I am winding my way through the flower garden, lush and tall and muggy, when the wind suddenly shifts, lifting my hair and swirling it into my face. I stumble, losing my step and my place. I trip over a slab of uneven sidewalk and land with a short skid on the concrete path, backpack jilted to one side, the skin rubbed raw on the heel of my right hand, my hair still in my face. I reach up, instinctively, looking for a hand to hold, someone to pull me up, to pull me along and show me which way to go. There’s no hand, only the sharp sting of my raw skin in the cooling air.
Flowers tower over me, bobbing and weaving. Leaning back, I watch them, delicate and bright against the dark sky, and discover that I am sheltered under a canopy of blue and yellow and pink blooms. They dance above me, filling this calm little enclave I have landed in with the smell of summertime. I breathe in, long, steady breaths that fill my lungs with the perfume of picnics and parks and pools, of bike rides and T-ball practice, bouquets of dandelions, of sunshine and my sisters. Pressing down on my scraped hand to kill the last of the sting there, I collect myself, and my stuff, and set out again for home. I know the way by heart.
At the top of our driveway, lined up in a neat row, safe and dry, I see them—RGR DGR, LHS BUG, SHN ROX. How annoying. No wonder people hate us. I trail my finger along the waxed and shiny and professionally detailed trunks, taunting the threatening skies to open up and do their worst.
A few feet away, our kitchen window is a big glowing square. I stop, watching the scene play out on the other side of the thick glass. Like an actress on a TV with the sound turned off, Yorke talks with her mouth big and wide, her hands animated. Whatever she has to say is always the most important thing at that moment.
My mother and Freddie are at the table in the nook, lost in a landslide of RSVP cards and sample place settings. Freddie’s got a clipboard and a pen. She lifts a thick, engraved card from the pile, makes a check mark, and then puts the card into another pile. Repeat. My mother seems to be doing nothing more than arranging the large, sliding pile into smaller, neater piles, probably so the cards won’t knock over the etched champagne flutes. And Yorke just keeps talking.
There’s an empty chair next to Freddie, waiting for me. I’m sure I could help Freddie with that list. I could check off the names while she reads them off the cards, or the other way around. Either way we always make a good team.
The wind swirls to a stop, and the air is suddenly still, so still and silent that the hair on my arms stands up. I pause, looking through the window at my life one year from now, two years from now, twenty-five years from now. It looks perfect from out here.
Yorke is planning the perfect wedding, and then she’ll move away with Roger. Freddie will parse some more French verbs, perfectly, be maid of honor, and go off to France for a year. But what about me? I think, What am I doing? Not Shane, that’s for sure.
He’s there, too, sunken into our creamy leather sofa, feet up on the ottoman, the two in his two-a-day obviously canceled because of the weather. Shane is part of the perfect supporting cast: dark-haired men, fit and tan, with white teeth and white shirts, watching a game that I can’t hear, the TV flickering silently.
I take a few steps back, away from the house, feeling obvious and out of place in the dead, dark quiet. All I have to do is open the door and step inside, but I’m confused. Why am I on the outside looking in?
I want to go in and take my place, safe and secure, at the end of the line, right next to Freddie, blue, then yellow, then pink. But I want to walk away, too. Right past this house, out of the yard, down the street, past the high school and homecoming queen and sweaty nights in Shane’s backseat. Past the valedictorian speech complete with Valerie’s condemning glare and my parents’ pride. Past my trip abroad, France most likely, and my college dorm room with a bright, cheery bedspread, my future sorority sisters, and the unknown boy, with dark hair and a bright future growing up somewhere right now, who will take me off my parents’ hands in, according to schedule, exactly three years.
Freddie reaches up and slides her long blond hair back behind one ear with a slight flick, a familiar motion. Unconsciously I reach up to do the same and stop myself, suddenly remembering a day like this, with the same eerie stillness, the air just as thick, when we were little and taking riding lessons.
