Chapter 22

Kennedy

 

If I could crawl under the table and go unnoticed, I would. My cheeks heat, and my palms itch with sweat as I stare at Hayden through stretched eyes. His eyebrows lower, trying to understand my discomfort.

I can’t look at the others, whose stares are so heavy, my shoulders bow. Joey and I never use terms of endearment, which is likely why it surprised me, but that was nothing. Hayden’s question, however, shines a spotlight on me.

Ella laughs nervously. “What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

Hayden looks to Coen, while I glance at Coen, actively avoiding looking anywhere near Joey.

“Coen knows,” Hayden says.

Coen trains his features so his look of surprise dissipates as he looks to Hayden. “I know what, buddy?”

“Remember?” Hayden asks. “We talked about how adults have to choose who they want to spend their lives with?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

My cheeks are flaming. I can feel the heat rising, coloring my neck and probably my entire chest. This shouldn’t be embarrassing. I’m an adult. And Joey and I both know that he’s leaving and I might be, too.

The thought swirls through my mind, and I miss hearing Coen’s response as sadness and regret infringe, my embarrassment slowly waning.

I hear Hayden ask another question before focusing on Coen.

His cheeks are blown out as he struggles to find the right explanation. One he won’t find because in this situation there isn’t one. This entire situation was set up for failure and combustion and heartache.

“We should eat,” Ella says. “Dinner’s getting cold, and you’ve got to take a shower before bed tonight.” She pats Hayden’s hand.

Hayden whines in response, his question forgotten.

I reach for my glass of sangria and lean back in my chair, out of Hayden’s sight so I don’t leave another negative impression as I gulp the dark-red drink. I ignore Joey’s continued stare.

Coen falls in seamlessly once again, grabbing a bun and placing a hotdog in it on Hayden’s plate, ushering him to eat and distracting him further.

Ella stands and reappears behind me, the pitcher of sangria in her hand. She refills my glass with a tender smile that serves as an apology. I attempt to grin wider to show it’s all right and that I’m fine.

The others take their seats, Joey across from me. I don’t know how to meet his eyes. Sadness or embarrassment will likely be evident if I do, possibly both, and I’d rather strip naked on Friday in front of the crowds of Haven Point than expose how vulnerable he makes me feel.

Below the table, a leg runs along the outside of my left one and then another leg runs along my right one. Joey presses on both sides, gently but firmly. He’s trying to assure me and extend comfort, and though I appreciate it, it compounds my spiking vulnerability.

I think of how many times Grace has put on a strong face over the years when facing something far more serious than unrequited feelings, and I steel my emotions and expression before glancing up and forcing a smile.

He quickly returns the gesture, his legs pressing more firmly against mine.

Dinner passes in a blur of conversation that Ella thankfully shifts back to Founder’s Day. It’s a safe discussion with an even safer reaction from everyone. Joey and Coen put down a shocking amount of food before they toss their paper napkins onto their plates, indicating they’re done.

Joey’s the first to get up, gathering everyone’s plates while Coen begins clearing the leftover food from the table. Hayden stands to help without being prompted.

Ella takes a drink of her sangria and reaches for another fry. “Their mom raised them right,” she says with a smile. She scoots her chair back and reaches for the same bowl I do in an attempt to help clear the table. “Don’t worry about this. We’ll take care of it. It’s such a nice night, you and Joey should take a walk or something.” She winks, revealing she knows far too much.

Joey glances at Coen. Their backs are to me, so I miss their expressions, but a second later Joey wipes his hands on his shorts and nods. “Yeah. Let’s go to the pond.”

Staying seems far safer, but arguing would only draw attention to my discomfort again, so I agree with a weak smile.

I slip on my cowboy boots and call out a goodbye before heading out to a chorus of cicadas and crickets. My lungs fill with the sweet and humid air, fragrant from the trees that are about to be done blooming for the year. I sway when Joey bumps my shoulder with his.

