Coast (Kick Push Book 2) (The Road 3) (38 page)

People clap.

People cheer.

People chant my grandmother’s name.

Mavis laughs, her arms waving in the air as if to work up the crowd. “Your grams was a thousand shades of crazy, Becca,” she shouts. “And we loved every single one.”

*     *     *

“He finally went
down,” Josh says through a sigh, walking into his bedroom while tugging at his tie.

I sit with my legs crossed in the middle of the bed, already changed out of my black dress and into one of his t-shirts. “I can’t believe he’s not exhausted,” I sign.

Josh sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched. “I know.” He removes his tie completely and unceremoniously dumps it on the floor. Then he just stares at it. Moments pass before he turns to me. “I’m so beat.”

I scoot on my knees until I’m next to him and start to undo the buttons on his shirtsleeve.

“It’s going to be strange,” he mumbles, his free hand stroking my leg, “coming home and not racing up her porch steps, excited to see her.” He rubs his eyes, not to rid the tears, but to fight the exhaustion. Inhaling deeply, he stands up and starts stripping out of his clothes until he’s standing in his boxers. I watch, because there’s too much beauty in his presence to look away.
I seriously could watch him forever
. But I don’t have forever. I have the next two days until I go back home and back to the internship, back to double sessions with Dawn three days a week. And Josh goes back to work, all while the world continues to spin with one less wonder in its population.

I move to the top of the bed, lean against the headboard, and pat my lap, returning the smile he offers me before he lies down, his head where I wanted it, his eyes on me.

I stroke his hair with one hand and type on the phone with the other.

“Did you pay for all those people to come from St. Louis?”

Josh shakes his head slowly. “Does it matter?”

He did pay, but he’s also right. It doesn’t matter at all.

“Will you tell me about her?”
I ask.

His brow creases. “About your Grams?”

I nod, still stroking his hair.
“I feel like I don’t know her… not like I should. And by the time I realized that and wanted to ask, it was too late. She’d didn’t really know herself anymore.”

He stares blankly at the ceiling. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything, really,”
I have Cordy say.
“Like, what did she do for work?”

His head lifts a little, as if surprised by my question. “She was a nurse,” he says after a beat.

“Really?” I mouth.

“You didn’t know that?”

I shake my head, trying to imagine Grams in a life before my time.
“Tell me more.”

Josh’s lips curl at the corners. “You know what…” he says, sitting up. “I can do one better.”

After slipping on
a pair of shorts and handing me a pair, Josh checks in on Tommy, and then leads me down his apartment stairs and toward his garage.

He starts moving boxes around, and I do the same, though I have no idea what I’m looking for. “So I was in here the other day and remembered what you said—about handing out the clothes and shoes at the shelter.” He drops one on the floor and turns to me, his hands on his hips.

“Sorry. We got a little carried away,” I sign.

He shakes his head. “No, I was actually thinking that we should do that. My mom—she runs the charity side of the business—the Henry Warden Foundation—maybe we could make it a thing, you know? We could do something under Chaz’s name. Maybe get some sponsors involved.”

“Grams would love that,” I sign. “And I’d love to be a part of it… if your mom’s okay with it.”

“Oh man, my mom would flip if you joined her on it.” He kicks a box out of the way so he can get to me. “My mom loves you, Becs. She loves you as if you were her own. You know that, right?”

I didn’t know that. Not until he said it. But then again, I’m not really sure what a mother’s love is supposed to feel like. Still, I find myself smiling up at him with yet another lump in my throat.

“You’re so cute.” He the mess of hair on my head. Then he spins on his heels and continues to search through boxes while I stand there, wondering if I’m worthy of his mother’s love.

“Here it is,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts. After grabbing the cardboard box from the top shelf and placing it carefully on top of a pile of shoes, he points to it. “Open it.”

I bite down on my lip as I lift the flaps, one after the other, treating it like treasure.

Albums.

Photo albums.

A whole pile of them.

All dated.

“Maybe you can find more about her in those,” he says, his voice quiet.

I pick up the first one and flip the solid red cover with 1986 scrawled on the top. The first picture is of Grams with two other women. She would’ve been in her mid-thirties. They’re sitting on a bench, all in the same nurse’s uniform.

“I told her I’d convert them to digital and store them in the Cloud for her—in case there was ever a fire or something,” Josh says, and I look up at him. He shrugs, his eyes distant. “I guess I never got around to it.” After a beat, he clears his throat, his gaze moving to mine. “Maybe you can make a timeline of her life from all of them. Plus, we have the Internet, maybe we can find more there?”

*     *     *

Josh falls asleep
on his stomach, his hand resting on my leg, while I sit up in his bed, surrounded by pictures of my grandmother captured in moments that make me question life.

—Joshua—

Four months later.

“I
t was hell,”
Becca signs. “Remind me to never go shopping with Dad again.”

I smile at the sight of her through my computer screen.

She rolls her eyes, a trait that annoys me on most people but is hot on her. Crazy, I know, but it’s those damn eyes. “How much did he try to get off this time?” I ask.

“Half,” she signs, throwing in another eye roll. “I was so embarrassed.”

“He’s just trying to get a good deal. I still don’t know why you won’t just let me buy you a new camera. You’re a photography student, babe. How are you even managing classes right now?”

