EMILY DICKINSON
Chatham will be here in less than an hour and Mom is irritated. I don’t know whether she’s more upset with me or the situation, and I’m not sure I care. She created her own catch-22. She wants me to branch out, to pursue this great social and emotional journey of self-discovery, but she’s not willing to give me the freedom I need to grow.
If she’s surprised by my social life, I’m not sure what she’ll think about the royal blue shirt and the earrings.
Not long after Mom came in last night, Ayla bolted, so we never had time to accessorize. But she told me to wear something silver or platinum. No gold. I inventory the sparse accessories in my jewelry box for the third time as if the perfect necklace or earrings will magically appear if I just keep looking long enough. In the top tray, there’s some costume jewelry from elementary school and a pair of pearl earrings Granny Day gave me for my thirteenth birthday. I grab the studs, sliding the first silver post through my earlobe and looking away from the little black pouch resting in the lower tray of the box.
Inside that bag is a charm bracelet. Other than the pearl earrings, it’s the only really expensive thing I’ve ever owned, and it’s silver. Ayla would love it, but I can’t wear it. My vision blurs just thinking about opening the drawstring on the velvet bag. I haven’t looked at it in ages—not since Dad died.
I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. Dad swore it came from Santa Claus when I was a baby—that it just appeared in my stocking on my first Christmas. All my life charms have materialized on special occasions. Some kids got money from the tooth fairy or candy from the Easter bunny. I got those things too. But I also frequently found sterling-silver charms tucked under my pillow when I lost a tooth and hidden in the tippy toe of my stocking every Christmas morning.
The baubles always held some significance. When I started kindergarten, I found a little silver school bus in my Crayola pencil pouch. The year Hitch and I were matched, there was a golden retriever charm in my stocking. The last charm came on my birthday in eighth grade, a few weeks before Dad died. It was a white-enamel dove. I hung the symbol of peace on my bracelet, but after Dad died, I tied the whole bracelet up in the little bag, where it’s stayed buried ever since. I’d give anything—anything—to have received just one more charm from Dad and have the opportunity to tell him how much I loved him.
My heart jumps into my esophagus when Chatham knocks on the front door. I consider faking a violent illness. But I can’t do that to him. I have to save him from Mom’s unavoidable interrogation and buy myself some time to tell him about the epilepsy on my own terms before Mom scares him to death.
Without a backward glance at my pulled-back hair or the little blue shirt, I march out to the living room to run the gauntlet past Mom. Chatham’s shaking her hand when I reach the living room, and she hasn’t eaten him. So, all in all, we’re off to a decent start. More than anything in the world, I wish Dad were here to send me off on my first date. He’d crack a corny joke to put everyone at ease, and I wouldn’t be standing here worrying about cardiac arrest.
Shaking off the wistfulness, I lift my shoulders and clear my throat. They both turn to face me. Mom’s eyes bulge at my appearance, but they don’t actually fall out of their sockets. Chatham’s lips part, then squeeze shut, like when you recognize someone at the grocery store but the person’s name stays lodged on your tongue until you’re pulling out of the parking lot.
I swallow, careful not to let my jaw drop at the sight of him standing in my living room petting Hitch, who’s plastered himself to Chatham’s calf. Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein would both be impressed by the way Chatham’s broad shoulders fill out the simple white button-down and the way the khaki shorts hang from his narrow hips.
After his Adam’s apple travels the length of his neck, he murmurs, “Hello.”
The two-dimple smile sends my insides into a tailspin. “Hi,” I whisper, reminding myself to maintain eye contact. “Well, I guess y’all have met.” My hand flicks back and forth between the two of them.
“We have.” A muscle twitches in Mom’s jaw. “So . . . uh . . . ,” she mumbles, twisting her hands. “You know the rules, Emilie.”
At least I’m not the only one who’s nervous. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she had steel rebar for a spine—her posture’s that stiff.
“Yes, Mom.” Now my jaw’s the one flinching. If she embarrasses me, I’ll never forgive her. When she stuck her head in my room last night to say good night, she snuck in about fifteen questions about this outing. I promised I’d already discussed the epilepsy with Chatham. I’m dead in the water if she asks him straight out.
“I want you to text me when you get to the lighthouse and when you’re headed home.” She speaks to me, but her eyes drill Chatham’s face.
To his credit, his smile barely falters, like he’s used to dealing with girls’ parents. “Mrs. Day, I promise to take good care of her.” He grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “You ready, Emilie?”
This is my shot at brave. This is my three-months-seizure-free celebration. My time to live a little. And Chatham York is holding my hand.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“Yes.” I force a smile, concentrating on the one-word response. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. But here goes. I set this whole mammoth wave in motion when I texted him the other night. And it’s not stopping until it breaks gently on the shore—or crashes into something.
Mom follows us out onto the front deck, arms crossed, lips pressed together, a haunted expression on her face—the way she looked for the first twelve months after Dad died. A microscopic sliver of guilt stabs my heart. Dad’s gone, and I’m leaving her.