“I’ll race you!”

He doesn’t wait for me to agree or contest, sprinting toward the woods behind the house. I race to catch up.

Joey appears as familiar with these woods as Grace and me, his strides wide and sure, knowing when to hop and weave around a fallen branch or tree stump. My sister used to fake an injury when I got too far ahead of her, and the idea of doing so is so tempting as I wonder what his reaction would be. But I already know what he’d do. He would stop so fast, it would look like a brick wall appeared in front of him, and he’d sprint back to me without waiting to see if I was playing opossum.

The thought passes, and I push myself harder, taking comfort in the fact that although I’m going to lose, I get one hell of a view as I admire Joey’s broad shoulders, slim waist, and defined backside that leads to his chiseled calves. He looks back again, his smile wide and affectionate, as he hops over a bush. The footpath he’s taking is barely marked, not having been used enough yet to show wear. He ducks below a fallen branch, and I laugh, following his path, trusting his lead.

Joey stops short, and I nearly collide with him. His hands rest on either side of my face, and before I can close my eyes, he kisses me. His lips are forceful and demanding, taking my breath, my thoughts, and every ounce of my focus as I become so absorbed in this moment—in Joey—that I’m lost.

I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling myself against him until he’s all I can feel and hear and smell—the world fails to exist. My impending job interview, my sister’s haunting words, the choice to stay or go—none of it matters in this moment, and as Joey’s brown eyes slowly track across my features, I begin to wonder if any of it ever mattered. If any of it was ever a choice for me to make or simply distractions. I pretend to be in charge and capable of making decisions, but when it all comes down to it—when I begin weeding through what is real and what is normal—I begin to realize the only thing I have an actual, true decision about is recognizing the good even when it’s hidden among years of secrets, regrets, and the desire to do better.

Joey presses a soft kiss against my lips and leans back, his eyes dancing between mine. “When will it be too cold to swim in the pond?”

“By the end of this month. By October it will be too cold.”

He licks his lips, and I wonder if he tastes my kiss before he smiles and slowly lowers his hands from my face and nods. “We should make the most of it then. Can you swim without your glasses?” His fingers intertwine with mine.

“Technically, sure. But I can’t tell the difference between you and anyone else if you’re more than three feet away from me. Everything is just colorful blobs.”

Joey chuckles. “This is going to be fun!”

We head up a short hill that overlooks the pond.

“This is where you spy on me, isn’t it?”

“If I’d known this place existed and that you swam in there when I first came to stay with Coen, I probably would’ve.” He laughs, his cheeks rounding with his admission. He squeezes my hand and leads me down to the pond.

I pull off my shirt and let the stained cotton fall before moving on to my shorts.

“You lied about snapping turtles, didn’t you?” Joey remains clothed, watching me.

I try to hide my laughter by focusing on kicking off my boots. “There really might be some in there, but I’ve never seen one.”

“Just a year ago someone held a gun to my head, and I’d rather go back to that than have some turtle mistaken my whang for food.”

He chuckles, but I’m tripping over his words, which have sobered me. He’s told me so little about his job and the actual experiences, describing emotions versus actual events that he’s not allowed to share with anyone else. Goosebumps rise across my skin at the idea of Joey being in that situation—of his having a gun near him, let alone on him—and my stomach drops.

“You had a gun pointed at you?”

He shakes his head. “It was nothing.”

I shake my head faster. “Are you kidding?”

My hand flies up, covering my mouth, and as quickly as I do, Joey’s removing it. “Don’t be afraid for me. It’s over and done with.”

I pull his shirt off and then his shorts, taking his boxers with them, revealing scars I’ve traced with my fingers and mouth, being told I couldn’t hear the stories that caused them. Now I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure I can hear what people are capable of when I already feel like I know far too much.

