep it down,” she snaps in a voice pitched for my ears alone.
“This chick,” I correct myself, unable to control my volume, “she shares a bunk with you?”
Mama nods. “She was in a maximum security for nineteen years but got transferred here because of good conduct. She’s got health problems, too. We have better doctors.”
“I didn’t know they could do that,” I say, floored. And enraged. The U.S. justice system is so screwy. So much for mission number two. Mama is not okay. No wonder she was trying to keep the conversation light. Protect me, even. I have the sudden impulse to drag her to the door and make a run for it.
Rewind to You Page 27