A Risk Worth Taking (28 page)

Summer

“Don't cry
because it's over, smile because it happened.”
—Dr. Seuss

The
ringing of my phone was nothing short of a siren’s call. I had no doubt that if
I answered, the conversation would eat away at my guts. And if I ignored it,
the result would still be the same. I took a steadying breath and willed my
voice to sound normal, unconcerned, carefree even.
Okay, don’t get carried
away.

“Hello?”
I said.

“Hey,”
said Ford.

The
sound of his voice was a punch to the solar plexus. I couldn’t breathe. All of
my coolness evaporated. “Hey.” My response came out sounding like I’d just
thrown up. It was a distinct possibility right now.

“Are
you busy?”

“No.
Uh, I can talk.” I hit the button on my computer, shutting it down. I couldn’t
think, much less pretend to work while I talked to him.

“Good.”
A beat of silence and then, “How is the numbers business?”

“Dad
still likes to write checks from the wrong account. Keeps me on my toes.”

He
chuckled.

“How
are you?” My heart pounded in anticipation of his answer. Was he great? That
would suck. Was he miserable? Part of me wished he was. But a small voice in my
head wanted him to be happy, no matter the cost to me.

“I’m
… settling in,” he said, a strange note in his words.

“Has
it snowed yet?”

“A
few times. I went sledding yesterday.”

A
pang of sadness hit me. He’d made a memory without me. That knowledge was like
a fresh cut. “Sound like fun,” I managed. I couldn’t take much more of this.
Why was he calling? We’d had a deal.

“I
have a question for you,” he said almost immediately.

“Okay.”

“Do
you believe in an afterlife?”

I
paused, the sob in my throat dying away in favor of confusion. “We haven’t
spoken in six weeks and you’re calling to ask me if I believe in ghosts?”

“I’m
calling to ask if you believe in a life after this one.”

“Why?”

“Just
answer the question.”

“I
believe … we go somewhere, yes.”

“And
is that place probably based on our actions here on Earth?”

“I
think so.”

“Like
karma?”

“Yeah,
I guess. What is this about, Ford?” My frustration was evident now. Of all the
things to call me and talk about—

“I’ve
been thinking a lot about you and I—”

“You
have?” I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting or from being furious about the
direction of this entire conversation.

“Is
that so hard to believe?” he asked quietly.

“Well.
Yes. Six weeks without a peep and you want me to believe you’re up there
thinking deep thoughts about me? About us?”

“You
told me not to call. I tried, I swear to God, I tried. But you’re all I think
about,” he admitted.

Maybe
it was his honesty, but I couldn’t continue to yell. Not after he’d said that.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “You’re all I think about too,” I whispered.

“I’m
sorry.”

“For
what?”

“Everything.”

I
bit my lip to hold the tears away, at least until I could hang up. In that
moment, I understood. He wasn’t calling to say he wanted me back. He was
calling to make amends for hurting me. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t apologize. I
wouldn’t take any of it back. Not a single day.”

“No
regrets?”

“None.”

“You’re
amazing, Summer Stafford.”

I
sighed. “That’s what I hear.”

We
made small talk after that. It hurt so deep inside my gut I knew it’d never
fully heal. Not just losing him, but having to shelve him in a part of my life
that required small talk. What I felt for Ford O’Neal should’ve never been
reduced to meaningless chit chat. But here we were. And I let him—because I
knew that’s what he needed.

He
told me about his plants, the ones that’d made it and the ones that hadn’t. I
told him about my mom and how we were experiencing life as an
adventure—together. He laughed when I told him about our most recent
experience.

“You
seriously drank all six beers right there on the fifty yard line of Grayson
High School?” Ford asked. “And no one called the cops?”

“Well,
I personally only drank three. Mom drank the other three. And who’s going to
call the cops? Anyone else out there that time of night is just another
delinquent looking for a place to drink.”

“You
realize you just referred to you and your mother as delinquents.”

“Yeah,
that’s another item on the list.”

We
both laughed. It felt good. And it broke my heart.

