A Risk Worth Taking (15 page)

Summer

“We can't be afraid of change.
You may feel very secure in the pond that you are in, but if you never venture
out of it, you will never know that there is such a thing as an ocean, a sea.
Holding onto something that is good for you now, may be the very reason why you
don't have something better.”

―
C. JoyBell C.

Concentrate.
The gross pay amount goes in box A.

Payroll
was tedious on any day, but today it felt as if someone had handed me a stack
of papers written in German and expected me to translate. In sign language. To
a pigeon. This is why people hated Mondays. I was lost and not particularly
concerned with finding my way back. I started to go for my coffee and stopped.
It would be cold by now and I didn’t want to make the hike to the kitchen to
reheat it. Not yet. I sighed and stared at the computer screen without really
seeing it.

Saturday
night with Ford had been … Well, it was by far the most memorable date I’d ever
been on. And the hottest. And the dirtiest—in more ways than one. I smiled at
the memory of that first handful of mud I’d thrown. I’d hit him square in the
chest, a fact that still surprised me. I wasn’t usually the best aim. And the
shock on his face had been priceless. I never wanted to forget that look. Or
the one after, when we’d fallen and he’d landed on top of me. The way his baby
blues always darkened when the mood shifted. The way his hands ran up the
inside of my thigh …

Damn
Bobby
and his tongue-wagging fiancé.

Ford
had taken it to heart that I didn’t want to be fodder for the town’s gossip
mill. He’d brought me straight home and walked me to the door with nothing more
than a quick peck and a tight smile before driving off in Darla. I’d stood on
the front porch watching him go, unsure whether to appreciate his sensitivity
to my feelings or be disappointed in the letdown of a night that’d started out
hotter than a bee’s ass in August.

I’d
washed my hair three times that night, staying in the shower even after the
water ran cold. Partly in an effort to wash the mud out of hard-to-reach places
and partly to wash away the frustration of being dropped off at home with
nothing more than a chaste kiss good night. It felt unfinished. I’d never been
left hanging like this. It was exciting and infuriating all at once.

I
tried to remember the last time I’d ever been this turned on by Aaron. Or
anyone for that matter. I went back farther and farther in my mind as I
realized not a single guy had ever made me want to run after them and beg for
release. But that’s what I wanted to do last night watching Ford walk away. I’d
had the distinct urge to chase him down, wrap my legs around him, and demand he
finish what he’d started.

Now,
two days later, I wasn’t entirely convinced I shouldn’t march over to the
greenhouse on my lunch break and do that very thing.

Sunday
had been quiet. Chores. Paperwork. More unpacking. I kept to myself, needing to
see past the physical desire. It might’ve only been one date, and I wasn’t
kidding myself that it would ever be more than this right here, but I liked the
fun we had together. I liked the version of myself I got to be with him.
Spontaneous, charismatic, maybe even a little irresponsible. And I needed to
figure out what that meant for the future I saw for myself. Or the future I’d
planned before my mom had ripped the rug out. Before down was up and up was
down. Before love hurt.

Ford
had said,
parents are just people who get put on a pedestal. We expect more
from them because they mean so much to us. But they’re only human.

In
between daydreaming of his mud-stained hands roaming my body and punching
deductions into the payroll program, I thought about those words. About my
mother. Was I expecting too much of her? Should I cut her some slack and admit
she deserved to be happy too, even if that happiness took her away from the
life she’d created with me? With Dad? It was impossible to reason through the
anger that always accompanied thoughts of her leaving.

I
went back to doing payroll.

An
hour later, someone knocked and I thanked whatever star had provided the
distraction. For once, I couldn’t handle any more numbers. Not even if it meant
dollar signs in my bank account.

I
looked up. “Mazie? What are you doing back here?”

“Can’t
I just come say hello while the kitchen is clear?” she asked, shuffling in and
sitting in the chair across my desk. She held a dish towel between her hands,
her fingers twisting it nervously into something like a breadstick from the
pizza place I loved.

“Well,
yeah,” I said, “but you never do. Usually you’re yelling for me to come eat
something.”

“You
never eat enough,” she accused, her voice rising. “In my country, the women are
healthy. Full. None of this twig nonsense.”

“Mazie.”
I smiled, ignoring the fact that she’d tried to insult me by calling me skinny.
Clearly, there was something bigger on her mind. “What’s up?”

