Pieces of You(80)

“Claire, it would make me very happy for you to do well in school and not worry so much about this stuff for a while, but you need to do what your heart tells you to do. Don’t listen to an old spinster like me.”

“Jackie, you’re not an old spinster.” I swallow the lump in my throat as I prepare to say the words I’ve wanted to say for fourteen years. “You’re my mom.”

She lets out a soft oh and I give her a minute to collect herself before I say goodbye. I look at the time on my phone before I tuck it into my back pocket and spin around on the barstool. Adam has been gone for over an hour. I’m worried, but also glad that he told me to stay instead of kicking me out. This is a sign that he might be willing to talk this out when he returns. I just wish I knew if that’s what I want.

I slide off the barstool and walk slowly toward the drafting table in the corner of the living room. I slip a set of plans from the bottom of the three-inch stack on the table and lay them on top of the stack.

From my many conversations with Adam, I learned that Myles had two sisters, one older and one younger. His mother was a single parent after Myles’ father left them for a woman twelve years his junior. His father was good at hiding his assets and hardly sent them any child support. His mother moved them into a tiny apartment near Carolina Beach so Myles could continue to surf. He won $800 in that first competition and Myles was so excited when he called his mom to tell her about it. Then hours later all their hope was lost.

If anyone understands the guilt I’ve lived with this past year, it’s Adam. He’s my lifeline and I’m pretty certain that I’m his. But we both gave up on each other. He broke up with me then I ran into Chris’s arms instead of fighting for us. I should have driven the hundred miles to see what kind of surprise Adam left for me in his apartment. But I was afraid I would find something like the locket, something that would be too painful to accept.

I run my fingers over the cool paper of the blueprint and trace the pitched line of the roof. This is the home that Adam wants to build for Myles’ family. He has it all planned out, from the concrete foundation to the flowers in the garden. He may never be able to build it now that he quit his job. Adam’s father will probably empty out his trust fund just as Adam suspected he would. And he did it for me.

I trace my finger over the front door as I think of the first time Adam knocked on my door, the same night he almost ran me over. He brought me the purse I had left in his truck then asked if he could come inside. As much as Adam loves to plan his life, he’s never afraid to take a risk.

I have to find whatever he left for me in his apartment while he was in Hawaii then I’ll leave.

I skim through every page of the blueprints on his desk, thinking maybe he left a message for me hidden in the pages, but I find nothing. I move to the coffee table behind me and my heart drops when I see the tiny black dish no bigger than the palm of my hand with the glossy coconut-scented oil. As nice as Adam’s apartment is, it always smelled a little briny because he likes to air-dry his wetsuit by hanging it over the shower curtain rod. I got him the scented oil so his apartment would smell nice whenever I visited. I thought he would surely get rid of it as soon as I left to UNC.

I dig through the sofa cushions and come up with nothing but a half-eaten Red Vine. He must have interrupted me mid-chew. I heave a deep sigh as I remember the sheer happiness I felt when we were together in this apartment.

After searching the bedroom and the bathroom, I move on to the kitchen. The only cupboard I haven’t looked in is the cupboard above the refrigerator. I grab a chair from the tiny dining table he never uses and stand on top of it to reach the cupboard. As soon as I open the cupboard door, I know I’ve found it.

The cupboard is empty except for a single box of macaroni and cheese.

I grab the box and sit down in the chair, closing my eyes as I remember our first date.



“I have something I need to tell you,” I say as I climb onto the stool. “I meditate.”

“Cool. So do I.”

“You do?”

He dumps the dry pasta into the pot before he answers. “Well, sort of. Whenever I’m stressed or if I can’t make it to the beach to surf, I’ll chill out and do nothing for an hour or so, to clear my head.”

“You’re not supposed to put the pasta in until the water’s boiling.”

“Fuck the rules. How often do you meditate?”

I take a deep breath as I prepare to reveal my secret to this almost-stranger. “A lot. Like, a few times a day.”

“A few times a day? Do the customers at the café stress you out that much?”