Every Little Piece (20 page)

Haley and I rush to set up.

“Okay, let’s get to work. I’ll hit the kitchen for the ice cream.” I point to the cupboards. “Can you search for plastic bowls, spoons and napkins?”

“Sure thing.” She attacks her assigned job with enthusiasm.

My heart lightens a tiny bit. It takes almost the whole thirty minutes to find everything and set up. We argue a little bit about the flow and the order of ice cream toppings, but we’re setting the last of the gummy bears and crushed cookies into place when the kids enter. The ice cream has softened just enough that I can scoop it easily, but not so much that it’s melting.

A couple of the boys from yesterday approach, and I slap some high fives and exchange smiles. Then I start scooping. It’s endless. The flood of kids doesn’t stop. My wrist burns but I keep at it. I glance over at Haley who is frantic to keep the supplies filled. The sprinkles knock over, and she sweeps them up. The kids are welcoming and throw questions at her about us. Her face reddens as she explains we went to high school together. I dig into the ice cream and act busy when she glances my way.

I keep scooping and scooping and scooping. Finally, the last few apply their toppings and head outside to the picnic tables and small patch of grass. Our job is done. I lean against the wall and rub my wrists. Haley slumps into a chair. She’s exhausted but her eyes look alive in a way I haven’t seen since last year. Mission accomplished.

“Now it’s our turn,” I say wickedly.

Haley squeals, and we attack what’s left of the ice cream and toppings. We demolish our serving within minutes. When we’re done with clean up, we slide against the wall and sit. The exhaustion settles over me and so does the feeling of contentment. This is what I like. It doesn’t last, but helping with these kids distracts me from myself. It’s the only time I forget for a little bit.

“You surprise me, Seth,” she says.

For the first time, I feel the blush in my cheeks. I share what I hope will inspire her to start reaching out. “When I left last year and went to Katie’s ranch, it was tough. I had a hard time, and work ground me to dust. Volunteering with the kids last year saved my life. It’s also the reason I came back.”

I know I’ve said the wrong thing when a mask falls over her features. Her eyes harden, and the smile drops off.

I stumble to find the right words. “I mean, I came back for lots of reasons. Working with the kids made me realize I couldn’t hide away forever, that I needed to live. That I needed to face my mistakes.”

Her eyes practically glow with rage. “Is that what this is about? Getting me to see the enlightened life you’ve lived the past year? And you’re my savior riding into town?”

Any control I’ve had over the situation flies out the door. “Not at all.” But then the truth hits me. I didn’t realize how underhanded it was until I see the betrayal on her face.

The angry words spit out. “I’ve managed on my own for the last year. Without you. I’ve done just fine. I don’t need you coming in trying to fix me like everyone else.”

Her breathing is fast and shallow, and her arms tense. I expect her to hit me, but she doesn’t. Instead she slashes me open with her words. “Your chance is over. We’re done. Your few days are up. Go find someone else to be your little project.”

She has a lot more to say but her rage brims over. “Goodbye, Seth.” She flips around and storms to the exit. At the doorway, she turns. “I’ll call Justine for a ride so don’t worry about me. And if you were going to ask me about this weekend? Forget about it!” Her voice cracks. “I’m not going. I don’t deserve to.” Then she’s gone.

I crumple to the floor. How did it go so wrong? For the first time, probably in a while, she experienced the spark of life, and I snuffed it out by trying to make sure she got the message instead of leaving it to her to figure out.

“Seth?”

I lift my head. Mandy stands at the door, the concern showing. “May I talk with you?”

“Sure.” I sound miserable, and I can’t hide it.

She sits on the carpet next to me. “If you stay in the area, I’d love to have you on board here. But I’ll pass on wisdom I learned the hard way.”

“What’s that?” I don’t mean to sound bitter but it slips out with my words.

“It’s not your job to fix others. You can only fix yourself.”

“But it is my job.” I run my hands into my hair and rest my head, my fingers digging into my scalp. Then I jerk them away. “Her pain and loss are my fault. And I’ve made it worse.”

She hesitates but then says, “I don’t know your story, but I can tell you care about this girl. Again, take care of yourself first. You can’t fix yourself by fixing her.”

She leaves me with those parting words, but I stay in the room for a long time—until shadows fall lower against the opposite wall. The light fades, and I think about everything: the past year, my friends, Haley, my family. Finally I know what I have to do. I messed up with Haley, and she’ll never give me another chance. But I’m not leaving like a coward. She’ll hear the truth one way or the other. But first, I have to face my life.

I have to go home and talk to my parents.

I storm out of the Boys and Girls Club and ignore the stares from the kids, the ones I just served ice cream to, the ones I just laughed with, like everything’s okay with me. I flash a fake smile and then stride to the curb outside. I walk, my feet leading the way down the street. I’m not ready to call Justine and answer her questions. I turn left and then right. I focus on the small things, the cracks in the pavement beneath my feet, the ramshackle state of the small houses from years of living near the ocean. It’s prime property. The houses are worth millions for a few small rooms.

With each block that passes under my feet, the rage fades. The salty smell of the ocean tickles my nose and brings back not only sad memories, but everything from the past year. All the walks I’ve taken along the sea, talking to the waves and the fish and the sky as if they were my friends.

My heart whispers. The ocean is just water and salt and fish. It’s not a friend, not in the way a person needs. Justine and my family have been trying to tell me that for months, but I didn’t want to listen. People hurt one another. That’s what happens.