I kiss him, and just like he had only moments ago, I intensify the kiss, forcing him to give me more, pledging his lips to continue blocking the world out for both of us. His fingers skim my back, unlatching my bra, and pulling it free. His chest is hot against my skin, and I absorb it, pressing against him and moving his hand between my legs. Joey groans against my lips, and I absorb it, too.

“You kill me,” he whispers.

“You make me feel sane.”

He kisses me again, harder as his fingers dip into me, giving me exactly what I needed: the collision of reality and time.

After several long strokes, Joey pauses. “Lie down.” His voice is thick with desire and need, and for the first time since we began this tryst, he makes a command, and I don’t hesitate to follow it. His body covers me as the sun falls into the rolling hills, highlighting each muscle and tendon, each scar and wound, that make this perfect man.

His hand continues the ministrations, and each time my hips lift to meet his fingers, he kisses me harder, and when I’m to the point I don’t know whether to beg him to stop or continue, he pulls my underwear down my legs and enters me.

 

My breathing is still labored, and my heartbeats are so loud they ring in my ears as I lie on Joey’s chest, his fingers following invisible trails down my spine.

“Since you have to get up early, maybe we should just head back and get you showered and make sure all this paint is off before your interview tomorrow.”

I lift my head so he can see my grin, loving the way his face instantly brightens and matches mine. “I need to go home at some point. My mom might have set me up for this play date with Ella today, but I don’t think she’ll buy me having a sleepover with her.”

His smile fades, wiping mine away.

“I mean, I can come back if you want, but I’d hate to wake you up early again. I already had to wake you up before five twice this week so I could open the store.”

Joey slides his fingers along my cheek, threading them in my hair and freeing the elastic that was only loosely holding it back. “Are you excited to go back to Boston?” He doesn’t look at me but past me as his fingers continue to shift through my hair.

“I’m excited to see Violet,” I tell him.

“Do you have everything ready for your interview?”

I stare at him, waiting for him to meet my gaze. Joey swallows and reluctantly his eyes meet mine. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He nods.

I sit up, annoyed he won’t tell me. I know this is bothering him. I know he’s feeling as insecure and unsettled about me having this interview as I am, and rational or not, it irritates me that he’s trying to play it off.

I pull on my clothes, and Joey does the same, neither of us speaking.

“I feel like you’re angry with me,” he says.

“Well, at least you’re not just a pretty face.”

Joey’s hands rise. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. You did nothing.”

“Then why are you upset?”

“I just . . .”

Don’t have any idea how to tell you.

“I need to get home,” I tell him, using the spare elastic on my wrist to pull my hair back up.

“Kennedy . . .” He plants his feet shoulder-width apart and holds one fisted hand in the other and rests them in front of him, staring at me.

“It’s late, and I left my purse at your house. My mom has probably tried calling, Grace has probably tried calling. Soon enough, they’re going to show up at your house and realize I’m not there.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, so?”

“You’re not allowed to hang out with men other than Jackson? What about Billy? Are you allowed to spend time with him? Will your parents approve? Will this town approve?”

“You seriously need to get past Jackson.”

“And Billy? Am I supposed to forget about him and showing up at the house?” His arms cross over his chest.

“I didn’t invite him over.”

“How’d he know you were at the house?”

“What are you accusing me of? I’m angry with you for two seconds, and suddenly you’re looking for every excuse to be mad at me! This is ridiculous!”

“Why was he there? Do you have feelings for him?”

“What?”

Joey’s brown eyes appear black with the sun about to fully set in the west. “Do you like him?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“You were so quick to tell me off, and yet I’ve never heard you say a single rude thing to him. Why is that?” His words are a challenge that his stance and eyes escalate.

“I don’t have to list my reasons to you. I don’t owe you an explanation as to why one of my close friends happens to have a penis or why it’s hard for me to tell Billy to go fuck himself when I’ve known him and his family—including two of his cousins—for my entire life. I’m sorry that’s hard for you to understand. I’m sorry you don’t want to believe it.” With my jaw locked and muscles strained, I turn toward the woods and retreat back to my house.