“Listen,
I better get going. I have to close up before this storm hits or I won’t make it
out of here tonight,” he said.

My
smile died. “Yeah, sure.”

“It
was great to hear your voice, Summer.”

“You
take care of yourself up there. Wear a hat.”

“We’ll
talk soon.”

I
wasn’t sure if he meant it but I let it pass and nodded even though he couldn’t
see me; I didn’t trust my voice.

“Bye,”
he said.

“Bye,”
I whispered back.

I
disconnected and sat, my feet still tucked underneath me in the desk chair. I
didn’t get up or move for a long time.

He
sounded good. Happy. No, content. It’s all I wanted for him. If it couldn’t be
me that gave it to him, at least he’d found it. I told myself that’s what
mattered. His happiness. No matter where it took him.

And
then, with methodical movement, I lay my head down on my desk, and I cried.

Summer

“Love and life
belongs to great risk.”

—Chuck
Palahniuk

Down
the hall, a chair scraped across the floor followed by Mazie calling, “Summer!”

I
looked up from my computer, scowling as my concentration was broken for the
millionth time this week. Just when I’d begun to reach a place of focus
again—at least when it came to work—Mazie had taken it upon herself to cheer me
up. Or at least that’s what she seemed to think she was doing. In reality, it
amounted to her calling me into the kitchen every five minutes to ask me
something stupid about the Thanksgiving dinner she was preparing for the end of
the week.

The
entire crew and their families had been invited. Our dining room was big, but
it wasn’t that big. I wasn’t sure how everyone was going to fit, but Mazie had
accepted the challenge with determination. Probably for the same reason my dad
had invited them—for me.

I
hadn’t argued. That would take more effort than just accepting the fact that
the entire town had decided they were going to do their part in the “make
Summer better” campaign. Rule number one, don’t talk about
him
. Even
Leslie had been careful not to ask about him, including whether he’d called or
written. Which, other than that one train wreck of a phone call, he hadn’t. So
I guess not bringing it up was the safest.

In
my better moments, I’d started to convince myself the gift of those few months
wasn’t necessarily Ford but the idea of him. During our time together, I’d
learned just as much about myself as I had about him. Maybe more. Never again
would I make a life decision based on the picture of marriage or career or
family that my parents had unwittingly created. My life wasn’t a carbon copy
and I shouldn’t try to make it one. My life and my choices were my own. I was
the only one who could create my happiness. And I wouldn’t settle for less than
that ever again.

And
then the sadness would take over and there was no pushing aside the fact that
I’d lost the one person who’d made me realize love was about holding on to the
things that made you happy. Regardless of plans or fears or uncertainties. Like
I’d told him all those months ago, it was a risk. In this case, the risk hadn’t
paid off after all.

“Summer,”
Mazie called again, “can you come here?”

I
sighed and slid my feet back into my shoes before heading to the kitchen. The
heels made a
click-click
sound against the hardwood and drowned out the
voices I heard as I got close. One was Mazie’s high-pitched lilt. Her Greek
accent was always prevalent but more so when she got excited, like now.
Whatever she was talking about had her talking fast, making her even harder to
understand. The other voice was low and male. Dad or Casey, probably. Caught up
in her latest scheme for seating arrangements. She’d moved the tables no less
than six times already.

I
rounded the corner, my mouth open and ready to spout some excuse as to why I
couldn’t help carry chairs from room to room. Again.

When
I caught sight of Mazie’s guest, I stilled. Every single nerve ending in my
body stood on end, somehow numb and on fire all at once. He looked up, locking
eyes with me across the room. Mazie trailed off and glanced over her shoulder.
I caught the smile as she turned back, but I couldn’t make myself look away
from him.

“Hello,
Summer,” Ford said, breaking the silence.

The
sound that came from my open mouth was a strangled croak.

“I
better check on the … the thing in the other room,” Mazie said.

She
hurried out. Neither one of us responded or watched her go. That would require
tearing our gaze away from each other, something I, for one, couldn’t bring
myself to do. He seemed just as intent.