Our lesson was cut short when the weather shifted, so we brushed the brown, shiny horses and locked them safely in their stalls. As the thunderclouds boiled outside the barn, the normally sedate horses grew skittish and uneasy. Their eyes got big. Their tails switched. Circling their stalls faster and faster, they bucked against the boards, desperate for a way to get out. I was scared. Yorke was indignant. Freddie was smart and had stayed home that day.
Feeling as restless and unsettled as those penned ponies, I watch the lightning scratching away at the edges of the dark sky and think, Batten down the hatches, some shit is about to go down. The first raindrops start to fall fast and thick, and before they can even hit the ground and be swallowed up by the parched dirt, before they can break the dull silence and splat, fat and wet on the driveway, making heads turn and look my way in anger or concern or surprise, I bolt.
I make my way back to the park, picking my way through puddles and the patches of darkness. It’s raining so hard that the ground can’t keep up. Rivers of sticks and leaves and grass turn and tumble on top of the dust before waterfalling over the curbs and rushing out into the street. Rain-filled gutters blubber and boil over like a summer soup. My feet fight against the current that snakes toward a storm sewer somewhere behind me as I walk along the edge of the road.
Please, please, please, I breathe, please, please, please. This patter fills my head between the rolls of thunder drumming like timpani. Squinting against the bolts of lightning, I flinch every single time a drop of rain smacks onto my face, sharp and cold. Step by step, I squint, I flinch, I pray. It’s worse than facing down a nasty crowd throwing nickels and quarters and assorted loose change from the stands during halftime. Ouch. At least out on the field you can hide behind a set of poms or an unlucky freshman. Out here I’m alone. It’s just me, jumpy, cold, and wet. And crying. God, I hope no one sees me.
The sound of tires on wet blacktop stops my forward march. Bright lights, white paint. My heart drops, sure that it’s Shane. I lower my head to wipe away my tears and realize that it’s pointless. It’s raining, right? Looking up between my dark, dripping lashes, I see him. My cheeks flush, and my heart does double time. Tossing my head back, I laugh and swallow my tears. My soggy little rain-soaked prayers have been answered. By a hot guy in a huge white truck. Bonus.
I cross the river of rainwater between us and tiptoe toward the truck. I swear that steam is rising off me when I step up to the driver’s window and cling onto the wet rubber ledge. Up on my toes, I lean in, lips pursed. Then I change my mind, switch gears, and decide to get it right this time.
“Duffy,” I say, and breathe out with a shy smile, almost embarrassed to be using his name for the first time.
He leans his head back against the seat and laughs as the rain drums against the solid metal of the truck.
“You decided,” he says. A “finally” is kind of implied.
“Yes.”
I lift my hand and swipe my wet hair across my forehead to stop the drips from rolling into my eyes as I nervously ramble on, “And it was difficult.” Counting off on my wrinkled fingers, I run through the choices for him, “Jon—too plain, not you. And Jon Duffy, well, that’s a bit formal for us . . . isn’t it?” I look into his eyes to see if it really is before I continue. Yep, it is. “And Porter, well, you know how that one goes.” He nods because he does know. “And JD.” I sigh and shake my head before quickly saying, “Well, JD sounds like something from The Dukes of Hazzard.” His quizzical look keeps me explaining, and I draw an imaginary line with my finger through the rain right above my waist and clarify, “You know, from below the Mason-Dixon line.”
He grins. “Been there,” he says,
looking down.
“Yeah, well,” I grab his chin and drag his eyes back to mine, “the North wins.”
He holds his hands up and concedes with a smile, then leans past the green glow of the dash lights and almost disappears for a second when he stretches to grab the latch on the passenger door, letting me in.
Slippery, wet, and shivery, I scramble toward the other side of the truck and stumble and slip on the high step up. I look across the cab, and those intense green eyes melt me like flux as they take in every movement I make, my clinging T-shirt, my plastered shorts, every drenched bit of me. His hand reaches out to steady me, and I slide into the seat, a puddle of rainwater and anticipation.
Duffy busies himself, playing with the heater, turning the dial quickly to set it on blast furnace, adjusting all the slats and vents to point directly at me, while I take a look around at the gray plaid interior of the truck. A collection of shorty pencils lines the foggy crack between the dash and the windshield and a fuzzy gray golf club cover hides the stick shift.
