The Days Without You: A Story of Love, Loss, and Grief

by Skylar Wilson

  Kylie stared at him in disbelief. He just punched her and still had the gall to ask if she wanted a drink? Still, she needed desperately to get the putrid taste from her mouth. Her eyes met his. Apology softened his deep brown gaze as he rubbed the back of his neck. There was a certain depth behind his eyes, and a bright sort of playfulness, even in his guilty nervousness as he offered a crooked smile. A slight boyishness softened the hard lines of his jaw, which was covered in light stubble.

  “Water,” she said after a few moments. “Please,” she added, watching with mild curiosity as he turned toward the concession stand, ignoring the fact that blood still smeared her face.

  He returned a few minutes later and handed her a cold bottle of water. Ripping the cap off, she drank deeply, reveling in the coolness as it washed away the metallic tinge that lingered on her tongue.

  “You look really familiar,” she blurted out, twirling the cap between her fingers and taking another long sip of water.

  “I work at a restaurant downtown. Grits. You and your friend came in last weekend.” He took a swig from his own bottle before glancing at her with an expectant look. “I waited on you guys.”

  “Right.”

  “Adam, by the way. Y’know, in case you don’t remember.”

  “Kylie.”

  “Do you want to sit outside for a few minutes? It’s kind of warm in here,” he said abruptly, tugging at the neckline of his worn t-shirt.

  “Oh. Um, sure.”

  She gave a slight nod, shoving the soiled napkins into her pouch, and followed Adam outside. Even from several paces behind, he stood taller than her own somewhat lanky five-foot-seven. Her height had always made her uncomfortable, especially when wearing heels of any sort. Cat frequently admonished her, telling her to instead take pride in her height.

  The cold night air sent rapid shivers through her, and she set the bottle down to place her hands in her pocket. As she leaned against the cold metal handrail lining the concrete steps, Adam eased himself onto the top step and looked up at her. Feeling awkward and unnerved by his penetrating gaze, she frowned.

  “What?”

  His lips twitched, as if holding back laughter. “You look pretty gruesome. Like horror movie gruesome.”

  “Thanks…?” Although she was unsure of what to make of him, Kylie found herself fighting back a smile. No, why am I smiling? He punched me. I should be angry that he had even considered throwing punches in a crowd of people. That was stupid of him. “Anyway, can I borrow your phone? I lost mine and I lost my friend in the pit and I—”

  “Here.” Adam had leaned back and slipped his phone from his front pocket, offering it to her after unlocking the screen.

  “Thanks. Doesn’t change the fact that you punched me,” she muttered while dialing Cat. The line continued to ring until voicemail picked up. “Cat, it’s Kylie. Lost my phone. Meet me outside the front entrance.” She ended the call and returned the phone to Adam.

  “You’ve got some blood there. In your hair,” he said, leaning back again to slip his phone back in his pocket, and pointed to a spot of blood contrasting the tones in her hair. “Just a bit.” He offered a half-grimace, half-smile.

  “Great,” she mumbled, tucking her hair under her hood.

  Adam laughed. It was a bright, cheery laugh, his smile lifting his cheeks and touching his eyes. An infectious kind of laugh.

  “Sucks that we had to miss the end of the show,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “You can go back in. I’m fine out here.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll wait ‘til your friend comes. They’re probably almost to the encore, anyway.”

  An awkward silence erupted. Nothing worth saying came to Kylie’s mind, as bashfulness had overcome her. What did it matter, anyway? Not like she would ever see him again after tonight.

  “So,” he began, pausing and rubbing his hands together. “What do you do for work?”

  Oh, thank God. Conversation. It was awkward enough having Adam wait here with her when she didn’t even know him.

  “I’m a writer for Charleston Charm.”

  Adam scoffed. “That girly magazine?”

  “It’s not that girly. We do pieces on current events.”

  “I guess it’s not as bad as working as a waiter. Well, I’m really just moonlighting as a waiter—I’m a musician.”

