The Art of Losing Yourself (10 page)

“Are you expecting me to help you?”

The question made my teeth clench together. “I never asked for your help.”

“What happens when you’re finished?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you plan on running it? Moving in?”

“I said I don’t know!”

Ben rubbed his jaw and looked up at the sky, as if composure could be found in the stars. “I’m sorry, but we’re not exactly in a position right now to take on the restoration of a motel.”

“Why not?”

“
Why not?
Carmen, if we’re going to work on anything, don’t you think it should be our marriage?”

It was the first time Ben had ever hinted at the broken state that was
us
, but I was too hurt to grab the lifeline. Sadness spilled from the unstitched seam in my heart, pooling into a dense mass of longing. But longing for what—The Treasure Chest in its former glory? Ben and me without all this distance? A child to hold in my arms? The video to magically disappear so this expanding sense of dread would go away? Something—
anything
—that might show me God still cared? That He was up there at all?

Ben looked at me, waiting.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.” I lifted my hands in a shrug, then let them clap against my thighs. “If I wait, The Treasure Chest will be gone.” And everything we used to be along with it.

G
RACIE

The town of Bay Breeze smelled like salt and citronella. I wandered past houses with manicured lawns and white picket fences, turning up and down roads at random until I found a bike trail off a street named Sand Castle Circle (seriously?). Mom had this phobia about bike trails in the evening—called them a breeding ground for hooligans (she actually used those words), but thanks to my snooping ways, I found a hunting knife in one of Carmen and Ben’s junk drawers and tucked it into my boot before leaving.

Twilight ran its course and I ended up on a road with gas-lamp streetlights and brick walkways along a town square lined with small shops—Kirby’s Antiques, a candy store called Sweeties, a hardware store, an art gallery, some restaurants, a couple cafés. The whole thing circled around a small park with wrought-iron benches, pink-blossoming crepe myrtles, and a gazebo. I felt like someone had plopped me straight in the center of a Hallmark movie set, only nobody had bothered to show up for work. The place was a ghost town.

I turned onto Dock Street, the air thick with brine. A collection of sea-weathered wood buildings hung over the water—tourist gift shops, another art gallery, some bar-and-grill eateries. The last of the sunlight slipped away. Swirls of oranges and pinks melted into blood red over the water until darkness stretched from one horizon to the next, and the faraway lights of the hotels lining Pensacola Beach twinkled across the bay.

Up ahead a lighted dock moored with boats reached out into the water. In Apalachicola, a town whose livelihood depended on the sea, the docks were forever lined with shrimp boats and oyster boats and fishermen. Here in Bay Breeze, the boats rocked alone. I shuffled toward the lights.

The football game had to have ended by now. Carmen and Ben were probably back in their Barbie dollhouse, discussing the problem that was me. Earlier today, Carmen had invited me to stay longer than a few days. She said she and Ben had discussed it and agreed it would be a good idea. I could enroll in Bay Breeze High School. I sat on the edge of the dock and pulled the knife from my
boot. The plan had never been to stay with Carmen and her husband. I did not want to be one of her charity projects. But considering my financial status, my options were horribly limited. I dangled my feet above the water, opening and shutting the knife’s blade, trying to figure out my next move, until the dock swayed with footsteps.

I jerked around, wielding the knife, heart racing.

A tall kid with muscular arms stopped and held his hands up like I was a cop with a gun who had just yelled “Freeze!” Even with my knife, I wouldn’t stand a chance against him. Thankfully, he looked every bit as surprised by me as I was by him, which meant he hadn’t followed me out here with bad intentions. Beneath the dock’s lighting, I could make out a pair of ratty sneakers, faded jeans that hung low on his hips, a plain white undershirt, skin the color of rich caramel, and not much else.

“This is a first,” he finally said.

“What is?”

“Running into an armed stranger in Bay Breeze.”

I lowered the knife, but I didn’t flip it shut. Thanks to the surprise arrival, adrenaline had my senses on high alert.

“Can I put my hands down?” he asked.

“I never told you to put them up.”

He brought his arms down to his side and studied me across the length of space between us. “Mind if I join you?”

“It’s a free dock.”

I watched him warily as he approached and lowered himself beside me. He had full lips and a broad nose and curly eyelashes and he smelled like the air after a hard rain. As I stared, he smiled—a straight, white, deep-dimpled smile that had me shifting away. I didn’t trust smiles that straight or white.

“So,” he said, curling his fingers under the edge of the wood, “do you live around here?”

I hesitated, unsure whether or not to engage. “That’s to be determined.”

My answer seemed to amuse him. “What—you’re scoping the place out before deciding?”

“Something like that.”

“How old are you?”

I raised my chin. “How old do you think I am?”

His eyes, which were an earthy mixture of brown, green, and amber, moved from my boots, dangling over the water, up to my face. “Fifteen?”

I scoffed.

His smile widened. “Do you have a name?”

“Most people do.”

“Are you gonna tell me what it is?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

“Only when I find knife-wielding girls on my dock.”

