So Glad to Meet You
Page 23
“I know.”
“But we’re lucky. It was chance that worked out, and we feel blessed.” She took a breath. “The business will be there for you. But if you’re not there for it…” She shrugged. “We’ll sell when we retire. It will all end happily as it arrived.”
Oliver nodded. He wished he could give a more detailed answer, but he didn’t want to accidentally make any promises. His parents deserved better than that, and so did he.
“Montana is awfully far away,” his mom mused.
“So is San Francisco, if that’s what you’re hinting at.” He regretted mentioning San Francisco, giving her a window to pull open the curtains and discuss Daphne. If his mom encouraged him to move to San Francisco, he would further resist doing so. And he didn’t want to resist it.
“No.” She paused and sucked the insides of her teeth. “Oliver, you’re alive. You’re allowed to make mistakes. You’re allowed to change your mind.”
His mom hugged him. It was a preparatory goodbye for the actual goodbye hug in two days. But this one was better because his mom had just forgiven him—for everything. The long hug would stick with him while he drove north to Montana through the rocky hills of wine country, the Pacific at his side. In his mom’s embrace, the tension in Oliver broke apart. He had his answer in the form of a non-answer. There wasn’t a right or wrong choice. His future wasn’t a fork in the road, it was a winding path for him to pave. He might even sign up for an art class. Or graphic design.
• • •
That night, Jason tiptoed into Oliver’s mind, the memory that Oliver always pushed the furthest away, burying it deep within him. Tonight, Oliver let it move, stretch its legs, dance around the insides of his skull.
“Bet you can’t hit it over the fence,” Jason says.
In the backyard, Jason drops his mitt as home plate and takes ten reaching strides in front of it.
“Bet I can.” Oliver touches the mitt with the bat, measures his sweet spot, sets his stance, and hoists the bat over his right shoulder.
Jason winds up and throws. The ball flies at Oliver in slow motion. His swing is swift, and CRACK!
The sound still shakes his bones.
The ball sails over the fence.
“Home run!” Jason chants, throwing his arms over his head. “Better hurry and grow up. The Dodgers need you.”
Seeing his brother’s joy, Oliver’s chest is so full of so many things, ready to explode.
Jason picks up another ball. “Come on. Hit me right here.” He taunts Oliver with a mischievous grin and taps the bridge of his nose.
Oliver tightens his grip on the bat and the ball comes at him, closer, closer, closer.
Swing.
Oliver marched into Jason’s bedroom. He pulled Jason’s mitt from the back of the closet and brushed off the dust. He removed the basketball from the final box and replaced it with the mitt. His chest was half full, half empty with the pride and anguish from the memory. A new force also pushed against his sternum. Empathy.
His brother had suffered, had lost to the darkness. But in whatever capacity, he’d had Emily. Oliver hoped that Jason had the privilege of loving Emily. Loving her with all of his light, however dim. The light that had led Oliver to Daphne.
For the first time, Jason and Emily were a comforting image. They calmed his own trepidation while he waited for the doorbell to ring. It was the last night. The night that had given Oliver a summer of insomnia.
Oliver flung open the door, kissing and lifting Daphne into the air, taking her by surprise. He returned her feet to the porch.
“I’m lucky it was you.” He breathed into her hair, smelling her scent.
“I’m lucky it was me.” Her flush was the best compliment.
“Coffee?” he suggested.
“Sugar and dairy disguising itself as caffeine? Sure.”
Oliver and Daphne sat across from each other at Frank’s Diner, coffee and donuts in front of them. This time, Oliver faced the door.
“Old-fashioned. That says something about your personality.” Oliver creamed and sugared his coffee.
Daphne dipped her old-fashioned into her coffee. “Do tell.”
“You’re a purist. No cream. No sugar. No icing. Just coffee and cake donut. You’re like vanilla: timeless.”
She smiled while chewing. “Tell me that in ten years.”
“I will.” He took a bite of his glazed with sprinkles. “What does my donut say about me?”
“You like sugar and flavorless dyed particles.”
“Essence of my being.” He grinned and took another bite. The same waitress from months ago refilled his mug.