“I’m borrowing equipment, and that’s kind of the reason I called.”

“It is?” I ask, a grinning from ear to ear. “You’re going to let me buy it?”

“I have enough money saved for the body and a couple lenses, but…” She pouts into the screen. “I can pay you back in a couple weeks.”

I lean forward so I can reach the keyboard, and send her my Amazon account and password. “Just get whatever you need and save your money,” I tell her. “And don’t worry. I’ll find ways for you to pay me back.”

“You’re dirty,” she signs, her nose scrunched in disgust.

“No!” I shake my head quickly. “I don’t know where your mind went, but I was thinking more along the lines of giving me some of those pieces you’re selling on Instagram.”

“Oh,” she mouths, her gaze lowering.

“Filthy girl.”

Shrugging, she looks back up, her emerald eyes bright against the screen’s reflection. “I could do other things, too. I miss you… in that way. Touching you and making you—”

“Stop!” I almost shout. “Ry and Chris are in the room.”

She laughs, silent but there. “They can’t hear me, idiot!”

“Oh yeah.” I’d gotten so used to communicating via ASL that sometimes I forget others don’t hear or understand her. Still, I find myself leaning closer, using my arms to shield the screen, before saying, “Making me what?”

She licks her lips.
God, I miss her lips.

“Wait. I have to ask you something else,” she signs.

“Okay. But first tell me what you were going to say,” I rush out. “Make me what?”

“Make you come, dickhead!” Ry shouts. “Touching you and making you come!”

Chris laughs.

Becca’s eyes widen. “How?” she mouths.

Ry gets up and into the shot, his hands moving faster than mine do. He speaks as he signs, “My best friend’s deaf. I’ve signed almost all my life. And by the way, your conversations are lame.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” I tell Ry, pushing him toward the door. He chuckles to himself as he gathers his shit from my room. A moment later, the door closes.

“Did you not know?” Becca signs, her eyes huge.

“Swear it, babe. I had no idea. What were you going to ask?”

She points down to her keyboard, and I nod, adjusting the program so I can see what she’s typing.

Remember the Fine House Award I got nominated for?

“Of course I remember.”

I made it to the finals.

A slow smile spreads across my face. “That’s awesome, baby. I’m so happy for you. You deserve it.”

Thank you.

“So what now? We wait to see if you’ve won?”

She bites down on her lip, preventing her grin from fully forming.
I did win.

“Shut up!” I shout. “That’s amazing! I knew you would!” My words are rushed and loud and now Chris is behind me, looking at the screen, wondering what the hell is happening. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Becs. Holy shit!” I can see her laughing at my reaction, but I don’t care. I’m excited. Maybe too excited. But she deserves this so much and it’s about fucking time she had something good happen to her.

She types,
So I guess there’s this fancy dinner coming up where they hand me an award and pass over one of those huge checks and I make a “speech” and I know it’s really late notice because it’s happening in two weeks, and this might possibly be the longest run-on sentence in the history of the world, but it would mean a lot to me if you were able to make it as my date. I just really want you there but I understand if you can’t because you have so much going on right now.

I sit higher. “What’s the date?”

It’s two Fridays from now.

Chris is already on his phone, no doubt checking his calendar and when his gaze lifts and his eyes meet mine, I know it’s not good.

“Can I call you back real quick?” I ask Becca. “I just need to go over some stuff with Chris.”

“Okay,” she signs. Then types,
If you can’t make it, I understand. Honestly. I don’t want you to feel bad.

“I’ll call you back.”

As soon as my laptop’s shut, Chris says, “It’s the Teen Choice Awards. You’re presenting an award. You have to be there.”

I grunt in frustration, and look up at him, hoping he can see the plea in my eyes. “I know that I’ve asked a lot from you lately, especially with the whole Chaz thing—”

“Don’t do that, Josh. Don’t use her to guilt me—”

“I’m not,” I say, my hands up between us. “It’s just that I need to make this happen. For Becca. And for me. Chris,”—I grasp his shirt so he knows how serious I am—“It’s time…”

—Becca—

I stare at
the picture of my grandmother, her head tilted back, her hands and forearms covered in white silk gloves, one of them holding the hand of a mystery man as they pause their dancing so the photograph can be taken. The year on the album had her at twenty-two in this picture. Around the same age as me. The dress she wore was black, high collar, flowy skirt, white buttons down the middle. It was simple and elegant and beautiful, just like her. I found the dress in a box in the back of the closet—it’s condition as perfect as it was in the picture.

Both the dress and the gloves look better on her than they do on me, but I don’t mind. The point isn’t to look good, it’s to remember that she’s with me, tonight and all the nights after.

“The speech is perfect,” Dad says, walking into my room with his brand new tux, the sleeves and pant leg a tad short, but it’s hard to find something for his stature that doesn’t come with a tailor-made price tag.

I take the piece of paper from him and fold it, placing it in my purse, along with the photograph of grams, before standing from my desk chair and going to him. “You look so handsome,” I sign. I pat down the collar of his jacket. “Thank you for leaving work early and coming tonight. It means so much.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he says, his voice soft and sweet, a complete contrast to his usual tone. “Besides, I missed all your special nights. All those dances and proms… so I’m going to make you dance with me. I hope you know that.”