The Only Exception (10 page)

Seventeen

I am eighteen. I am an actual, legitimate adult.

I sit up, yawn and stretch. Standing, I stumble out to the kitchen and take a seat at the bar. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Grammy says with a smile.

“Morning birthday girl,” Dad greets. He’s dressed a little more casually for today, wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his typical business outfit.

“Hi,” I reply. “Mom still asleep?”

“Yes, and Papaw’s in the garage working on something,” Grammy answers with a twinkle in her eye.

Grammy dishes me up a plate full of chocolate chip waffles and a cup of orange juice as I hear the click of high heels on the wooden hallway floor. Mom’s not asleep now. Not unless she looks like a business-y Coco Chanel when she sleeps. She’s dressed in a sleeveless white blouse with a cowl neck, paired with a red pencil skirt and red Louboutin pumps. Her makeup is flawlessly done, the colors precisely chosen to match the outfit.

I hate it. I hate every speck of professionalism in her manner as she walks towards the bar to sit next to me. I hate the fact that there’s not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her clothes. But she’s trying. She’s here, isn’t she? “Happy birthday, baby girl!” she says excitedly. I smile and return her hug when she opens her arms for one. She looks strangely at my sweater. “I don’t recognize that sweater. Where’d you get it?”

“A friend gave it to me,” I reply, internally questioning if it’s the truth.

She turns down Grammy’s waffles, opting for a cup of coffee and some kind of oatmeal-looking mush, explaining to Grammy all about her diet. I call it the EBN diet (the Eat Basically Nothing diet). No gluten, dairy, eggs, peanuts, sugar or artificial sweeteners. Not me. I’ll stick with actual food, thanks.

The doorbell rings approximately eleven times before we leave to go have lunch at Tara’s, every single one being a package or delivery of some sort that one of my parents take back to his or her bedroom. McKayla and her family are the twelfth ring, ready to go to lunch and go bowling. Tara’s is fun, and my parents even show a little glimpse of their pre-divorce selves when greeted by some old friends. They converse easily and my mother actually relaxes a little bit. She still turns down the bowling though, in favor of watching, so Mac, her little brother, my dad, Mr. Atwood, Mrs. Atwood, Papaw, Grammy and I all duke it out in two games of bowling. I’m a terrible bowler, but it’s still fun.

When we get back, Grammy kicks it into high gear in the kitchen, making my favorite Chinese lettuce wraps for dinner. They sound like some veggie dish, right? Wrong. It’s this spicy filling of ground chicken, onions, water chestnuts and some other vegetables, wrapped in a leaf of lettuce topped with a sweet and spicy sauce. It’s amazing.

After dinner, we have cake and ice cream, then my parents go back to their rooms and bring out tons of boxes and bags, all brightly (and commercially) wrapped. Grammy and Papaw add another package to the mix and bid me to start opening. I pick the package closest to me which is tagged “Love, Mom” and start ripping the paper, revealing a big box full of perfumes like the whole “Daisy” line by Marc Jacobs, Taylor Swift’s new fragrance and One Direction’s new scent. I smile and thank her, being careful to select a box from Dad next. Inside is a tutorial book on how to dye your hair and a box full of dyes, from plain bleach, to bright pink, all the way to midnight blue. I don’t know what gave him the impression I wanted that, but I smile and thank him anyway.

The rest of the boxes contain lots of instant film for my Polaroid camera and few photography books, lots of makeup, a set of Beats by Dre studio headphones, two boxes of clothes and shoes and a collection of gift cards.

Finally, my Dad hands me an envelope as his last gift. “Now, there’s only one, because I just couldn’t leave my company for that long, but I figured you’d still want to go,” he explains. I slit the top curiously and pull out a sheet of paper that contains the information for what looks like a trip to Australia. My heart soars, even before I notice the dates.

“Is this for real?” I inquire.

“Pull out the next page,” he instructs. I do so and find the ticket information for one ticket to the Quicksilver Pro Gold Coast. No. Way.

“What is it, honey?” my mother inquires in a voice she’s fighting to keep sweet.

“I’m going to Australia for the Quicksilver Pro!” I exclaim. My mother’s mouth drops open slightly and she glances at my father.

“Australia?” she repeats.

“It’s only for two weeks,” my father assures her. I hand her the papers and she immediately reads them.

“It’s in the middle of the school year,” she protests. “You can’t leave in the middle of your senior year for two weeks just for some surf competition!” My heart sinks, and not just because she said I can’t go. I feel my eyes start to sting.

“Some surf competition?” my father echoes. “Hold on just a second, you pull her from school and take her to Paris, Milan, London and New York Fashion Week almost every year and now, suddenly, I’m evil for taking her somewhere she actually wants to go?”