Each time sadness makes my eyes prickle with tears, a new wave of anger wipes them away as I make quick strides to my house, oblivious to everything, including why I am so frustrated.

When I pull open the front door, Dad’s sitting in his easy chair, a newspaper opened wide. He lowers it, peering at me over the top of his glasses. “You’ve been gone an awfully long time to paint a single room.”

I close the door behind me and use the excuse to take a deep breath before I turn and face him. “Ella invited me to stay for supper. Where’s Mom?”

He doesn’t respond as his eyes travel over my paint-stained outfit. “You didn’t think it would be a better idea to come home and prepare for your interview? Make sure you were rested and your plane tickets were printed and your clothes ironed?”

“Dad, I’m twenty-seven. I don’t need to go to bed by eight.”

“You’re not acting twenty-seven. Sneaking out your window, staying out late. You’re acting like a damn teenager.”

The anger that was already brewing inside of me heightens and then spreads. “Like a teenager? Are you kidding me?”

“You’re supposed to be here for a few months, working and getting your things in order so you can find a career, and instead you’re running around town, losing sight of everything you said you were coming here to do.”

“You mean, losing sight of everything you want me to do.”

His paper drops to his lap. “Life isn’t easy, Kennedy. No one is going to give you handouts or favors. You have to work harder than everyone else because as good as you get, there will always be someone better who wants to push you out of the way.”

“What if I don’t want to be at the top? What if I don’t care about being the best?”

“You’re home because you can’t afford your own apartment. You’re a long way from the top, kid.” He stares at me with eyes I’ve spent a lifetime trying to decipher, only to once again realize he’s practically a stranger to me.

“I’m going to stay at Jackson’s tonight,” I say, turning back toward the door.

“You’re not going to Jackson’s,” Dad says, standing up.

An angry laugh bursts through my lips. “Did you miss the part of me telling you I’m twenty-seven?”

“You’re going to get your butt in the shower, wash off all that goddamn mess, and then get into bed so you can fly to Boston tomorrow.”

I contemplate my options. My bag is in my bedroom, my purse is at Joey’s; the two things I need so I can fly out tomorrow feel like they’re surrounded by enemy war camps. I don’t reply to him, but I go back to my room because my emotions are about to get the better of me. If Vi were here, she’d have me making a pro-and-con list for all possible outcomes, but right now I’m choosing the lesser of evils, which is almost worse.

Grace appears in my doorway wearing a large set of headphones around her neck. Her brows are furrowed, and once again she’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt and pants though it’s too warm for either. Guilt trickles in along with sadness, and I have to look to the ceiling for a moment to keep a fresh wave of tears from falling.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head.

“It didn’t sound like nothing.” Her crystal-blue eyes probe me, opening that crack of vulnerability she creates, and once again my eyes are heavy, laden with tears. “Kennedy.” It’s the first time in what feels like hours my name’s been said with affection rather than vehemence, and that thin barrier between like and love, trust and fear, sane and crazy, shatters, and my emotions stream down my cheeks in thick rivulets.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Her voice is distressed as she takes the few steps to my side and wraps her arms around me in a hug. It’s difficult for me to reciprocate the hold, worried I’ll push her beyond her own threshold of sanity.

Grace holds me tighter, making up for my loose hold. Her forearms are sharp against my back, and beneath my fingers I can distinctly feel each rib protruding from her narrow frame. “What happened?” She rakes my long ponytail from over my shoulder and pushes the strands behind my back before tightening her grip.

I can’t ask my sister why my dad doesn’t accept me. My reasons to not tell my sister about my difficulties with him stem much further than adding to her long list of problems. Grace has always been my greatest advocate. Telling her about Dad would only impede her relationship with him, and she needs his support. Right now, she needs to be here more than I do, but I’m beginning to realize that a six-figure salary, a high-rise apartment with a balcony, and my dad’s respect aren’t what should matter most to me. And though many of my thoughts have been circling the idea of Joey and what could happen or might happen, he shouldn’t be my focus at this time, either.