The
air fled from the room. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. The questions
running through my mind—Why was he here? And why hadn’t he called? And how long
was he staying? And how would I ever say goodbye twice and recover from
it?—were paralyzing enough without adding to it the sight of him in my kitchen.

He
looked the same but better, if that was possible. His cheeks were pink and his
hair windblown, as if he’d arrived in a hurry. He hadn’t shaved in a few days;
I could see the stubble from here. That, combined with the steel in his eyes,
made him look rugged to the point of dangerous. My body didn’t know whether to
be terrified or excited. I’d never wanted him more than I did in this moment.
And not just sex but all of him, all the way through to his soul. Every part of
me, inside and out, ached to be in his arms. To never separate myself from him
again.

For
that reason, when he rose from his chair, I took a step back. He frowned but
let it pass without comment. “How are you?” he asked instead. The words were
weighted much more than a casual inquiry required. I knew how much my answer
mattered, but I couldn’t bring myself to let the pain show. Not yet. It felt
too one-sided.

“I’m
good,” I said with enough forced cheer that he winced. I needed to do something
besides stand here like an idiot. “How are you?” I added, walking to the
coffeepot. Halfway there, I realized it was empty. I glanced at the clock.
Shit, it was after four. Of course Mazie had emptied it.

I
veered to the fridge and opened it, pretending to be completely immersed in
picking a drink. I waited for him to answer me, but he didn’t. Finally, I
grabbed a soda and shut the door. It slammed, bouncing before catching the seal
as it shut.

Ford
was already there in front of me, filling the space. “Can we talk?”

“Sure.”
I cracked the top on the soda and took a swig, almost choking as I swallowed
too much too fast.  Real smooth, Summer.

He
glanced around. “Somewhere  more … private?”

“We’re
already alone,” I pointed out, gesturing around the empty kitchen with my free
hand. My voice held more attitude than I’d intended but it was better than
breaking down. And I was determined to show him I was fine. That I’d survived
the damage.

“Right,”
he said.

The
silence between us went from strained to awkward. I stared at the soda can in
my hand, unable to bring myself to look at his face. His smell rattled me
enough. It was achingly familiar and yet strangely foreign after all these
weeks apart. It didn’t belong in my kitchen anymore.

“Summer,”
he said gently.

I
met his eyes reluctantly. “Yes?”

He
exhaled, his shoulders sagging but still set. He seemed determined to say …
something. “I’m such a horse’s ass.”

I
blinked. Not what I’d been expecting. Not untrue either. “Go on,” I said.

He
smiled wryly, my reaction seeming to give him courage and he went on. “I’ve
thought about you every second of every day since I left. Your face is all I
see when I close my eyes and … my imagination didn’t do it justice. You’re
beautiful.”

My
heart softened another degree. I set the soda can aside and tightened my arms
over my chest. “Thanks. I missed you too.”
You look sexy as hell in your
ratty jeans and five o’clock shadow. Were you cold in South Dakota? Because I’d
be happy to warm you right up.

I
couldn’t say that out loud. Not until I knew what the bottom line was. “How
long are you here for?”

He
shook his head. “I’m not doing this right,” he muttered.

“Doing
what right?”

When
he looked back at me, his eyes were pleading, bare, full of raw emotion. I
couldn’t understand what he wanted from me until he said, “I ended the project
in Dakota. I’m not going back.”

My
heart stopped and started again, double time. “Oh. Where are you going?” I
asked carefully.

“I’m
already there.”

When
I didn’t respond, he took my elbow and led me to the window and pointed.
“Look,” he said. Darla was parked out front, loaded down with a bed full of
suitcases and supplies.

My
eyes brimmed with tears. I opened my mouth, closed it again. It’s exactly what
I wanted him to say from the moment I’d asked him to stay. But he’d said no.
What was different now? And what was keeping him here? Not me. Or he never
would’ve gone.

“But
you left,” I said, the words coming out on a whisper. If I used my voice, the
tears would spill over. It was all I could do to blink them back.