“Please,” I whisper, unable to speak thanks to the lump in my throat.

“First of all, you’re not taking her,” she argues. “You provided the ticket. I actually go with her to the shows during Fashion Week, which, by the way, is a cultural experience that adds to her education. You’re just shipping her off to Australia by herself and I won’t allow it!”

“I’m her parent too, I don’t need you to tell me what’s okay for my daughter!”

“Please, just stop,” I whimper, but their shouts drown me out.

“Your daughter?!” she shouts. “She’s not ‘your daughter!’ I’ve taken over her education enti-“

“She is my daughter! I take her for the whole summer and holidays and-“

“ENOUGH!” I shout, standing. I can feel hot tears rolling down my face. They both look at me like children who’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Seeing my tears my mother comes over to comfort me.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, it’s just-“

“No,” I cut her off, pushing away her outstretched arms. She stands there, arms open wide for a moment, too shocked to move. Slowly she puts her arms down. “You don’t get to just decide to show up in my life and be the picture-perfect mother you think you are. You can’t possibly think a few five minute conversations and trips to fashion shows I didn’t even want to go to count as motherly affection. You’re not the woman in my baby pictures. You’re someone who looks vaguely like her, but doesn’t have a daughter. At least, not unless you feel like acknowledging my existence.”

I turn to my father, all the aggravation of the past eighteen years welling up inside me and finally spilling over. “And you can’t argue that I’m your daughter, either,” I start in. “You carve out a few minutes every few weeks to call me, and you take me on one or two afternoon sightseeing trips when I’m there in the summer. You don’t do anything to deserve the title of ‘Father’ to me. You don’t even remember what I talk to you about when we do have a conversation. Out of everyone in this room, the people who are the most like parents to me are Grammy and Papaw. You two may be my blood parents, but even before the divorce, I practically lived here. Then you took me away from that and I had no one.”

I look at my mom, who is still dumbstruck at my outpour of feelings. “You want to know what happened this summer? What’s wrong? I fell in love. He loved me through everything. Even when I hated him, he loved me. Then I broke his heart. You know why? Because my parents broke each other’s hearts and made my life what it is. I swore I would never do that to anyone. You two promised to love each other forever when you got married and you thought signing some papers could fix what broke, but you were wrong. You two turned me off from even the idea of love. You made me scared of it. I didn’t want what happened to you two to happen to me, but what I didn’t realize is that it didn’t just happen to you. You made it happen. You chose it. And I’ve made what possibly could’ve been the worst decision of my life because of it. So, thanks for all the gifts, but you don’t have to argue over me anymore. I’m done.”

And with that, I grab the keys to Gertrude off the hook and slam the door behind me, not caring if anyone comes after me or not.

Eighteen

I gun the engine, floor the pedal and don’t look back. You might think what I said was mean, but there’s a reason they call it “the ugly truth.”

The sad thing was I actually thought they were going to make it my whole birthday without fighting. They tried so hard and it all ended in nuclear warfare. But hey, you know, I got some perfume and some clothes, so who cares? Zipidi-do-da. Oh, and don’t forget, tickets to an event that just ruined my birthday that I’m not even going to get to go to.

Somehow, I end up at Banzai Pipeline. I park the bike and just go sit on the sand, watching the surf. Just when I think the tears might be gone, a wave of them even bigger than the ones rolling in at my feet comes on and I just pull my knees into my chest and cry. Sometimes, that’s all there is left to do.

I don’t know how long I sit here, but it’s a considerable amount of time. Even after the tears stop, I sit here listening to the waves and thinking about how messed up my life is.

“Mind if I camp here?”

My head slowly lifts to meet a familiar pair of deep, shining blue eyes. I shake my head and Sawyer sits down on the sand beside me. After a little pause, he says “I’m glad I gave you that sweater. It definitely looks better on you than it ever did on me.” I use the sleeves to dry my eyes.

“How did you find me?” I inquire.

“I wasn’t looking for you,” he replies. “I just came to surf.”

“Oh.” I nod.

“Happy birthday, by the way.” He nudges my shoulder with his playfully.

“You remembered?”

“You really think I’d forget?” That sweet smile I’ve come to love flashes across his face for a moment, then disappears again. “Also, you left this at my my house a few weeks ago,” he informs, handing me my copy of
Three Hours Too Soon
.

“Thanks,” I reply, taking it. Our fingers brush in the encounter and I am tempted not to let go.

“You know, I just realized something,” he says after a short silence.

“What?” I ask.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a surfboard or a book in your hand,” he says. I laugh. “Seriously though, why do you read so much?”

I pause, unsure of how to put it. “Love is better in books,” I finally answer.