Grace should be.

Because regardless of where my future takes me, if she’s not here—whether in person or a phone call away—it won’t matter what I’m doing or how much I’m making.

I shake my head. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired and stressed about this interview.”

“To be honest, I’m shocked you’re still going.”

An irrational sense of defensiveness courses through me, and I nearly pull back before reminding myself that my pride is far less important than sharing this moment with her.

“You seem to really like this guy. And though I know Haven Point isn’t Boston, it’s nice to have you here.”

If each of my tears could be translated into words, they’d be telling her that she’s right and that I do like him. That I want to stay. How much I want to talk to her about Joey but don’t know how to because we haven’t spoken about the opposite sex since they were still considered boys rather than men, back when Ethan shattered her heart and shipped away to basic training.

As my tears fall faster my cries louder, Grace retains her tight grip on me. “You don’t have to go, Kennedy. You don’t have to do this.”

Somehow, she maneuvers us to my bed, and we sit slumped together. As kids we used to spend hours like this, sharing our days, making jokes, talking about dreams—all the while creating memories that have somehow been eclipsed by far less important things.

When my tears transgress into occasional sniffles, Grace shifts and withdraws a crumpled sheet of paper, which she holds out to me.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“My list.”

“Your list?”

“You were right. I needed to talk to someone.” She takes a deep breath. “That night we left, after you and I got in our fight, Mom and Dad drove me into DC. We stayed at a hotel, and Friday morning, I went to see a new therapist.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “I hate that I haven’t been able to move past what happened, but I can’t. I want to hurt him and myself for what he did. And there are days where it’s really hard for me to differentiate that even though what he did was bad and dirty, I’m not bad or dirty.”

I shake my head, my throat once again thick with tears. “You’re not dirty or bad,” I tell her. “You’re the best person I know.”

Her smile is weak, but it’s there, and it’s not one of the artificial ones that years of fearing rejection and possible readmittance to a psychological ward caused her to manufacture. “I’m learning that,” she tells me. “Now I’m working on remembering it.”

She nods toward the piece of paper I’m holding like a prized and worthy possession, afraid to move it. “Read it.”

The paper opens easily, the folds worn and dyed blue from being shoved into the back pocket of her jeans. There’s a stain on the top left-hand corner that I stare at for several seconds before recognizing it as a thumbprint. She’s opened and reopened this same sheet dozens of times since the date it has in the top right-hand corner from just a week ago.

The list is short and scribbled in her familiar handwriting.

“We’re working on what to do when I want to hurt myself. When I start feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. This is a list of things I like about myself—things I’m trying to learn to love again. I look at this list as a reminder, and slowly, I’m adding more things to it.”

I look over the ten items and then at Grace.

“You don’t have to stay here in Haven Point to watch over me. I’m going to be okay. Whatever you choose to do, it needs to be for you and what makes you happy.”

I consider her words, thinking about the recipe for happiness.

I must have fallen asleep at some point because when I wake up, I’m wrapped around Grace, a thin blanket from our childhood covering us. My bedroom is pitch black except for the faint shadow of the moon streaming in through the window. I look to see that Grace’s shoes are still on, but she’s asleep, her body close to mine.

A rock clinks against my bedroom window, and then another, and another. I carefully untangle myself from Grace, my heart beating like a jackrabbit in my chest. Another rock hits the window before I free the latch and lift it.

Joey stands twenty feet away, near the edge of the forest.

I don’t risk waking Grace by asking him what he’s doing or why he’s here. If I were smarter, I’d probably close the window and my curtain and go back to bed, but when it comes to Joey, few things make any sense, including how I’m once again sneaking out my bedroom window in the middle of the night.