After the tinkling of spoon against ceramic, sweetness dissolving into brew, Oliver pulled out his copy of the list and laid it in front of him. The piece of paper bore the markings of a true adventure, bent at the corners, rumpled in the middle, small tears in the side edges. Everything was accounted for except the blank number ten.
He rapidly jotted on the worn paper and pushed it to the center of the table. New numbers in sharp, black ink trickled down the margin. The list continued, eleven through twenty.
Daphne tossed him her feisty look, the glint in her eyes that made him want to dive across the table and kiss her until his lips were raw, hold her until the sun came up. He wanted to be forever lost in those eyes.
She pulled the list over and scribbled down her number ten. With a flourish, she dropped the pen on the list and sat back in the booth, waiting for him to meet her challenge.
Oliver slid the paper back in front of him and read. He met her gaze with a checkmate grin.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Right now?” She chugged her coffee.
“Right now.”
He took her hand, and they went.
Resources
If you or someone you know is struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, please know that there is help. You matter.
For depression, please get help right now.
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
nami.org
Call 1-800-950-6264 (NAMI)
Text “NAMI” to 741741
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA)
samhsa.gov
Call 1-800-662-4357 (HELP)
Teen Mental Health
teenmentalhealth.org
If you are suicidal, please get help right now.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Chat at suicidepreventionlifeline.org
Call 1-800-273-8255 (TALK)
Acknowledgments
This book and I have been on a journey. We wouldn’t have made it here without the guidance of many wonderful, talented people. A very special thank you to my agent, Aimee Ashcraft. You were the first person to love this book as much as I do (sometimes more), and you’ve been a true champion for SGTMY every step of the way. Also, thank you to Kimberly Brower and Brower Literary for all of your expertise.
I’ve been blessed having Lia Ottaviano as my editor. You understood this book from the beginning and made it cleaner and sharper than I ever dreamed. I stand on the shoulders of the entire team at Diversion Books: Sarah Masterson Hally and her beautiful cover, Erin Mitchell, Angela Man, and Eliza Kirby.
Publishing is a slow whirlwind, but I’ve connected with so many lovely people who’ve helped me weather the storm. Brenda Drake and everyone involved in Pitch Wars have built the most supportive community an aspiring author could ask for. The awesome writers of Team32 helped me survive being out on submission. The brilliant Electric Eighteens carried me through 2018 and beyond. I love you all.
Thank you to Beth Ontrop for being my family for the last twenty years and for always giving stellar reading recommendations. And thank you to Mariel Conry for being excited about this book when I needed the encouragement.
Thank you to Amy and Duane Brown for being the best in-laws someone could hope for. Tha
nk you to my sister, Kim Montgomery, for always listening to me yammer on about writing and life, in general. Thank you to my mom, Claudia Morrison, for being a lifelong reader, and for always buying me books when I asked for them. We never made a trip to the mall without going to a bookstore. And thanks for buying the Good Will Hunting soundtrack.
The two women to whom this book is dedicated would’ve been thrilled for SGTMY and me. My Grandma Super was an octogenarian who frequently went polka-dancing with her girlfriends. Without you, my move to L.A. wouldn’t have been possible, and I’m forever grateful. And my Grandma McCarter, who was a difficult woman, born before her time. But you were always my biggest fan. Thank you. I miss you every day.
I wouldn’t have wanted to write YA without the gifted teachers I had in Morris, IL. I thank everyone whose classrooms I sat in from Franklin to Garfield to Center to MCHS. I was learning even if I didn’t know it at the time.
A special thank you to a few teachers who instilled lessons I’ve used long after graduation: Sharon Morris, who taught me that people are not always what they seem (for the better). Sharon Marizza, who gave a quiet girl some confidence. And David Rice, who I’m truly honored to call my mentor and my friend. You taught me how to find meaning in words so that I might write words with meaning.
And I’ve saved my largest thank you for last because it will never be big enough. Thank you, Nathan Brown. So many hats are piled on your head, and you look dashing in all of them: first editor (he gives very thorough notes), head cheerleader, and life partner. I love that every day I get to look at you and ask, Where are we going next?
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