The Only Exception (9 page)

Fifteen

I change into a black tank top and pull the sweater on overtop, heading outside afterwards. For hours I just sit there, thinking. He loves me. Well, he did. Who knows how he feels about me now?

Why do I even care? It would never last. It could never work. I live on one coast half of the year and the other coast the other half. I’m only here every other holiday. And what if his family decided to move back to Australia? Then we’d have an over fifteen hour time difference to deal with, in addition to the miles between us.

I stand up and slip on my shoes, going out to the garage and grabbing the keys to Gertrude. I just drive, the night wind on my face. I drive until I find a nice little spot to park by the beach and walk around with the sand on my toes. It happens to be the same spot where Sawyer and I were earlier. I don’t even really remember how I got here. I just drove until I found it.

As Grammy, Papaw and everyone else on the island except maybe the one person that won’t talk to me are asleep, I stare up at the night sky and start to talk to the one person
not
on the island who might listen to me for the first time in a long time. That is, if He’s there. “Hey, God,” I begin. I grimace at my own words. I take a deep breath, wondering how to continue. “Look, I’ll be honest: I haven’t talked to you in forever by myself. I don’t really remember how to do it. Anyway, what’s up? I know it’s all peaches and cream up where you are, but I’m not exactly having the best time down here. You pretty much ditched me about ten years ago, and I’m not even really sure why I’m talking to you, but here I am.”

I take a deep breath, feeling anger from the past ten years start to burn inside me. “Why’d you ditch me when I needed you? Everybody says you’re loving and all-knowing and all that, but I guess you were too busy to be bothered with a little girl’s problems. Seriously? I don’t even really think I’m talking to anyone! I’m just shouting into space!” I’ve started to cry again and I’m glad no one is here to witness my unhinging.

“If you really are there, and you really hear me, help me,” I plead. “Give me proof that love exists, not just universally, but for me. Show me that I can actually be loved and I don’t need to be scared, like you should have all those years ago. Amen.”

I feel a little better after venting, whether some almighty being heard me or not. I twist the ends of Sawyer’s sweater around my hands and walk around in the sand, eventually putting my shoes back on and driving home to bed.

The next morning, I’m still wearing his sweater at breakfast. Grammy glances at it, but doesn’t say anything. “Do you want to try surfing today?” asks Papaw. I shrug. Better than just sitting here.

“I guess,” I reply.

I go back, change into my suit and rash guard and grab my board, remembering the board Sawyer and I made. I wonder what he did with it. He probably threw it away or put it in his dad’s shop for sale.

“Ready,” I announce in the living room minutes later. Papaw come with me, and Grammy tags along too. Papaw drives out to Sunset, and thankfully, Sawyer’s picked a different spot for today.

I paddle out and get a smooth, clean ride on my first wave. I do a few control exercises on the next wave and spend the rest of the morning trying small airs. That afternoon, I go to see my physical therapist, Kelly.

“Alright, here’s the lowdown,” Dr. Kelly explains. “Your knee has healed enough that you can surf a little bit. I’d recommend it, actually, to get used to the movements again. But, at this point, I’d say it’s extremely risky to try regionals. It’s extremely physically demanding, because you will be pushed to do hardest tricks you can. Sorry, Andrea, but it’s just not safe.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically. “Just great.”

On the drive home, my mom calls. “Hey, sweetheart, I had a minute and wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Oh, nothing,” I reply. “Driving home from the physical therapist. What’s up with you?”

“Well, I found out that I am due for a vacation, so…” she begins. “I’m coming for your birthday!”

“Really?” I say, excited at the prospect of having some time just to hang out. That is, if she knows what the definition of “vacation” is.

“Really!” she echoes. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you in two weeks! I love you!”

“Love you too,” I reply. “Bye.” I hang up as we go in the house.

Over the next week and a half, my routine goes like this: Get up, go surf, come home, be depressed and aggravated, go to bed. Rinse and repeat. On more than one day, McKayla comes over to help cheer me up, even though she thinks I’m only depressed about my knee and regionals and doesn’t know what happened between Sawyer and I. All she knows is that we had a falling out and aren’t talking anymore.

Finally, she makes an executive decision to get me out of the house. The two of us hop in the car and end up at the movie theater about twenty minutes later. “What do you want to see?” she inquires as we enter the building.

“Do you even need to ask?” I retort. She smiles.

“Good. Just checking you hadn’t been replaced by an alien,” she assures. “Two for
Three Hours Too Soon
.”

The movie does cheer me up a bit. Unfortunately, the movie doesn’t last long and neither does the cheery effect. My phone rings on the way home. “Hello?”

“Hey sweetheart! How’s the knee?” My dad greets.