I quirked one of my eyebrows. “
Your
dock?”

“Well, it’s not technically mine.”

“So what—it’s
figuratively
yours?”

“Let’s just say this dock and I are well acquainted.” He nodded toward the second-to-last building, a ramshackle restaurant with a neon sign that said Jake’s Bar and Grill. “My mom used to work at Jake’s. For real, how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Isn’t that a little young to be determining where you’ll live?”

“Not when I’m on my own.”

“Ah.” He nodded, like he got me or something. His skin really was a beautiful color. Distractingly so. And his voice had this soothing cadence about it, like the gentle lapping of the water. “You ran away from home.”

“I didn’t run. I hitchhiked.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not much of a runner.”

His smile came back. And his dimples along with it.

Waves from the bay gently rocked the boats as I waited for him to finish the third degree. When he didn’t, I flipped the knife shut and returned it to my boot. “You didn’t go to the football game tonight?”

He cocked his head. “Is it a problem if I did?”

“No—why?”

“Because you asked the question like you were disgusted with the possibility.”

I shrugged. “It’s a dumb sport.”

“Yeah?”

“Dressing up in pads and putting on a helmet all for an excuse to run
around hitting and tackling people? Come on, it’s like a giant, overrated mating ritual.”

“A mating ritual?”

“With all the chest bumping and fist pounding and strutting around like demigods just because one team gets a ball on the other side of a field more than the other? It’s like a giant game of let’s see whose is bigger.”

The boy laughed—an appealing sound that boosted my confidence. Made me feel witty. He shook his head and massaged the palm of his hand. The word
Truth
was tattooed on the inside of his wrist.

“What’s up with the tattoo?” I asked.

He rubbed his thumb over the black-inked word. “Truth is important.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You disagree?”

“In the words of philosophy teachers everywhere, ‘What is truth?’ ”

The penetrating way he looked at me made me want to fidget. “What do you think it is?”

“Most people would say it’s subjective.”

“I didn’t ask what most people would say. I asked what you think.”

I frowned at the water, my thoughts wandering to Mrs. Dulane’s morning declarations in fifth grade. The canvas hanging in my new bedroom. My mother’s creek dunking and the church services she dragged me to in Texas. The truth was, I didn’t know. And this conversation was getting far too personal and strange for my taste. I let out a deep breath and pushed myself up to standing.

“No answer?” he asked, looking up at me.

“I think I’ve done enough philosophizing for one night.” And without a wave good-bye or a look back, I made my way to land.

At some point during my encounter with Dr. Truth, Bay Breeze came back from the dead. A boy and a girl sat shoulder to shoulder on the open tailgate of a rusty truck parked along Dock Street, a group of teenagers goofed around on the grassy knoll in the center of the town square, and a whole bunch of cars squeezed themselves into a small parking lot beside a place called The Barbeque
Pit. My stomach rumbled at the thought of chicken wings, and Carmen had left me a ten-dollar bill for dinner. Had to be enough to appease the growling.

The twang of country music thickened the closer I got to the door. When I stepped inside, a few tables of teenagers stopped and stared. Without making eye contact with anyone, I walked past the gawkers and ordered a Coke and the spicy chicken wings to go. Fifteen minutes later, I was back on Magnolia Avenue with a white bag in hand.

Light filled every one of Ben and Carmen’s first-floor windows.

Great.

As soon as I walked through the door, Carmen sprung up from the couch and pushed hair from her disoriented eyes. “Where have you been?”

I held up my bag and kicked off my boots. They thumped, one at a time, near the front closet doors. “Getting food.”

“At ten thirty at night?”

I headed into the kitchen.

Carmen followed. “It would have been nice if you’d left a note. I’ve been worried sick.”

I laughed.

“Why is that funny?”

“You, worrying about me. It’s ironic.” I pulled out a box of chicken wings from the bag. The spicy, sweet scent of buffalo sauce made my mouth water. Being here was never in the plan, but I had to admit—this was a whole lot better than falling asleep in a hot room on a hard floor with an empty stomach. “You never worried about me when I was being raised by an alcoholic.”

Carmen frowned.

I didn’t care. I would not feel guilty about her guilt. I wouldn’t. I picked up a wing, took a bite, and nearly groaned over how good it tasted.

“I didn’t know,” Carmen said.

“That she drank?” I snorted.
Give me a break
.

“I didn’t know how bad it was.”

That was because she chose not to see. That was because seeing would have meant she had to do something about it. She stayed comfortably ignorant because anything else would have been an inconvenience, and heaven forbid Carmen’s perfect life encounter an inconvenience. I ate the last of the meat off
the wing and sucked the bone dry. She watched, looking a little repulsed. I licked my fingers and cracked open the Coke. My tongue was on fire.

“Would you like to come out to The Treasure Chest with me tomorrow?”

I took a loud slurp from the can. “You’re returning me already?”

“No, I’m not returning you.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled an overly enthusiastic smile. The kind that looked more nervous than happy. “I was hoping we could fix the place up. Get The Treasure Chest running again.”