  He grinned brightly again, apparently amused at his own joke, and Kylie couldn’t help but smile in return.

  “We’ve got a few gigs coming up,” he added. “You should come.”

  Her heart fluttered in the smallest way to Kylie’s bafflement. Was he considering this a proposal for a date? Or merely as friends? Either way, if anything arose from a date, it probably wouldn’t last, she thought. Besides, she enjoyed her time at home. Cat, however, had been nagging her more than usual lately to finally go on at least a few dates. A year had passed since Kylie found…well, since she lost her dignity. If she were to go to one of Adam’s shows, it would at least get Cat off her back.

  Adam’s dark, playful gaze was expectant, and he rubbed the back of his neck again. Just as Kylie opened her mouth to agree, the whoosh of the heavy metal door interrupted.

  “Kylie!” Cat rushed over to reach for her arm. Her lips parted, her jaw slackening as she took in Kylie’s bloody, disheveled appearance. “What happened to you? Are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital? You have blood all over you—”

  “No, I’m fine, I don’t need—”

  “It’s my fault,” Adam interjected. “She stopped a guy from stealing my wallet and I, uh, accidentally hit her.”

  Cat’s eyes remained trained on Kylie’s stained face. “Right. We should get you home. You look like hell.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Adam rose, watching Kylie as he stood tall and slipped his hands in his pockets. Another strong shiver coursed through Kylie as she tossed the half-empty bottle into the trash bin. Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, she thought longingly, once more, of the overstuffed quilt on her bed.

  “Well,” said Cat, giving a tight-lipped smile to Adam. “We should get going. We’ll miss the end of the show, probably your favorite song, but—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It was nice seeing you again, or whatever you want to call this,” said Adam, nodding at Kylie. He paused, decision flashing across his eyes as his gaze caught Kylie’s, and reached into his pocket once more, extracting a card and handing it to her. “Here. If, y’know, you ever want to come to a show or something.” He shrugged as she gently took it.

  The card was fairly plain, white with black lettering, bearing Adam Bell, Singer-Songwriter followed by his telephone number on its face.

  Kylie’s voice rose a few notes. “Thanks.” She waved it slightly before slipping it into her own pocket. Meeting his eyes, she held his gaze until Cat linked an arm around her. Offering a small wave, she mumbled a goodbye and tore her eyes away, smiling gently at Cat, who gave her a pointed look.

  She shivered, yet this time it wasn’t the cold air that raised the hairs on her arms. Cat stayed quiet, leaving Kylie to her own swirling thoughts.

  It might be nothing.

  Good morning, Low Country! Thanks for tuning in. You’re listening to 106.9 The Tide—

  Kylie grunted, blindly slapping at the radio to mute the offensive volume, and pulled the quilt over her head to shield her eyes from the early morning sun that was just beginning to peek through the blinds. After stretching and yawning, blowing a few long, loose hairs from her mouth, she stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, her only motivation to get moving being the waves at Folly Beach.

  The Washout, a section of the beach, was, in Kylie’s opinion, one of the best places to surf in Charleston, and she was determined to get there before anyone else, even if that meant waking up much earlier than she cared to on a Saturday morning and suffering through the frigid January water. Remembering the catastrophe of la
st year’s surfing competition only strengthened her resolve.

  Between pulling on her sweatshirt and brushing the knots from her hair, Kylie checked the tide and rip current report, tossed a towel and a bar of surf wax amongst a few other items into a backpack, and grabbed her surfboard from the corner in the bedroom. Another long yawn escaped, but there was no time to waste with coffee. Still groggy, she stumbled down the stairs, balancing her board on her head and cringing every time it smacked the exterior brick wall. Outside, she hooked the board onto the roof rack atop her car, tossed the bag into the backseat where her wetsuit already lay, and headed out.

  Cat greeted her brightly, hopping down the front stoop of her downtown home as Kylie pulled up to the curb, and tossed her own wetsuit into the backseat. Kylie, meanwhile, secured her board on the roof, Cat snagging the keys from Kylie’s pocket while her hands were occupied.

