"There're people who will tell you to get the hell out of the swamp while you can, b'fore you get stuck, but I happen to like being stuck," she says, popping a grape into her mouth. "Seems better than having wandering feet, always taking you places, never laying down roots."
It feels good to know that someone else understands. The swamp is both of our homes.
"Whatever happened to Brody?" Jorie asks, out of the blue.
I shrug. "We're friends. Nothing more."
"Brody's nice," she says. "You know you'll never make a nice boy out of Beau."
"I don't think I want a nice boy," I reply honestly. "I think when you find the boy who makes you feel like you're wearing your skin backward, who turns you inside out and heats your blood and sets you on fire with want, it doesn't much matter."
Jorie sighs heavily. "I just want you to be happy. I don't think there's a chance that Beau won't hurt you. You're setting yourself up for it."
Maybe I am, but I can't stop now.
"You're a good friend, Jorie," I say. "You really are."
Something flashes in her eyes, an emotion gone too quickly for me to name it.
"I'm still gonna warn you away from him. You know that, right? I probably always will."
"Because you think he's dangerous," I say.
"Because I know he breaks hearts, and you aren't set up to handle something like that."
"What's that supposed to mean, that I'm not set up?"
I try to keep the edge out of my voice, but for a second there it sounded like she was saying I'm not strong.
"Don't take it the wrong way." She lays a gentle hand on my arm. "You know I care what happens to you, and I think you're getting in deep with Beau. At first, I figured you'd be like the rest. He'd use you and toss you aside, because that's what he does. But it's been different with you. He's not backing off right away. I think it'll make everything harder when he finally does."
"So you're trying to tell me that I shouldn't see him anymore? That I should end things with him?"
"Better you breaking it off with him than him hurting you."
Isn't that the exact philosophy that made Beau so guarded in the first place? The one that kept him from opening up and truly feeling something deep? I don't want that kind of darkness. I prefer to feel emotions, even if they do hurt. I want to love and be loved. The risk is worth it to me. It will always be worth it.
"Says who?" I ask. "If you're happy with a person, why end it?"
"Because you won't be happy for long."
"But I'm happy now."
Jorie leans back into the tree, taking her touch with her. "I'm just saying that you are my friend, and as your friend, I want to encourage you to be happy and healthy."
"And Beau's not healthy?"
I'm getting defensive. I can't seem to help it.
"He's Beau, Willow. What do you expect? He uses girls. You are filling a use for him now, but what about later?"
She's wrong. I'm more than a spot to fill.
"Stop," I say. "Please."
She frowns. "See how much you like him now? See how much it pains you to think about splitting from him? Imagine how much worse it'd be in another month or two."
This was supposed to be a nice breakfast. Sit in the swamp and watch the sun take steps up the sky until it is as high as it can go. My best friend wasn't supposed to discourage me from being with the boy who makes me feel more alive than ever.
"Willow, listen. I just don't want to see you wrecked like the others."
I look steadily at Jorie. At her messy hair and wide eyes and relaxed body, legs crossed at the ankles, skin pressed into the Georgia dirt.
"I know," I say. "I'm sorry. I'm just defensive because it's Beau."
"Think about what I'm saying, okay? Try to get away while you still can."
I don't want to get away. I suppose, being my friend, she needs to say it. But then again, if she knows I'm all in, why try to call me out?
"Promise me that you'll try," she says.
I can't promise her such a thing.
"Jorie," I plead.
She waits for words that will not come.
"You won't do it, will you?" she asks.
"I can't," I admit. "There are things you don't understand. I know you want to look out for me, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate that, but there's more to Beau than what everyone else sees."
"And you see these things that are more?" she asks.
"I do."
"Tell me about them," she says. "Maybe then I'll better understand."
It's a request I can't grant. "Don't take this the wrong way, but it's sort of his story to tell, you know?"
She absolutely takes it the wrong way. Suddenly, she's stiff, and her look is hurt.
"I'm your friend, Willow. You're saying you can't tell me?"
It's not right for me to discuss his parents, the losses he has sustained, and why he's so guarded.
"I'm saying it's not my place. Surely you understand that."
But she doesn't.
She grows quiet.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
The once delicious food turns sour in my stomach. I have to choose between my best friend and my boyfriend. Between stories that are not mine to tell and requests to tell them. So I keep quiet and let the silence stretch between us.
36
Beau
"It's been a week already," Grandpa says. "I think I'm out of time."
But it's not his voice anymore. Now, he whispers, and even that is an effort. He's not eating, and he swears it won't be much longer.
In the next room, I hear the television. On my insistence, Charlotte has taken a break from her constant vigil at Grandpa's side. She needed a shower, a meal, a rest from her own mind.
"Ready for that goodbye yet?" Grandpa asks.
He bursts into a coughing fit that cuts off any remaining words. I wait patiently. When he finally stills, I help him wipe a dribble of blood from his chin.
"He's okay!" I say as I hear Charlotte's feet on the ground. "You come back in here and I'll lock you out, so help me."
I suppose another reason I don't want Charlotte in the room when it happens-when Grandpa finally goes-is because I know her, and she won't take well to seeing him pass. Afterward, yes. But the final moments are not meant for her, and she knows it.
There's a pause, and then Charlotte's footsteps retreat.
Grandpa smiles. I'm sure going to miss his grins at the banter between my sister and me.
"I guess I could do that goodbye," I say, mustering every ounce of bravery I own.
I've brought Grandpa his Sunday paper and a cup of coffee, though it remains on his bedside table, untouched. I dread the tradition coming to an end, but I know it inevitably will with his passing.
"I don't want to, though, you know," I say.
"I know."
Grandpa's breaths are worse than I've ever heard them, and this time I believe him when he says he won't see another morning.
"I wish you would have told me about the cancer. I wish I would have had more time with you," I say.
That's about as close to a goodbye as I'll ever give. I'm no good at goodbyes. I never wanted to have to say another one.
"It's the same amount of time, either way. Telling you hasn't increased my days, so don't beat yourself up. Move on afterward. Live life and be free, full of fun and mischief. Don't let my sickness drag you down. Your days are numbered, too, you know. All of ours are. Spend them happily. And please make sure your sister moves on. She deserves every moment of happiness that comes her way. Don't let my death rob that from either of you, you hear me?"
I do, but it'll take time. He must know it won't be easy.
"Remember what I said about"-he stops to cough-"letting the swamp have me."
I nod, hating the thought.
"One more thing, though." His breaths are shallow. "Tell Virginia that I love her. Always have. Always will." He smiles. "And tell her to stop feeding those gators, already."
"Now, you know I can't do that," I reply. "I'd be at risk of her wrath, and I'm not inclined to have her tell me off for this love of yours."
That's when Grandpa laughs for the very last time.
…
Grandpa was right.
Come evening, he's gone. There as can be in flesh and bone, but gone. I watch for the rise and fall of his chest. It never comes. I check for a pulse. But there isn't one.
"Charlotte!" I say.
My sister bursts into the room.
"Did he … ?"
She looks down and sees for herself.
I lean toward Grandpa's ear and whisper one final word before I call the ambulance to take him away.
"Goodbye."
37
Willow
"You always did say that the brightest light casts the darkest shadow."
Gran eyes me suspiciously. The porch swing groans under both our weights, moving so slowly that the source of the rocking could be confused with the wind and not the occasional tap of my foot against the wooden floor to push us.
"Since when do you agree with any of my sayings?" she asks.