Tate’s on speed dial. I need a friend who won’t push me to talk or show so much sympathy I want to puke. He’s better off not dating me and he should know this. I’m broken. Continuing to date me would suck him into a vortex of pain and confusion. Because that’s what I do. I hurt the people I love.

I wait, but Tate doesn’t answer his phone.

Justine’s next. I let her know where I am. While I wait for her to respond, the breeze plays with the ends of my hair, and my fingers bump along the top of a white picket fence enclosing a yard. It’s small, but around here it might as well be a gigantic field. Grass is a precious commodity.

I keep walking.

My surroundings blur. I ignore the cries of my heart, pushing up, pressing against my soul, sending messages to my brain. I refuse to listen, but my feet seem to be telling something different. By the time I reach Shore Drive, my legs ache.

From across the street, I stare into the Seaside Inn, my home for the past year. Shadows move in front of the windows. Katie and Justine are hard at work. The dinner rush is just starting.

I’m not going home. I refuse to talk to Noah.

I walk around to the back of the restaurant, to the one-car garage. For the past year, her uncle has allowed Justine to park her ancient Chevy in there. I know where she hides the keys.

I’m not going home.

My body is like a robot, on automatic, like someone has taken it over. I reach inside the planter to the right of the garage and feel around in the dirt. For the hard piece of metal. Her keys. Last year, she said I could borrow the car anytime. Of course, she stopped offering because every time I said no. I’ve only driven once since last year. I shook so bad I didn’t drive again. My parents sold the car soon after.

Crouched down, I place my fingers under the bottom of the garage door. It lifts pretty easily with a creaking that must announce to everyone what I’m doing. I expect Justine to run out the back door and question me. I wait, my heart pounding.

But the door stays closed.

I move into the dark. My hands stay on the car, guiding me to the driver’s side. The metal is cool against my skin. My fingers stumble against the handle and then lift it. The faded cinnamon spice of her air freshener wafts out.

What am I doing?

I climb inside, even though every part of me screams to stop, to run back inside and refill all the ketchup bottles. I turn the key and the low rumble of the engine vibrates my feet.

My arms shake. I put the car in reverse and jerk out of the garage. The experience feels foreign, yet at the same time, like I just drove yesterday. Some things stay with you forever, even if you don’t want them to.

I press gently against the gas and the car creeps to where the driveway meets the road. I turn left, and within seconds, I’m driving, away from the ocean, away from everything comfortable and safe. Minutes pass and I keep going in the same direction.

I’m heading home.

That thought sends ripples of nausea through my stomach. My chest shudders and memories of that night flood through me. My vision blurs. I yank the car to the side of the road, my wheel ramming into the sidewalk and going over it. The bottom of the car scrapes the curb.

I need to get out. The car is suffocating. I fall onto my knees in the dry patches of the grass. I breathe in and out but it sounds like a wind tunnel in my ears. My throat is tight and I squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for the feeling to pass. It usually does. But then I smell the blood and see their faces.

I puke. My stomach heaves and won’t seem to stop. Later, I roll over onto my back, drained and exhausted. Everything inside of me knows to call Justine to come get me and then shred my driver’s license. But the stubborn part of me refuses. Yes, I’ve been hiding out from life. I know that. I don’t need Noah or parental lectures to tell me that news bulletin.

That’s why I left home.

I’m furious that Seth found a way to deal with his pain. That he spends some time playing basketball with some kids, and presto—he feels better. That’s not fair. Taking orders and cleaning off tables doesn’t do that for me. I’m furious he tried to fix me. Out of everyone, I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d be the one who wouldn’t try to slap a Band-Aid on my life and think it would work.

The knowledge that there’s more to Seth’s side of the story gnaws at me, like a tiny mouse nibbling on crumbs in the corner of the restaurant kitchen late at night. He left. He’s the one who ran away when his girlfriend’s life fell apart. He was the one not committed enough to stick around and deal with the tough part. But as I think back at the raw pain haunting his eyes, and the fact that at least a part of him seems to understand what I’m going through, I’m confused.

For the first time in a long time I want to know the truth. Truth is a vague concept that twinkles far off the distance. Maybe if I fight hard enough I’ll find it. I know where I need to start. I have to do this. I push up and stare at the rust spots on the Chevy.

“It’s just you and me,” I say to it.

Its sad state seems to nudge me forward. The dent in the side, the rust at the bottom whispers to me that it’s okay not to be perfect. It’s okay to carry the hurt. We all do. I take a deep breath and head toward the driver’s side.

Soon, I’m back on the road. I keep the memories at bay, refusing to let them overwhelm me again. My hands are gripped so tight around the steering wheel that my fingers cramp. But I can’t get them to loosen at all. The scenery starts to be more familiar. It’s been a year.

I drive past the pool hall. I drive past the recreation fields. I drive past the laughter, the fooling around, the jokes, the smiles, the tears. I force my face into a mask and refuse the tears. The street names are the ones I’ve passed my whole life on my way to and from school.

It’s good that Tate didn’t answer his phone and that Justine was too busy to come get me. I need this. It’s about time. I stop under a huge, drooping maple down the road from my driveway. For some reason, I can’t look at my house. I can see it in my head, the black shutters, the white paint of the Cape, the crumbling stone steps leading into the house that Mom’s wanted repaired for years.