“Explain.”

“Happily ever afters exist,” I start after a moment. “Tragedies are so depressing they can only go up from the ending, and people have to converse or there would be no story. Every book I’ve ever read is better than my own life. Even books like
Three Hours Too Soon
. Jane has leukemia, yes, but she also has parents that love her and practically hang on her every word. She has a boyfriend that through all, will continue to love her even when she can’t love him. A girl with cancer’s life is better than my own.” He is quiet for a moment.

“Does this have something to do with your parents?” he asks.

“Something?” I laugh coldly. “More like everything.” I take a deep breath. “My parents got divorced when I was nine, but haven’t really cared about me since birth. I’m an inconvenience, an extra piece of luggage they can’t always check. Then they decide they do care about me and go crazy, competing to be the better parent and in doing so, are actually terrible parents. I don’t know if they even really love me, and they’ve made me afraid to love anyone else.”

He stares out at the sea. “No one should be afraid of love,” he finally responds.  “No one should have to go through life never being loved or loving anyone else.” Another silence ensues.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your surf time,” I say apologetically.

“You’re fine. Actually,” he counters. “I was only going surfing to get this amazing girl off my mind.” I smile and look down at my hands. “So why are you out here? It’s your birthday, you should be celebrating.”

“My parents both came for my birthday,” I reply. “They called a truce, but couldn’t keep it and when they started to fight right in the middle of the living room, all the feelings of the past eighteen years boiled over and I let them have it, then came out here. I highly suspect they’re going to come looking for me and tell me that was wrong or immature or something any minute now.”

“So, I still don’t get why you didn’t tell them I kicked you in the eye,” he says. “That day, they called you as you were lying on the couch with the ice pack on your face and you didn’t tell them I kicked you.”

“I told you. I didn’t want them to worry,” I reply. “I didn’t want them going all crazy parents on me, buying me junk I don’t need like I’m some little kid that will feel better with one trip to the toy store.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I want to say I’m sorry,” he begins. “If I’d known a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have just tried to kiss you out of the blue. I get it now. I understand why you don’t like me like that.” I nod, not knowing what to say between what I want to say and the walls of fear encompassing me, keeping me from coming out with it. He stands up to leave. “If I can’t, I hope someone will break through this idea of love that you have someday. Like I said, no one deserves that.”

My head and my heart fight for control of my mouth. As he walks away, something stirs inside of me and suddenly I know exactly what to say.

“Sawyer!” I shout. He turns back to me and I jog a few paces to catch up to him. “You know what? I’m done,” I state nervously. “I was stupid and scared enough to let you go once.” I take a deep breath. “The truth is that I love you,” I confess. “When I realized what I’d done, I cried myself to sleep that night, and for almost a week afterwards. I couldn’t stop thinking about you and the only conclusion I came to was that if the way you loved me isn’t true love, then it really doesn’t exist.” He stands, speechless for a moment. “I love you. I’m so sorry that I was such a jerk towards you and that I was too caught up in myself to see that you really did love me. And I’m sorry if I’m too late.”

“You could never be too late,” he assures, wrapping me in his arms for a tight hug. “Because I love you too.” He pulls back to look at me and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, caressing my face gently. Slowly, he leans his face in towards mine and this time, I don’t turn away. His lips fit to mine perfectly as my walls of fear shatters in one fell blow. As we pull apart, I say a silent prayer, more sure someone will hear it this time:
Thank you. Thank you for not abandoning me. I see what you were doing now. You knew. You had the cards all along.

Sawyer smiles coyly. “So, Miss Maverick. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“I would love to,” I reply, smiling back. He picks me up and swings me around as I giggle, setting me down gently. “One of us is going to have to change, though, because I can’t go surfing like this, and you can’t go out anywhere like that.” I gesture to his rash guard and board shorts.

“That’s fine,” he agrees with a twinkle in his eye. “I have to go pick up something for my girlfriend, anyway. It’s her birthday today, you know.”

“Really? Sounds like a lovely girl,” I joke.

“Oh, she is,” he replies, pressing his lips to my forehead for a moment. “She’s amazing.”

“So what do you want to do?” I inquire as he entwines his fingers with mine.

“I was thinking a movie,” he suggests.

“What movie?” I ask.

“The one I cried like a baby during,” he replies, making me laugh.

“I knew you cried!”

“You have to be inhuman not to cry during
Three Hours Too Soon
,” he defends. I laugh again and lean my head against his shoulder.

He packs up and drives back to his house to change and pick me up for a movie in a little while. I, meanwhile, have some unfinished business back at the house. I ride Gertrude back home and set the keys on the hook just inside the door upon arrival. “Honey? Is that you?” my mother’s voice calls.