No, I’m not leaving her. I’m going out with Chatham for a few hours. She’s the one who wanted me to branch out and make friends, to put away the pajamas, to live. So she should be happy. This is exactly what she wished for. No turning back.
And besides, if she would’ve remembered my three-months-seizure-free anniversary, I never would’ve planned my own celebration.
Now that I’m really heading out of the house, I’m feeling a little better. I’d be safer in my room with Hitch and a good book, but what are the chances that something will actually go wrong the few hours Chatham and I will be gone tonight?
Chatham follows me down the front steps to the black SUV waiting in the driveway. His car is as masculine as he is, with a rack on top for surfboards, a rack on the back for bicycles, and some winch-looking thing on the front big enough to pull wildebeests out of the Nile.
He opens the passenger door for me, gesturing toward the leather seat. “Your chariot awaits.”
“Thanks.” I try to look graceful hoisting myself into the vehicle. “I’ve never ridden in a chariot.”
“Today’s special, and special days call for special transportation.” His eyes twinkle as he waits for me to buckle up. The car’s so high, he’s practically eye level with my thighs. My cheeks warm when he looks up from my legs to my face. “You look beautiful, by the way.” He smiles sheepishly, shutting the door and walking to the driver’s side.
I tug on my shirt, making sure it’s covering my waist, cursing Ayla for talking me into trying something new. I should’ve stuck with my uniform: shorts and a tee.
He slides behind the wheel, and I try to repay the compliment. “Thanks. You . . . uh, look nice too.” Nice? That’s the understatement of the millennium. I abhor the way I revert to the monosyllabic vocabulary of kindergarten when I’m around him. If it gets much worse, I’ll be goo-goo-ing and ga-ga-ing like an infant.
He slides the gearshift into Reverse. Swiveling to check traffic before backing out of the driveway, he places a hand on the rest behind my head. Twisted in the seat like he is, with his face inches from mine, I forget to breathe. But I notice every detail of the damp hair curling at the nape of his neck and the way the pink sunburn on his nose highlights the blueness of his eyes. When I remember to breathe, my head fills with the orangey citrus of his shampoo.
“You can change the music if you want.” He points to his phone, resting in the console between the seats, as he pulls onto the beach road.
I rest my hands in my lap, trying to look casual. “This is good.”
Thankfully, Chatham’s great at making conversation. We talk about Hitch and Ms. Ringgold’s assignment. I even ask a few intelligent questions about basketball.
“Not many kites today.” He points at Jockey’s Ridge as we head south into Nags Head. “I guess it’s too windy.”
I’ve been so distracted by his closeness, I missed the breeze picking up and the dark clouds moving in from the sound behind us. Normally the massive dunes, the highest in the eastern United States, are covered with people flying colorful kites and even speckled with the occasional hang glider. But today, with the exception of a few touristy-looking types on foot, the ridge is deserted.
“Maybe we should try Bodie another day,” I suggest. I haven’t been thrilled by the idea of climbing a one-hundred-and-sixty-five-foot lighthouse, but I kept telling myself retirees and kids do it all the time. Plus, this is my big day—my day to have fun, to take chances, to live a little.
But I probably should’ve stuck with baby steps—something along the lines of a walk on the beach or strolling up to the Wright Brothers Memorial. Climbing Bodie on a windy day with the possibility of a storm on the horizon doesn’t seem like such a good idea.
“No way.” The car slows as he takes his foot off the accelerator to glance at me. “I checked the weather. There’s only a small chance of isolated showers.”
Yeah, but I’ve been the girl with the black cloud hanging over her head for so long that I can’t help being a little skeptical. Me and Murphy’s Law have been best buds for a while. I’ve even been his poster child. He loves me because if anything can go wrong with anyone, it generally will with me.
“But those clouds look like they’re moving kind of fast,” I say.
“I guess we could go to Fat Boyz for ice cream or something instead.” His tone is upbeat, but his smile wavers. He wants me to climb Bodie to have this great experience so he can feel like he’s repaid me for the tutoring, which is entirely unnecessary.
Chatham glances at me, eyebrows raised. “So what’s it going to be?”
“Let’s do the Bodie thing.” I lift the corners of my mouth into something that I hope resembles a smile. When I grip the door handle, it squeaks beneath my wet palm.
The fifteen-or-so-minute drive south on Highway 12 feels more like three. Chatham entertains me with action-packed stories about surfing in pre-hurricane tides, and before I know it, he’s flipping his right turn signal at the Bodie entrance. The bold black-and-white stripes of the tower rise up behind the white keeper’s house. Bright October sunbeams shimmer on the road leading up to the lighthouse, and slate gray clouds tumble around on the eastern horizon. It’s like two worlds are about to collide, and the universe wants to draw attention to its stark contrasts—the differences between light and dark, fair and foul, Chatham York and Emilie Day.
But I’ve made a decision, and I’m going to follow through, barring any unforeseen disasters.