  “I’ll drive. You’re still too sleepy,” said Cat before climbing into the driver’s seat.

  No protest came from Kylie. How Cat always had an abundance of energy Kylie never knew, but she had been so as long as they had known each other.

  “I’ll wake up once we hit the water,” she mumbled through a yawn and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat’s headrest.

  With the radio playing low and her head now lolling against the cold window, Kylie dozed, lost somewhere between awake and asleep. Her mind drifted to the concert. After Cat had dropped her off and she had tossed her clothes in the wash and showered off the blood, she lay in bed for a while, staring at Adam’s number, unable to shake the night’s events and the bewilderment they left in their wake. The gentle curve of his jaw and the bright playfulness in his eyes still remained in the forefront of her mind. No, such thoughts were impermissible. Risking such thoughts and feelings for someone would only lead to another wrong turn in life. No way could she handle that again.

  The crunch of wheels on gravel and sand woke her, and she rubbed the drowsiness from her eyes before climbing, half stumbling, out of the car.

  “Did you definitely decide if you’re going to enter the Gidget this year?” asked Cat, pulling out their wetsuits from the backseat.

  Kylie flashed a glance over the picket fence dividing the street parking from the beach and was relieved to see hardly anyone was there. Only a few couples strolled the beach in tennis shoes and heavy jackets.

  “Yeah, I plan on it.” Kylie yanked off her sweatshirt and tugged on a bright rash guard. With the sun already rising, the air felt considerably warmer than the last few nights, although a light breeze still raised gooseflesh on her arms.

  “When is it this year?” Cat asked.

  Kylie kneeled on the ground, quickly swiping a bar of topcoat wax over the deck’s base coat, which she had spent three meticulous hours rebuilding in her mother’s backyard last Saturday.

  “First weekend in June.” She silently prayed Cat wouldn’t bring up last year’s events that had turned the competition into a catastrophe, but it seemed Cat was to do just that.

  “Well, let’s hope what’s-her-name doesn’t show up. The girl from last year. Wasn’t she in the grade above us in high school?”

  Kylie merely gave a slow nod. Samantha Hart was her name—a name she could never forget.

  “Welcome to Grits, my name is Adam and I’ll be your server.”

  Over the last eight years of working in the restaurant business, his forced upbeat-customer-service voice and bright, toothy smile had become second nature for Adam. He folded his hands behind his back, glancing between the three young women who had just been seated. They set down pamphlets, maps of downtown, and their phones and cameras on the table. Definitely tourists—that was good. Tourists usually tipped well, especially if he flirted and turned on the charm.

  Adam had been particularly hopeful over the last couple of days that the girl from the concert would call, but his phone had yet to ring from anyone other than telemarketers. His hope had waned as the days passed.

  From the pocket of his black apron he pulled out his notepad and pen. “Can I start you ladies off with something to drink?” he asked.

  “A Fuzzy Navel, please.” Leaning forward in her low-cut blouse, the brunette on one side of the table offered a demure smile.

  “Sex on the Beach,” said the fairer of the trio on her right, holding back giggles behind her hand and nudging her friend.

  Really? Adam’s smile faded, only slightly, and he fought not to roll his eyes. No, whatever made him good tips, he reminded himself, fighting to maintain his composed smile. Good tips meant more money for his music gear. One day, he would get out of this business; he simply had to push through each grueling, soul-sucking day.

  “Just water for me, thanks.” The third glared at the pair.

  “You got it.” Jotting the order down, Adam composed another toothy smile, winked, and turned away as the trio erupted into whispered snickering.

  Heading to the back of the restaurant, Adam peered through the porthole window of the swinging kitchen door—good, no sign of the owner, Clark—before shoving his way through into the skin-melting inferno that was the kitchen. Its heat was mercilessly enraged by the stainless-steel counters and appliances, not to mention the long row of stoves at which several line cooks worked. Adam reached for a glass and filled it with water from the soda fountain. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he drank deeply and imagined the day he could tell Clark to take this awful, demeaning job and shove…. No, he better stop himself right there. The wishful thought, at least, was a small moment’s reprieve.

