SOPHIA
The trolley ride was a tediously long two and a half hours back to Bradenton, back to reality. I was surprised it was even running after the hurricane, but once it picked me up and accepted the change I used for my fare, I didn’t ask questions.
I sat alone, cradling my bag of clothes from Elizabeth, trying to focus on the peace my mind struggled to find. All I could think about was the lost, hopeless hurt in Jameson’s hazel eyes when I left the Ritz, leaving him standing in the parking lot with too many questions for my heart to answer.
I got off at one of the exits along Manatee Avenue, prepared to carry my bag of clothes to the wealthy neighborhood in which Jameson and Simon lived. However, it was in my plan to avoid Simon and Jules entirely.
I was standing on the narrow sidewalk, blocks away from the extravagant part of town in which Simon lived, but I turned around, facing the opposite direction. The notion of returning anywhere near Jameson’s house, approaching Simon, all of it…it made my stomach twist.
I was so hot. I didn’t have a hairband and the early evening sun was beginning to wreak its havoc against my covered skin. I hate the sun. But I had to go the other way. I needed to go back to Jameson’s house before he found me.
I stood for a few moments, probably looking like a lost child, beneath the shade of a palm tree. It was incredibly lonely, standing along the sidewalk in isolation while its neighboring palms had been obliterated by the storm.
Once the bouncing nerves settled in my fingertips, I decided to turn back toward Jameson’s neighborhood. I did so while holding my breath, containing what courage I could deep in my core.
My eyes focused on the ground, mindful not to break my ankle while stepping over heaps of refuse along my path. I was numb to the rubbish and rubble destroying the picture perfect image of their neighborhood until I felt glass crunch beneath my shoe. Lifting my left foot, I glanced down at the damage and my heart quivered.
Kneeling to squat above the scattered mess of people’s lives, I lifted the shattered picture frame my foot had helped further destroy. I shook the shards of glass from the photograph and held it to my face, examining the happy image. It was black and white, but spoke vibrantly of a family’s joy. A woman sat on the beach, two young children in her arms, looking at the man on her left. He was smiling at her so intensely, with such longing and affection, that one couldn’t observe the children about to throw sand at one another, or even the smallest about to cry. The picture was of their love; a reminder of, after all they had been through, they had one another and that was the center of their life. After all that family had gone through, whatever it was, they were still smiling. They were still together.
Two thoughts screamed through my heart. I ran. I left Jameson when I should have been at his side and figured out my fear with him. We needed to be together. The second thought that filled my heart with familiar rage, protective anger about the life of the sweet boy from Chicago, was about Gabriel. I have to get his photographs. I folded this family’s photo and stuffed it into the bag of clothes. Determined to preserve what I could for Jameson, I marched toward his house.
I felt sick; the kind of sick you feel when you’re beyond guilty and entirely aware you broke someone. A dangerous part of me wondered if Jameson felt a fraction of this the first time Thomas told him to leave me, to keep me out of his life. I was beginning to hate Thomas more and more. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t accept me, accept Jameson, and understand that we were something.
He called me his girlfriend. He held me during the storm. He kept me safe. He promised he would…and I needed to run.
I knew I could leave because I was certain, unequivocally positive, he would follow. It was safe for me to run because Jameson would find me. I just needed space, a head start, and time to figure out my fear and comprehend just how absolutely, indescribably terrified I was.
The Kerry house was a haunting reminder of the last few days—beautifully damaged perfection. Damaged perfection…their home, my relationship with Jules and Simon…my hope of peace.
Carrying my bag, I walked along the winding driveway to the front door, startled that it was unlocked. Why would they bother to lock it when an entire wall was missing thanks to a palm tree? I didn’t waste time. I knew exactly what I needed and where to find it.
My fingers tapped along my knees while I sat in front of the safe, my weight balanced beneath my folded legs. If I were a password to the Kerry safe, what numbers would I be? I didn’t know anything about them and I was certain they would be smart enough to not use something predictable, like a wedding anniversary or birthday. Maybe Jameson’s birthday? Nope. Zip code? No.
I tried to run through all the important numbers I could think of, but…I knew none. I was growing more anxious, but still determined, looking around the room for something to pry open the safe. Birthdays. Samantha? Jameson’s sister and I shared a birthday, so I knew that date well enough.
Inhaling to steady my fingers, I pressed four significant numbers into the Kerry’s safe. 0801.
And waited.
Click.
Unlocked.
Holy shit. I didn’t have time to question why that date would have been used. Maybe because only Jameson would know it, should something have happened to Thomas or Elizabeth. You don’t have time to ask questions. Get the photos and get the heck out of there, Sophia!
I grabbed the envelope, tucking it close to my body, while quickly looking into the safe. My lungs were throbbing. I was a good girl. I was a kind, honest, terrified, introvert who would die before stealing. But when I saw the three envelopes stuffed with enough cash to take Jameson and I to Europe and back ten times, I shoved them into my bag. Moron. You can’t wander the streets carrying a shopping bag full of clothes and thousands of dollars.
I stood from the safe, pulling the swelling bag into my arms, and ran toward Jameson’s room. Despite the shattered windows and drywall dangling from the ceiling, his space brought me peace. It calmed me, knowing this was his solace during the turmoil and grief he suffered. I imagined Jameson sitting on his bed, thinking of me. I wouldn’t have ever imagined that until he opened my heart to the idea of him. I remembered the night I slept in his bed, not wanting him to leave me. I could smell the sea in his hair and feel the warmth of his body against mine, beneath the covers of that expensive bed. You’re hopeless, Sophia. Get a bag and get out of there.
I sifted through piles of his belongings on the floor, guilty that my feet were kicking things that belonged to Jameson or that I so disrespectfully tossed things aside. I quickly found his bag from school and dumped out what was inside, iPad, coins, notebook, and a printed photo. My heart. I took the photo from the pile, examining it and remembering the exact moment it captured, Simon’s Memorial Day party, Olivia, Michelle, and I on the beach. How did he get this? I pushed it back into Jameson’s bag and dumped the contents of my shopping bag, including the envelopes of money and his childhood photographs. I thought about grabbing clothes for him, but I figured I now had enough cash to do that once we were back together.
Together.
Eventually.