She
sighed, her shoulders slumping as if admitting she’d been caught. “A card came
in the mail for you last week.”

“What
kind of card?”

“An
invitation to a party?”

“Is
that a question?” Should I know what party she meant? I was so lost. And she
looked so guilty. A rare thing for Mazie.

“No.
It was an invitation. Not a question about that.”

“What’s
the question then?”

“None,
really. I already RSVP’d for you.”

“I
see.” My eyes narrowed. If her behavior was any indication, I had a feeling I
wasn’t going to like where this was going. “What party is it?”

“A
birthday party,” she hedged.

“A
birthday party.” Who did I know having a birthday? I ran through a mental list
of names. Casey’s was in the fall. So was Frank’s. My dad was January, not that
he ever had parties. Leslie? When was hers? Right, Thanksgiving. We saw that
movie together while I was home on break last year. But then who—

I
sat up straighter. “My mother’s birthday? You RSVP’d me for that?”

Mazie’s
fingers tightened around the dish towel until her knuckles turned white. She
pressed her lips together, clearly anticipating a fight and having every
intention of sticking it out. “She’s your mother, paidi mou. She will be hurt
if you don’t come.”

“She
left me. That hurt too.”

“She
left your father,” she corrected, snapping the words. “And you don’t even care
why or how she felt about it. Everyone’s given you time to be the sad little
daughter. That time is over. Be stronger than this.”

“It’s
not an issue of strength,” I argued.

“Maturity,
then. Grace.”

“I
can’t help how I feel,” I said. The anger, always so close to the surface when
I thought about my mother, rose swiftly. I bit it back. This was Mazie after
all.

“You
think she is so evil. That she woke up one morning and said, let me hurt Summer
today. Pah. You are either selfish or stupid.” She threw up her hands, still
clinging loosely to the dishtowel.

The
words were meant as a nudge to get me to agree to the party. They were meant to
make me feel guilty enough to talk me into this nice thing. But they hit harder
than that. I swallowed a mouthful of air and stilled as it stuck in my gut like
a bowl of rocks.

Mazie
continued, “You are going to that party and that’s final.”

I
opened my mouth and closed it again. Had Mazie ever talked to me like that? Or
to anyone? I’d heard her fuss at Casey for stealing a cinnamon roll once. He’d
hung his head and teared up, mumbling an apology, but that was more out of a
guilt trip layered with love. That and Casey hated it when anyone scolded him,
especially Mazie. He had a thing about guilt.

But
this. This was hardcore and direct and final. A scar and an open wound all at
once.

“All
right. I’ll go,” I said slowly.

She
nodded, her chin tight with the way her lips pressed together. “Good girl.” She
rose and walked to the door. “Besides, I gave you a plus one,” she added.

My
head shot up. The guilt vanished. “A what?”

“You
can bring that handsome florist with you. Keep you company. And maybe keep your
mouth busy if not shut.” She winked and disappeared down the hall before I
could make my tongue work.

“He’s
not a florist,” I said into the silence.

Ford

"Life
changes in the instant. The ordinary instant."

—Joan Didion
,
The Year of Magical Thinking

I
picked gently at the roots, trying to untangle them without breaking or tearing
the tiny threads. My hands felt big and clumsy, forcing me to go slower. I
calmed my breathing in an effort to remain still. I had to be careful. One tiny
pull in the wrong direction and the whole thing fell apart. I didn’t want to
have to start over. I didn’t have enough time left in Virginia for that.

Magic
seems like something you’d have to experience to believe.

Since
our dinner, it was the conversations more than anything else that stuck in my
head. I mean, the playing, the mud, the kissing—I’d never forget a single
detail of the sunset we hadn’t bothered to watch, and I couldn’t wait to do it
again in some form or another. But the things she said; I’d never met anyone
who saw the world quite like her. It made me question where my own lens came
from.

She
hadn’t experienced magic? I took it for granted that I had.

The
way the light hit the mountains in New Mexico, turning them so red it looked
like a flame had been lit and thrown against them. A single blossom surviving
against a sea of failed attempts. A painter’s canvas on a California street
corner in some tiny coastal town whose brush strokes captured more essence than
the real-life inspiration for his masterpiece. All of these things were magic
in some form. Beauty. Hope. Inspiration.