“Hey dad, it’s good. What’s up?”

“Well, I just sealed a deal with a huge client,” he begins. “And I can take a few days off, so I’m coming for your birthday!” he exclaims. My heart drops into my stomach.

“Yay!” I exclaim, internally saying words that would get me grounded for life. “Can’t wait!”

“I’ll be there in four days and stay for three,” he informs.

“Uh, Dad? Have you, I don’t know, talked to mom about this?” I inquire, hoping to quench the inevitable fire before it starts.

“No, why?”

“She’s coming too,” I break the news. I can hear him blow air through his nearly closed lips, puffing them up like he does when he’s stressed.

“Alright, I’ll call and talk to her,” he promises. “It’s your birthday. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Okay,” I agree hesitantly. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

Well, this is going to be the most interesting birthday ever.

My parents haven’t been in the same room since they got divorced. They avoid talking to each other as much as possible, so three days in the same house will be… oh, who am I kidding, it could be a nuclear disaster.

“What’s the matter?” inquires Mac.

“Both of my parents are coming for my birthday,” I state.

“Oh… Oh!” she responds, making a worried face at me. “Happy Birthday, I guess.” We laugh, as the alternative is to worry and my father clearly instructed me not to do that.
“Happy Birthday, honey. I’m starting a war for your birthday! Don’t worry, it’ll be fine!”

She drops me off at my house and wishes me luck as I head in. “Hey, I’m back,” I call from the entryway.

“Hi, honey,” Grammy calls. “In the kitchen.”

“Did my parents call you?” I inquire, entering the vanilla-scented room.

“Well, your mother called a few weeks ago about staying here for your birthday. Your dad called this morning about the same thing,” she answers. I purse my lips and nod. “Have you talked to them?”

“Yep. Mom called me a week and a half ago, and Dad called me on the way home from the movie,” I inform.

“Do you want them both to stay here? I didn’t say anything to them about each other.”

“I told Dad. He said he’d talk to Mom.” I head to the fridge and grab a can of Dr. Pepper, popping the tab and settling in on the couch.

“So is there anyone you’d like to have over on your birthday?” she inquires.

“Maybe Mac,” I suggest. “Or maybe not. Maybe we’ll just do a family thing.” So my best friend doesn’t have to witness our catastrophic meltdown.

“What about Sawyer?” she inquires. She had to bring him up.

“No,” I reply immediately. Yes, of course. Throw him into the mix. Make me really go nuts for my birthday. “I’ll be back,” I stall, heading back to my room. I lean against the closed door for a moment and notice my board in the corner. The green hunk of foam reminds me of the board Sawyer made me. I still don’t know what he did with it. I wish I didn’t care.

It’s not that I care about the board. My parents would probably buy me another one exactly like it. The problem is it wouldn’t be exactly like it, because he didn’t shape the rails. His hands didn’t guide mine in forming the foam. He didn’t make it. It’s like the sweater. I wouldn’t care about it for the most part, except that when I wear it, I feel like I’m back in his arms. I wish I didn’t care about these things, but I do. I can’t seem to stop caring, no matter what I try. I’ve tried to hate him, but all his name causes is an ache in my chest and a question in the back of my mind:

What if it did work?

Sixteen

“Hi sweetheart,” my mother greets, waving on the right side my computer screen. My dad does the same on the left.

“Hi,” I say, smiling and waving back. “Okay, you said you wanted to talk to me at the same time?”

“Yeah. It’s about your birthday,” Dad begins. I nod, urging him on. “We know it’s been a long time since we’ve been in the same place, and we know that it’s going to be challenging, but we’ve called a truce for your birthday. This is about you, not us, and if you want both of us there, we’ll both come.”

“I’d love to have both of you here,” I answer. “You’ll really call a truce for me?”

“We promise,” Mom swears.

“We decided we’ll come for three days: tomorrow, your birthday and the day after,”

“Alright then,” I decide. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

I click a few buttons and their images disappear. I take a deep breath and try to convince myself it will be okay. They’re calling a truce for my birthday, and if there’s one thing they can’t stand, it’s when my birthday isn’t perfect. I could’ve cared less if the pony at my tenth birthday party was white or grey, but my mother’s persistence that it had to be white is evidence that this might actually work because of that kind of dedication to making my birthday good.

The next morning I wake up on the right side of the bed, confident that this week is going to be fantastic. I pull on a pair of dark jean cutoff shorts and my black Carrie Underwood
Blown Away Tour
shirt and head out to the kitchen. “Morning,” I sing.

“You’re awfully cheery this morning,” Papaw observes.