“I
think … God, this makes me sound like an ass, but I think I had to leave to
understand I should’ve stayed. Does that make any sense?”

I
nodded slowly, because despite the hurt it’d caused to watch him walk away, I
knew Ford. And what he’d just said made every kind of sense. For him. Still, I
couldn’t simply accept … What was he offering, anyway? “So, you’re moving back
to Grayson?” I asked.

“Yes.
Casey offered me my old room. I’d like my greenhouse back, if it’s still
available.”

“And
if it’s not?” I stuck out my chin. “Would you still stay?”

It
wasn’t so much hesitation as nervousness that had him nodding extra slowly.
“Yes. I’d stay no matter what.”

“Why?”

“Because
this is where I belong.”

His
words found their way into my heart and butted against the hard exterior I’d
constructed these past weeks. I refused to let them break the wall completely.
“What about your dream to travel and experience the world without someone to
tie you down?”

“I
did that. You know, someone wise once told me it’s okay to dream a new dream.”

“And
someone wise once told me that you were terrified of me, of this being your
dream,” I said.

“They
weren’t wrong back then,” he admitted.

“And
now?”

“Now,
I’m terrified of being without you. And I guess I hoped …”

“You
hoped what?”

“That
you’ve been just as miserable as I have, because then you’ll say yes.”

“To
what? What are you asking me?”

“I’m
asking you to forgive me for leaving. I’m asking you to take me back. To do
this, us. For real, forever.”

The
last word rang out in my head like an echo. It was the f-word. Something Ford
O’Neal didn’t say. “You realize you just said forever, right?”

He
ran a hand through his hair, now shaggy around his ears. “This was supposed to
be easier. Casey said—”

“Casey
said what? That I was sad and lonely and at the sight of you I’d fling myself
into your arms and you wouldn’t have to say a word?”

“Well,
when you put it like that—”

I
cut him off, the anger I’d used as a barrier against the pain bubbling and
finally overflowing. “You left, Ford. I opened myself up to you, felt things
I’d never felt before, put my feelings on the line. I asked you to stay and you
still left. I thought you were gone for good and I dealt with it and picked
myself back up. Tried to move on. And now you’re standing here saying all the
things I want to hear but what if you change your mind again? I can’t say
goodbye twice. I won’t.”

By
the time I finished, tears ran freely down my cheeks. I didn’t bother wiping
them away. They were sad and happy and all kinds of confused and I was done
holding them back.

Ford
stepped forward and brushed a tear from my cheek, letting his thumb linger on
my skin. I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek into his palm, enjoying the feel
of his touch.

Standing
there, with my face in his hand, I realized what I’d just said was a lie. I’d
decided months ago to love freely. And that meant not throwing away a single
chance at happiness. Even if there was no guarantee it would last. Even if it
scared me.

“I’ve
done a shitty job at telling you how I feel,” he said. “I’ve only recently
realized it myself.”

“And
what did you realize?” I asked, looking up at him through wet lashes.

“How
deep this goes. You’re in my bones, my soul. I couldn’t get you out even when I
tried. It’s more intense than anything I’ve ever felt. You make me want to
write poetry and shout it from rooftops. You make me want to do the impossible
and when you stare at me like that, I feel without a doubt capable of it. You
make me feel like I’m dreaming while I’m awake. It was hard for me to admit.
For a while, it scared the hell out of me.”

I
nodded. I knew what it felt like to fear the falling. “What were you so afraid
of?”

“I
don’t know. Everything. The future, I guess. Committing to it. Where this will
go, how long it will last.” His eyes held mine, silently pleading for understanding.
For reassurance. I swallowed hard.

“I
thought I could push you aside,” he went on, “but I was wrong. Just the idea of
trying makes my chest hurt. Thought I was having a heart attack. The idea of
being without you, of removing you from my life,
is
a heart attack.

“Yes,
it scares me to think of the future, to make a plan and to build expectations.
I didn’t think I wanted that. But then, I hadn’t met you. I’m sorry I’ve been
back and forth. I’m sorry I made you sad.”