  Shawn, his roommate and drummer of their band and slacking line cook, slouched against the freezer door, rubbed his temples, and cussed before running a hand through his dark, matted curls.

  Downing the last of his water, Adam glanced at him. “Rough night?” he asked despite already knowing the answer, as Shawn had not come home last night.

  “Yeah,” grunted Shawn. “Good party, though.”

  Wanting to sigh but refraining, Adam dumped his cup in the sink, ignoring the dishwasher’s reproachful glare. Back to business, unfortunately.

  “Good for you. I’m still waiting on the order for table six.”

  “I’ll get to it. Or somebody else’s got it, I don’t know. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Shawn shuffled to the stove, still flattening his matted hair, and tottered on his feet.

  Clark was a stout man, resembling very much so a bulldog as he shouldered his way into the kitchen and glanced first at Adam, then narrowed his eyes at Shawn. His jowls quivered dangerously.

  “Shawn!” yelled Clark. “I’ve got five tables still waiting for their plates, and you’re in here slacking off. What’s the matter with you?” He glared, watching while Shawn scrambled to appear busy at the open stove, reaching for random pots and pans and turning up a burner. Clark turned to Adam and, in an overly loud tone, barked, “Tell him to take a shower before he comes to work. He looks like he hasn’t bathed in three days.”

  Shawn snorted a laugh.

  “Sure, right after I wipe his ass and burp him, too,” muttered Adam.

  Clark raised his brow, beginning to glare.

  “Okay, okay. I’ve got people waiting right now.” Adam darted around the owner and out the hinged door, not heading to his next waiting patrons but to the bar nestled into the back corner. It sat beside a small wooden platform that served as a stage for solo music acts. He hoped to be one, one of these days, but had yet to pluck up the courage to ask Clark. Besides, he waited tables on most acoustic nights and days, so what was the point in asking? Still, he enjoyed mentally critiquing the musicians who performed. Years of studying music theory had polluted his tolerance for poor form and style.

  Stepping up to the bar and leaning forward on his arms, he tossed the drink order onto the black resin surface. Gold and blue flecks speckled the top, as well as several divots. The bartender Samantha, who was stretching to put away a clean martini glass on a shelf below a lighted Corona sign
, glanced over her shoulder.

  “Oh, hey,” she greeted, landing on her heels.

  Adam nodded in greeting before turning to look at the stage. Low spotlights illuminated the singer on stage. What the hell kind of an act did Clark hire? He watched and listened, wincing at every flat note the singer choked out and every chord he hit out of tune. His rhythm and timing were all wrong, and Adam wanted to rip the guitar from his hands.

  Samantha cleared her throat while her hands quickly mixed the drink order. It was almost an art, Adam thought, how fast she did it.

  “Thanks for ditching me at the concert on Friday, by the way,” she said, her lips pressed into a thin line.

  He held back a snort. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m serious. I couldn’t find you after the show. I tried calling you.”

  “Had my phone on mute.”

  Her lips puckered into an even thinner line, her eyes narrowing. “Seriously, I had to call my friend to pick me up.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Had an incident during the show, had to help someone. I’ll make it up to you one of these days.”

  Her puckering lips loosened into a smile. “Fine, you can take me to lunch one day.”

  Adam held back a groan. It was bad enough having her in his truck on the way to the concert; she tended to talk incessantly, bouncing from topic to topic. It made his head spin just trying to keep up with listening to her.

  “Sure,” he conceded, forcing a smile in return. “We can go to Mama Jean’s around the corner on Thursday.”

  She nodded fervently, her eyes darting to the patron who had just stepped up to the bar. “Gotta go.” Another smile crossed her lips.

  Picking up the tray of drinks, Adam wove his way around the array of tables that sat in no particular order, a mishmash of layout design, and returned to the table of three young tourists.

  “Ready to order?” He forced his toothy customer-service smile as he set the drinks down in front of their respective patrons.