“Excited for Mom and Dad?” Grammy guesses. I nod. “Some packages came in the mail today. I guess your parents mailed your gifts here ahead of time.” Uh-oh.

This is the one thing that could be the most dangerous to the truce. Like I said earlier, they compete with each other about gifts. Who’s is bigger, who’s I like better, who’s is more expensive, the stuff little kids care about.

“So what do you want to do for the big day tomorrow?” Papaw asks.

“Well, we’re doing lettuce wraps for dinner,” I begin listing. “Maybe we could watch a movie or something?” Papaw nods and looks at me as if telling me to keep going. “I don’t know, we could go bowling in the afternoon?”

“That’s a good idea,” Grammy comments. “Maybe that’s what McKayla could come do with us.” I nod.

A few hours later, I shove my feet in my rubber slippers and hop in the car to venture to the airport. At the baggage claim, my mother opens her arms to me, which I run into gratefully. For all the complaints I make about her, she’s still my mom and nothing quite feels the same as a mother’s hug. Pulling back, she looks at me worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I reply innocently. “I’m fine.” She smiles and pulls me in for another hug.

“Happy birthday, my sweet girl,” she says.

“Thanks, Mom,” I reply. Over her shoulder, I see my dad with his business attire on. As I pull back and let mom get her bags, I wave to him. When he gets closer, he opens his arms and I run to him like I would when I was little. He lifts me up like it’s nothing and then pulls me into a hug.

“I don’t know how you can do that to an adult,” I tease, smiling smugly.

“You’re not an adult yet,” he corrects. “You still have twenty four hours left of being a kid.” I laugh and follow the rest of the group.

“So, tell me all about what’s been happening this summer,” my mom demands, smiling from the back seat of the old beater.

“Well, Mac and I have had fun hanging out,” I begin. “And I won two divisions at my first competition, and one in my second. Other than that, it’s been a pretty chill time.”

“Now, wait, I want to hear the epic tale of what exactly happened to that knee of yours,” Dad interjects.

“You remember Sally Emerson, right?” I inquire. They both nod. “So I was at a birthday party for a friend of mine and he and I were just hanging out talking, when Sally dared me to walk the ridgepole of his garage to prove I was brave, so I did and I made it to the end. But then she wouldn’t give me the ladder and told me to walk back to the other end with the ladder to get down. I was almost at the end and I twisted my foot in a weird way and it hurt my knee, so I fell and hit my knee on the edge of the garage roof.”

“Why does it not surprise me that it was Sally?” my Dad laughs. “You two were always at odds with each other.”

“So who’s birthday party was it?” Mom inquires.

“Oh, it was the, um, the boy that came to see me in the hospital,” I reply, remembering her call in the middle of
Divergent
. “Sawyer.”

“Oh, the complicated one?” she hints, smiling.

“Yeah.”

“Has it gotten any less complicated?”

“Nope,” I respond bluntly. “In fact, it’s gotten more complicated than ever.” She purses her lips.

“Complicated? A boy? I don’t like the sound of that,” Dad jokes. “What did he do? Do I need to beat him up?”

“No, Dad,” I laugh. “Trust me, it’s fine. We don’t even talk to each other any more.”

We arrive home and let Mom and Dad get settled, while I help Grammy with her Char-siu. Dad heads out to the garage with Papaw to take a look at the bikes he’s working on. Mom pulls me aside and asks to talk to me back in my room.

“What’s up, Mom?” I inquire.

“I want to hear more about your summer,” she chides. “Come on.” She pats the spot next to her on the bed and I cross the room to sit down.

“What do you want to know?”

“For starters, what happened with you and this Sawyer boy?” she asks. I sigh.

“Really, it was nothing,” I reply, trying to fend her off.

“I just want to help, if I can,” she prods.

“The reason I said it was complicated was because we got off on the wrong foot,” I begin. “Then after a while, we became friends. We had a falling out a few weeks ago and haven’t talked since.”

“I’m sorry that happened,” she comforts after a moment of silence.

“It’s okay,” I reply. “I’m over it.”

We end up making it all night with only a few stressed faces from either of my parents, which gives me hope that maybe it won’t be a catastrophic meltdown.

It’s weird how one thing can worm it’s way into your mind and stick there. When I’m just laying here in the dark, the one thing that has stuck in my mind is the only thing in my mind and has been for weeks. Finally, I kick off my covers, take off my shirt and pull Sawyer’s sweater over my head. The warm knit fabric envelopes me and, even though I’ve had it almost a month, still smells vaguely like him. I feel as though I might cry.

Instead, though, I simply twist the sleeves around my fingers and close my eyes, trying to convince myself that I did what I was going to have to do eventually. The nagging thought in my mind, though, is what I had to do.

I broke his heart.