I have a feeling that this might be Big Duff’s truck. It smells exactly like the cologne aisle in the drugstore downtown, woodsy and a little bit cheap, but potent, just like Big Duff. I pull a half-swamped piece of paper from under my left butt cheek and smooth it out with my damp hands. It’s last week’s church bulletin. That and the overflowing ashtray make me think, Yep, it’s got to be.
“Is-Is this—” I stammer because I can’t bring myself to say it, to use the words Big Duff, ’cause that would make the smoldering guy dropping into reverse next to me Little Duff, which has so many negative implications and is, honestly, too close for comfort to Little Johnson for me. So instead, with a little residual teeth chattering, I ask, “Is this your dad’s truck?”
He flips up the lid on the boxy fake leather console between us, reaches in, and pulls out a handful of thick, supersoft cream-colored paper towels.
“Yep,” he says. He hands them over and shifts into second with the wipers set on high.
I wipe the rain and the last traces of my mascara from my cheeks, leaving dark black smears across the bold gold script running along the edge of the towel, COMPLIMENTS OF HILLPOINT COUNTRY CLUB.
The tobacco-scented heat blasts away as we drive through the empty park, past the high school and the country club, down endless country roads, soaked and stormy, a thick trench of rain rolling out in our wake.
I get the feeling we are going farther tonight than we ever have before. The wipers keep time with the classic rock on Big Duff’s car stereo, the fan heating so high and loud that we can barely talk above it. I rest my head against my window. Rain streaks by on the glass, creeping past my eyes and disappearing behind me, back toward town, where I’m sure someone, maybe everyone, must be looking for me, wondering where I am, worried, knowing that the pool is closed and I should be home by now.
They can always call if they are so desperate. I’m sure my phone is somewhere in the bottom of my soggy backpack. I don’t bother to check it. Instead I let the rain lull me. It dodges and slides along the glass as we drive on, taking with it any guilty thoughts of Shane or my family that linger in my head and I think I could go on like this forever, wrapped in a safe little womb of moving warmness, music, and Porter. Um, I mean, Duffy.
The rain finally stops, dwindling to a heavy mist that clings to everything and leaves the windows so foggy that I have to crack mine open just to see out when Duffy starts to slow down, driving the truck into a clearing somewhere on top of a low, wide hill. He pulls right up to the base of some wooden stairs. I lean out and look up. The stairs wind around and around up the sides of a tall, square wooden tower with four platforms, the top one so high it’s lost in the dark slate sky.
“I want to show you something,” Duffy says as he kills the engine and the lights.
He reaches for my hand, and I slide out of the high truck. He pulls me to him as we dash through the long, wet grass and start to climb the thick plank steps. It crosses my mind that climbing a tall tower in the middle of nowhere just after a thunderstorm is probably not totally safe, but I don’t feel scared with his hand holding mine, pulling me along. Up and up, his work boots clomp on the stairs, setting the pace in the semidarkness. A step behind, I depend on their sound and the trailing swish of the red nylon jacket tied loosely around his waist to lead the way.
I stop short when we get to the very top of the steps and the final platform. I drop his hand. My world is spread out before me, a broad skyline of tall trees and small towns separated by dark, open spaces. How is it possible that I have never seen this before? Never been here? I turn, speechless, wondering at the view from each side of the tower. We can’t be more than a couple of counties over.
“My mom used to bring me up here,” Duffy says as I step up next to him, “when I was little.” He turns toward me with a small smile, his green eyes reflecting back a bright bolt of lightning piercing the sky somewhere behind me.
I watch him closely. This is the first time he has ever mentioned his mother. He’s letting me in, a little bit at a time, first with the truck and now this, and I am not sure what to say. I walk to the edge of the platform and hold tight to the wooden railing. Under my fingers I can feel the scrapes and scratches of initials and other gouged graffiti in the splintery wood.
