Spill Over (28 page)

I want the Amber package. And whatever comes with it.

We
’re in the car on
the Edmonds ferry
that’ll bring us
over to Kingston. Back home. I’m not sure if this is home for me or not, but it’s where I live right now, and I’m comfortable with that. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Her wide eyes look at me across the car.

“I live on a boat.”

“So do I.” She laughs.

“Y
eah. But I, Antony Pres
ton, live on a boat.”

“Y
ou’re cute.” She’s on her knees in seconds, leaning over the center console and kissing me. She’s kissing me in a way that makes me feel completely okay with pulling her across the car and into my lap. It
’
s tight, but doesn’t matter
. W
e’re too close to care.

Is this Amber? What happened? Her hands are in my hair and her mouth is unrelenting in how she’s kissing me. Her hands reach down and slide up under my shirt. Mine. Her fingers tighten on my sides and onto my back. And as much as I want her bare skin under my fingers, I don’t do it.
Isn’t this sort of huge? That I’m not pushing
u
s as far as I can?
And then the ferry signals that we’ve docked.

Amber’s face pulls back and our eyes lock.

“Wow.” I’m pathetic. That’s all I could come up with?

“Yeah. Wow.” She scoots off me
and slides back to her side of the car
, keeping as muc
h of her touching as much of me
.

I keep her hand in mine. “Thanks for today.”
I’m officially an idiot.

“Thank you.”

The second we make it to the parking lot, she’s kissing me again. And then again as I stop behind her boat.

“Wanna follow me home?” I ask. Kissing her like this all night sounds pretty perfect to me.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hugs me
even more
tightly,
which makes me want to spend another night with her
.

“Okay.”

She climbs onto her boat and I notice every movement, the way her legs easily push her up the ladder and the way she steps across the back deck. One last wave and she’s inside.

What a long, long
,
crazy day.

Twenty-One

I feel strengt
hened, fortified, after my evening
with Amber. My computer hums to life
,
and I’m determined to get through some emails today. Determined. Dad sits across from me with his cup of coffee and scrambled eggs. He’s working on edits of another of his novels.

I start at the beginning. I open a file for notes from my friends, notes from the Today Show people and NBC, lawyer and accountant stuff goes in another file. I create one from Mom’s manager who’s sent a million.

Now. Where to start
?

Mom’s friends. The people who are my friends, who I know are worried about me, who I barely spoke to at services in New York or Arlington. Flashes of both those days hit my chest like machine gun fire
—
h
ard, fast and unrelenting.
My breath hitches, and I open the first one.
It has to be done, right? I’ve built up some good defenses over the past weeks, or however long it’s been. I’m ready. I can handle it. And now I sound like some shrink or something.

The letters blur together one apology after another.

…
so sorry about Liv, she was so loved…

… can’t imagine anyone with more life in them…

… if good people never died, your mom would live forever…

… she was the most amazing kind of person…

…she was working hard, Antony. She believed in the things she reported. She loved what she did, but not nearly as much as she loved you. Her biggest fear in sending you to your father’s
was that you’d feel deserted
there. She wanted you to know him more than anything, and it gave her the chance to do something she knew you’d love, knew you’d be proud of. We all loved your mom. I don’t know anyone who didn’t…

Don’t cry
. The stupid generic sentiments don’t hit me, but the last one did. She didn’t d
esert
me. She wanted me to be proud of her.
Me
of
her
. How crazy is that? Her smili
ng face hits me again and again.
I can’t make
it go away. C
an’t push it down. I
t’s all coming to the surface and shit
,
there’s nothing I can do to stop it. The pain is searing, ripping at me like it hasn’t since I sat staring at that damn metal coffin. The fucking thing gets her ins
t
ead of me. Why did this have to happen to
her
?

Dad’s arms are around me from the side. Am I crying? My body’s convulsing, shaking in the sobs I’ve been holding down. I feel like a baby. A five-year-old. But no five-year-old could feel this. Feel this much. It’s like I’m being torn apart, unable to breathe, unable to speak. My knees come up, as if shrinking myself will shri
nk the pain. Only it doesn’t shr
ink it. I
nstead the more the tears fall and the more I shake, the looser everything inside me becomes
and the more it all needs to be poured out.

He doe
sn’t offer me a drink this time.
I’d probably throw it up anyway.

“You’re okay, Antony. Your body needs this.” His voice is quiet.

How can my body need something that’s shredding me this way?

There’s no telling how long Dad and I sit together. But for the first time I get that he really loves me. Loves me as a son. We’re not strangers anymore, we’re different, but not strangers.

I
hope that shitty moments keep coming with realizations that preserve my sanity.

- - -

I feel hollowed out. Caved in. Something. Something that makes me only a shell of Antony. I need alone time. I star
t up the dock
,
and Amber’s standing
behind her boat.