Summer
had all of those. She just didn’t know it.

Perception
is about making people see what you want, not what really is.

The
more I got to know her, the more I wondered if it wasn’t herself she had
fooled. Maybe Summer hadn’t met the real Summer yet. I shook my head to clear
it. And maybe that girl really was a witch. And I was easy prey.

“Knock,
knock.” Casey was halfway down the center aisle when he called out and I
jumped, yanking loose a small piece of stem.

“Dammit,
Casey, this shit is sensitive.”

“Yeah,
you are,” he agreed. I gave him a look to let him know his jokes weren’t appreciated
here. “I surrender,” he said, throwing up his hands as he leaned against a tall
planter’s box.

“What
do you want?”

“I
came to see if you got what you want, if you know what I mean.”

I
didn’t look up at him. If I did, I’d have to see the smirk instead of just hear
it in his words. I didn’t have the patience for that right now. I couldn’t get
this root system to cooperate. Any less patience and I’d screw it up and my
chances at cross-germination were shot. At least, for this growing season.

“Casey,
I am not discussing my love life involving a girl who might as well be your
sister. Isn’t that a little weird for you?”

“Only
if you break her heart.” Based on the clear, matter-of-fact way he said it, I
didn’t doubt him for a single second.

“I’m
not aiming for that.”

“Right.
You’re aiming lower.” I picked up a handful of soil and chucked it at him. He
laughed and dodged most of it. “Okay, okay. No more. It’s not like it’s that
serious for her, either.”

This
time, I did look up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I
mean, she only went out with you to satisfy the list.”

“What
list?”

“Uhhh.”

“Casey,”
I said, my voice a warning. “What the hell are you talking about? What list?”

He
seemed to consider for a moment and then his shoulders fell and he jammed his
hands into his pockets. “Might as well tell you now. She won, anyway. We called
it ‘things to do before I grow up.’ First one to complete all the items wins.”

“What
sort of items?”

“The
usual. Ride a four-wheeler, drive a tractor. What?” he said, when I gave him a
disbelieving look. “We made it when we were ten.”

“Then
how do I fit into this list?”

“We
may have added a couple of things recently.”

“Like?”

“Like
the creek race.”

“Right.”
I remembered walking in on them talking about it that day. And I’d seen a piece
of wrinkled paper that I could’ve sworn had been handwritten in crayon laying
on Summer’s desk. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time. “And what else?”

He
shrugged like it was no big deal. “Summer was pissed about the rope breaking on
her, so I told her if she added one more thing to the list and crossed it off,
she could have a do-over on the rope swing.”

I
vaguely remembered him saying something similar that day on the bank of the
creek. It’d pissed Summer off good. “And what was the thing she added?”

He
pushed off the edge of the planter box and straightened to his full height. I
got the feeling he was bracing himself for something and my back rippled with
anticipation. “You.”

Very
carefully, I set the tiny stem aside and rose to my feet. With one foot, I slid
the bucket I’d used as a seat out of my way and stepped up to Casey. I was
intrigued but since the prospect of me being pissed seemed to have him talking,
I’d play along for now. “Me,” I echoed.

“That’s
right.”

Interesting.
Is that what Casey thought? That her and I were just using each other for a
quick tumble? “And you think she’s crossed me off the list?”

“I
heard you guys had a pretty dirty night on Saturday. I’d say she can officially
cross it off.”

I
bit the inside of my cheek to keep my face straight. Damn, Summer wasn’t wrong.
This gossip thing was like a virus. “And did you actually hear any of that from
Summer herself?”

“Didn’t
have to. Old man Gresham gave me the story firsthand.”

“Firsthand,”
I repeated.

“Yep.
Guess I’ll have to let Summer have her do-over.”

I
bit back a smile. If Casey thought I’d be pissed about being an item on a list,
he was wrong. Summer was hard to read on a good day. Knowing she felt compelled
to pursue me—even if it was to satisfy her competitive streak—helped clue me in
on where I stood.  More importantly, it told me this thing between us wasn’t
finished. “Tell you what, ask Summer whether she thinks she’s earned it and see
what she says.”

The
amusement in Casey’s eyes faded and his brows knitted. “And what will she say?”

I
smirked. “I have a feeling she’ll want a do-over on more than just the rope
swing.”