I lift my face and watch the sky, twinkling with the lights from houses in some places, cloudy and streaking with distant lightning in others. Duffy moves in behind me quietly, close and warm. His hands straddle mine on the railing, his body blocking the wind and rooting me to the spot, breathless. We look out over the patchwork of freshly washed small towns below us. My blood runs hot and quick through my veins, pulsing at my temples and the base of my neck. I lean into him, feel his arms wrap around me tight as he slowly turns me to face him, the air tense and thick between us. He lifts my chin with his hand and then . . . rain, heavy and sudden. Dumping down on us.
Duffy grabs my hand and pulls me across the platform and down one flight of stairs so quickly I don’t even feel the steps under my feet. Panting and laughing, I rush in and kiss him, warm and wet, and we fumble and slip down to the floor, dry as kindling under the shelter of the top platform. There’s no music or soft car seat underneath me, just raw lumber, the sound of rain, and hard, hungry kisses.
I am shivering all over. Duffy stops, leaning up on one elbow, his fingers trailing lightly across my shaky stomach and asks, “Cold?”
Yeah, that’s it, I think as I nod my head, knowing that it’s not, ’cause all those nights with Shane I have never done anything like this. Not even close, really. He reaches behind him and grabs his slippery red jacket. I sit up, and he puts it under me, Porter side down, fleecy white fabric rubbing softly against my bare back as I relax into it. He stretches out, pressing up against the length of my body. It feels as if our friction could spark in the air, and I know what I want to do. The storm presses in around us, silencing our sounds and separating us from the world below as the edges of the sky flare again and again with lightning that reaches down like long fingers, searing into the dark, wet ground.
Chapter Nine
The morning air slipping through my curtains feels cool against my fingers as I reach up to touch a fluttering hem. The rain outside sounds soft and gentle, a soft beat against the patio and the rooftop. The storm has passed, and it smells like worms.
I roll over, untangling my legs from the duvet and rub my fingers lightly over my scraped shoulder blade, wincing a little. I close my eyes, feeling safe and snug in the tight cotton weave of my tank top, daring myself to drift back to sleep, to dream of Duffy and ignore my pissed-off parents and the inevitable punishment I know is waiting for me below.
“Leah, get your ass down here!” Yorke blares from downstairs. The smell of coffee curls under my door. I am awake.
It wasn’t that late when I got home. Seriously. It just felt late since it had been dark since breakfast, practically.
“Where is she?” I asked as I dr
opped my soggy backpack onto the floor with a squish.
Yorke and Freddie were seated around the island in our kitchen, elbows on the granite, stools pulled in close, filling little lace sachet bags with confetti. They scooped and filled, handing over the bulging little bags to Roger for tying and stacking. Roger was tying little white bows faster than any man should be able to tie little white bows.
Yorke pointed up at the ceiling, and my eyes trailed along the smooth white plaster, imagining the shink, shink, shink of my mother and her bracelets as they made their way down the hall toward her bedroom.
“Shane’s out looking for you,” Yorke said, scooping into the confetti with her eyes trained on me.
“Why?” I asked, acting nonchalant. “I’m here.”
“’Cause your shift is over and you’re supposed to need a ride home,” she said, swirling the sparkles in the bowl with her breath.
“Umm,” I glanced over at the window. “It’s been raining for hours.”
“Really?” Yorke asked, sounding surprised.
“Storming, actually,” I said, and she craned her neck to look out the window at the gray sky and dripping window screens.
Freddie did not look. She knew it was raining, just like she knows everything. Roger seemed too busy getting his fingers around a slippery ribbon to realize we were even talking, let alone notice the weather.
“Oh, right,” Yorke said, “look at that.”
She turned back to me with a hungry glint in her eyes and asked, “Where have you been, then?”
Crap. Caught by my own competitiveness. I shouldn’t have pointed out the weather. I should have sauntered by and escaped to the solitude of my room and the softness of my bed. They might never have even noticed I’d gone missing.
“Yes, Miss Leah,” my mother said as she walked into the kitchen, wearing a bright yellow embroidered tunic and crisp white capri pants. I swear the woman does not wrinkle. A cloud of Chanel No. 5 followed her. “Where have you been?”
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