Her eyes widen as she sees me. “Antony.” She steps forward, touching my arm. “Are you okay?”

“No.” No part of me is okay. “I just need to be alo
ne for a bit.
”

She takes a
nother
half-step toward me but stops. I’m amazed I noticed. It’s like I’m both in and out of my body at the same time.
Putting my arms around her right now would be dangerous. I
’
m like a rickety pile of bones—
one wrong movement and I’ll topple into worn out old pieces.

“
Alright
,” she whispers.

I reach out and touch her cheek. H
er shattered ice blue eyes stay focused on mine. “I’ll be back in a bit. Heading to Point No Point
Beach
.”

She’s noddi
ng as I turn and force my legs to move. They
still feel like someone else’s
legs, cause I’m only half here.

- - -

The beach is empty. Just me. Well, and Dad’s Prius. And the chained load of Mom. The sky is grey and darkening quickly, both with incoming rain and night. The wind is cutting and the tide is all the way out, so far that the sand has turned back into
small pebbly rocks. Mom would
love this place. I kne
w it the first time I came here, and I feel it again now. She’d sit with me and point to the whitecaps,
the ferry
boat, the gulls barely making any headway in the strong wind.

Soak it up, Antony
. She’d say.
Every experience is a once in a lifetime experience, because no matter how hard we try, nothing’s ever exactly the same
as it was the first time
.

I suddenly wish I’d had her cremated. She’d never been to this beach before.
She would have liked to be buried somewhere new
.
Like on another adventure.
Right now
I’d
love that. Spreading her ashes
would be like setting her free. Like pa
rt of her is caged up inside
me
,
and there’s no way for me to let her go.
It feels impossible—
a
s if my chest, my head, my body
,
won’t relinquish her, even though I know I need to.
I need to.
She’ll always be a part of me. T
here’s no way I’ll ever forget her, but I’m still hanging on to too much.

Why did I leave Amber behind? Maybe she’d know what to say
or
what to do. How to pound it out of me.

How do I bring Mom here? How do I let her go?

I walk into the wet sand. I should write something. Something good, impressive, meaningful.

Nothing comes.

I’m standing here, willing something to come. Something worthy of Mom. The only mom I’ll ever have. The best mom in the universe and I can’t come up with something to write.

I suck in a deep, long breath. Focus.
Mom. Simple.
I step to a small pile of driftwood and get a stick.

The tide’s starting to come back in. I write in big letters.

Miss You

Simple. Just for her.
Tears drop down my face. I never thought I’d ever have this much crying in me. Ever.
I
walk around to the top of my large letters to sit
on the edge of the dry sand. The wind and harsh clouds both feel as if they’re beating into me. I wait.
It feels
etched into my brain, under my chest, onto my soul.
My teeth start chattering, and
I wrap
my arms wrap more tightly around me.

The waves touch the bottom of the letters, and I jump
to standing
.
My heart frantic.
No, wait. I’m not ready. But there’s nothing I can do. My chest sinks. My gut caves in until I’m sure I’ll puke. This was a damn stupid idea. What the hell was I
thinking
?

I run to the bottom of my
message
, but that doesn’t stop the waves. My shoes get soaked with the next one. No, no no! I’m not ready! The tide’s coming in too fast. There’s nothing I can do. I’m helpless. Just like I was when she sent me here. Just like I was when she died in that plane, and just like I am now.
Get a grip, Antony. They’re just letters in the sand
.

I see a flash of blond out of the corner of my eye.

Tears of relief come. I don’t even care that Amber’s here to see me cry. She’s here. She doesn’t hesitate, stepping into the cold water. The bottom half of the letters are gone. Her arms wrap around me from behind, and she holds me.

My arms cross in front of me so my hands can take her hands. Our fingers slide together.
She’s so
warm
.

“It’s coming in too fast,” I explain.

“It’s okay.” Her face presses into me. “You’re okay.”

“I’m not ready.”

“No one’s ever ready for this.”

“It’s just stupid letters,” I whisper.

Amber’s arms tighten around my waist.

Let her go.

And I do. The last bits of my lettering is erased by a frigid wave
that soaks us to our knees.
Amber doesn’t move, doesn’t waver.
The tears are hot on my cheeks
, but it’s like this steel cage that’s been trapped in my chest starts to dissolve, loosen. It’ll be slow, but it’ll happen.

“You’ll be okay.” Amber’s arms tighten. “I promise.”

And
in the freezing cold, as the last bits of
my message to
M
om are soaked up by the ocean,
I believe her.

Twenty-Two

“I sent the first few ch
apters of your book to my
literary
agent,
”
Dad says.

“What?” I take another long drink of coffee.
I feel hung
over from my day yesterday. From crying with Amber in the sand, soaked and freezing.
From letting some of Mom go. It’s left me feeling raw and hollowed out, but lighter. I’m actually going to be moving forward now.