I enter the living room, where it seems no one has moved, except my mother’s makeup is smudged and my father’s eyes are red.

“Okay, look,” I begin after a moment, as no one else apparently wants to start. “I was wrong to blow up at you guys like that, and I’m sorry. I really am. I can’t say I didn’t mean it, though. That would make me a liar.” I take a deep breath, to keep myself composed. “Even before the divorce, I felt like I was an inconvenience to you two. The way I was always either at school or here, the way you didn’t want to see me when I was there, and the way you fought about me.”

My mother claps a hand to her mouth. “You heard us?”

“I’m pretty sure the whole island heard you two debate who wanted to have kids in the first place,” I reply harshly. “You weren’t exactly quiet, and it’s kind of hard for a seven year old girl to sleep when her parents are screaming at each other down the hall.” I take a deep breath and pause, unsure of what to say next. “I know you two try to be good parents, but you made your choices when you split: your work was the top priority. Everything else came second. I marvel at that baby album back in New York sometimes.”

“Why?” my mother asks, puzzled.

“Because in the pictures in that scrapbook, you were the mom that I needed,” I explain, tearing up again. “You wore t-shirts and sweatpants. You didn’t wear makeup every waking second of the day. You put your hair up in a messy ponytail just to keep it out of your face, instead of these fancy up-dos. You weren’t the top Mary Kay seller. You weren’t traveling and speaking at conventions and going to fashion shows every week. You were just happy being my mom.”

Tears are rolling down my mother’s face, smudging her makeup even more. “Sweetheart,” she begins. She stands and pulls me into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I am happy being your mom, but I made a lot of bad decisions that made it seem like I’m not. I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course I can,” I reply, hugging her back. “That’s what families do. They don’t split up. They don’t hate each other. They forgive each other and move on and are stronger.” I pull back and turn to my dad, who stands and looks at me with tears in his eyes.

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t deserve to be called your father. I’ve made some terrible choices and I hope you can see that we really do love you. I’m truly sorry.” He smiles at me tearfully. “You really have grown up, my little surfer girl.”

“Oh, daddy,” I say, the tears in my own eyes finally spilling over. I run into his arms. “I forgive you. And I know you love me. I see that now.”

Pulling back, I am unsure where my family will go from here, but for now, I feel like I’m soaring. The weight my previous rant relieved me of has now been lightened even more. Just when I think it isn’t physically possible to be any happier, the doorbell rings.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, unable to contain my grin as I wipe my eyes. “I have a date.” Grammy bursts into a smile almost as big as mine and my mother smiles. I cross to the foyer and open the door to reveal my very handsome boyfriend, who, like I mentioned before, can do a lot in twenty minutes. He’s cleaned up and is wearing the same red polo he wore for his birthday party, paired with khaki shorts. “Hi,” I greet, still beaming. “I feel underdressed.”

“Hi,” he replies, stepping over the threshold. “You shouldn’t. You make that sweater look prettier than a prom dress. I didn’t have a tuxedo lying around and I couldn’t get one in twenty minutes.” I laugh. Suddenly, I remember my family is standing behind me.

“Oh, Sawyer, you’ve met my grandparents,” I begin. Grammy and Papaw wave. “And these are my parents. Mom, Dad, this is Sawyer.” My father steps forward and holds out his hand. Sawyer shakes it.

“Nice to meet you, son,” he greets. “You can call me Sean.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, sir,” Sawyer returns politely.

“I’m Charlotte,” my mother introduces. “My daughter’s told me a lot about you.”

“Really, now? Has she?” he says, quirking an eyebrow at me. “Well, we’d better be going, but I do have one thing I have to do.” He takes my hand and says “Close your eyes.” I do as he says and follow him, clutching tightly to his hand. He lets go and after a second says “Okay, open them.”

I open my eyes to reveal the board he made for me, completely finished and painted light teal, with beautifully hand-painted red roses down the rails. “Oh, Sawyer, it’s gorgeous,” I breathe, tracing my fingers lightly over the flowers.

“I can’t take credit for the flowers,” he admits. “I painted it teal, but Julia has a knack for detail. She insisted on roses.”

“They’re beautiful,” I compliment. “Thank you.” He takes my hand in his and kisses my cheek.

“A beautiful board for a beautiful girl,” he rationalizes. I laugh and lean my head against his shoulder. “Come on, we should get going. Our movie’s going to start soon.”

“Have fun sweetheart,” Grammy says, waving from the doorway with my mother. I wave back and Sawyer leans the board up against the interior garage wall before climbing into the Jeep.

When I rode in this Jeep for the first time, I never wanted to ride in it again. Now, I couldn’t be happier to be back in it.