"Come on; let's head inside. Becca's waiting," he says. My head twitches at his words and my mouth twists in curiosity. He laughs harder, unhooking our hands and sliding his arm around me as we walk slowly to the front door. "I took a gamble that you'd change your mind. I asked her to come back again yesterday."
"What if I refused to come today?" I ask as he holds the door open for me.
He shrugs.
"Then I'd have her come back the next day until I wore your ass down," he says. I narrow my eyes on him with a smirk. "Truthfully, I knew you would eventually. You're a lion."
"Lioness," I correct.
"Right … see? Quick to correct me. Always right. Always for the win," he says, taking in a deep breath as his eyes fall down to my feet and back up to my face again, as if he's inventorying all of my assets and weaknesses. "Heaven help the soul who gets into a battle with you."
I roll my eyes and smile, but my expression turns more serious when my father walks on ahead of me, thoughts of Wes weighing heavy inside my heart. I inhale and hold the air in my lungs, spreading his spirit throughout my body. The simple act makes me feel stronger. I can't wait to tell him what I've done-when I've made it.
When I'm on top.
Because I will be.
And he'll be waiting.
Nineteen
Summer's End
My body is the sheer, physical form of exhaustion. It has been for months, and it is tonight. I've been working with Becca for the summer-every day, for three hours a day, sometimes more. She broke me down-beyond my injury and leg-to the core of everything I knew about being an athlete. She fine-tuned me-turning me into something more.
I wouldn't have seen the text until morning had it not been for the pain. It comes and goes, and I'm learning to tolerate it more-my muscles in other places all working to support things that I can no longer count on physically. But tonight … tonight my body hurt.
That pain is nothing now. It's barely a memory. It evaporated with the small buzz of my phone in the darkness of my room.
I rolled to my side, reaching for it on the night table, expecting to get some note from Taryn or Kyle about school's start next week, end-of-the-summer parties, or something like that. But instead, it was the familiar flashing dots indicating that someone was writing-Wes was writing, or at least someone with Wes's phone.
My last message to him was sent two months ago. Two words: Thank you. I sent it the day I opened the envelope and found the ticket, and I've carried that small piece of paper with me for every grueling workout, the failures and missteps during my rehabilitation. I've clutched it in my hands through every late-night cry, and I've squeezed it in my palm when I learned to run again. That tiny ticket gives me strength when I need it most.
I'm holding it now.
No words were sent this time, at least not yet. The buzz was for a photo. More accurately, a photo of a photo-my photo … of the peony barely blooming at the start of spring. The image that was just sent to me from Wes's phone is of that picture positioned against the dried and spent bushes of my favorite field. This image is recent-my heart says it was taken hours ago.
Wes is the only one who could have taken it from the classroom-from my display for my presentations. He's the only one who would know where it belongs, the setting-the exact spot along the road.
I need to go.
Kyle was awake when I called. He's been working my shifts along with his at the Gym in an effort to pay the rest of his truck off this summer. I'm going to work there again during the school year, but in the afternoon, and at the front counter. Climbing through the slides is too tricky.
I could hear the question in his voice when I asked him to come to my house, to be quiet when he pulled up, but to leave the motor running. He didn't ask though-he only said to give him five minutes. It's been four, and I see his lights at the end of the street.
I've walked a few houses away from my own, and Kyle's brow is wrinkled with his famous worry lines as he slows to the curb. I rush around to the passenger side and get in, closing the door gently.
"I didn't want to wake my dad up. He'll ask questions … or worry," I say, holding a finger up and circling it in the air. "You're going to need to turn around and leave from that end."
"Yeah … imagine that … asking questions," Kyle jokes, pulling on the wheel and flipping a U-turn in the middle of my street. He glances my way when he rights the truck again, twisting his hat backward on his head. I laugh at it because of what it symbolizes. My father is a baseball traditionalist-you don't wear your hat any way but forward with the brim bent. Kyle's is always flat, and half the time he flips it around. He started doing it as a way to show his solidarity with me, but over the years, it's just become habit and our thing. Whenever we're up to no good, that hat spins around.
Good timing.
"So … do I get to ask any? You know … questions?" he says, his eyes moving from me to the road. He stops at the corner, and I direct him out to the highway.
"Maybe," I say at first. He raises one brow, glancing at me before turning his eyes back to the roadway. "Okay, probably. And I'll fill you in later because I'm going to need you for something big...before school starts. But right now, I just need you to drive down Cotton Lane until it turns into the State Route.
Kyle pulls up to the final stoplight before we turn left, out of the glare of the municipal lights, into the darkness. It's one in the morning, and there isn't another car to be seen, so when the light goes green, he remains still. His arms stretch out as he pushes his back into the seat and his chest fills with a long breath.
"Okay," he says, finally.
I smile, and my grin grows larger as he punches the gas, driving us deep into the night. He doesn't ask any more questions. He won't have to. I'll tell him everything. Kyle is me, and I'm him-he can handle my secrets. He'll respect them.
I twist in my seat and press my hands on his window, dropping one lower to the armrest, feeling around until I find the button to roll it down. I lean my head out, my other hand gripping my hair at the base of my neck, and I shut my eyes for a few seconds, breathing in the scent of the flower fields. Their season is ending, and the fall flowers aren't as sweet. But if I search hard enough-inhale deeply enough-I can still sense the trace left from the spring and summer blossoms.
"Here," I say, leaning back inside the cab.
I roll the window up while Kyle pulls to the side of the road. He shifts the truck into park, but leaves it running, the lights on for our benefit as we both step out into the field. I move close to the small ravine of the canal, and Kyle quickly grips my arm, helping me find my balance so I can jump across. I've learned to let people help me sometimes.
We both trudge through the dead bushes, many of them ground up from a recent tractor pull. The dirt is still wet on top, and the lines dug between the rows of plants are still fresh-this happened tonight, after the picture was taken.
I panic at the thought that the photo-my clue-could be gone, ground up in the blades of a John Deere or pushed into the earth to make compost for the next season. My eyes dart wildly as I kneel down for a better view.
"What are you looking for, JJ?" Kyle says, his feet stopping just behind me.
"Something … a sign. I … I don't know. I'll know it when I see it," I say. I hear him sigh heavily through his nose, and I know he's worried and confused. But I can't explain it until I know for sure-I need to see it.
I lean forward, my palms against the dirt, and slowly lower myself to the ground.
"Here," Kyle says, pulling his shirt from his body, handing it to me. "You'll get dirty."
I take it from him, laying it down beneath my ribs, my left arm folded under my head and my cheek pressed flat against it. I smile at the memory of the last time I laid like this.
"Turn your lights off. Just for a minute," I say. After a second or two, Kyle walks back to the truck, flipping the switch until the fields are bathed in nothing but moonlight again.
It takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust, but when they do, I can see the silhouette of the ground in every direction. I begin at the top and slowly scan down, disappointment growing the farther along the field my eyes roam. And then, there it is-the corner of the photo jutting up like a late bloom from the peony plant.
I rush to stand, dusting off my body and tossing Kyle his shirt. My legs move quickly a few rows in, and I bend at the waist, my fingers pausing briefly before grasping the photo.
My pulse quickens as I pull the photo into view. It's mine-the one I took. The small glue dots dried on every corner; I feel them with my fingers.