Rewind to You (10 page)

I pull a loose strand of hair away from her face. Drag my fingers through her hair. “How come?”

She tilts her head into the palm of my hand, breathing in deep. “I was looking for a silver dollar.”

“You lost one?”

She smiles and sinks back into the cushion next to me. Real close. “Not really. The first time I went to River Street as a little girl, my dad and I found a silver dollar on the sidewalk, and, I don’t know, somehow I thought maybe I’d find another one. Silly, I know.”

I rest my arm against hers. “Sorry you didn’t find one.”

Our gazes meet.

She tucks her lower lip between her teeth in a flirty little smile before looking away, evading eye contact. “I found something better.”

I let my fingers slide in between hers, our hands molding together. “You found pralines?”

She leans against my arm, laughing. I’m definitely digging this. It’s pretty incredible, being this close, her fingers tangled up in mine. Makes me want to wrap my arms around her and try out that ChapStick after all. My way. I lean over to do just that when a snort from Mr. Saunders sends us both jumping.

“Oh, my gosh!” Sienna pants. We whirl around and find Mr. Saunders sawing logs, his newspaper sprawled over his stomach. Somehow I completely forgot that Sienna and I aren’t alone. Saunders settles back into a rhythmic pattern of snoring.

“Hopefully no cargo ships cruise into us,” I say.

We both chuckle and settle back down. Sienna rests her head on my shoulder. I chicken out on kissing her, but I tell myself there is time, that something this good can last forever.

CHAPTER 13

Sienna

S
aunders only has two parting words as Austin and I head down the dock. “Go, Gators!”

Super random. Austin waves back, and before long we’re straddling his motorcycle for the ride home. This time I wrap my arms around him real tight and enjoy the ride. I point the way to the beach house and we arrive all too soon. Austin’s eyes dart to the beach house several times, no doubt taking in the sheer size and the location right on the beach. I’m about to run inside before my mom sees him, but Austin starts walking me to the door. I fall in step beside him.

“I had a fun time tonight,” I say when we reach the porch, but the phrase sounds overused. Any nice girl would say that to a guy who’d doted on her like Austin has.

I didn’t exactly give him an answer about whether I’m serious with Kyle. I also didn’t mention the part about me and Kyle going to college together.

“I had fun, too,” Austin replies. We’re standing on the porch, the wood creaking with any shift of weight.

His eyes look like they’re made from the ocean, and they’re sucking me in. From his jawline to his chin to every other feature, this guy is hot. My eyes trace his lips for the hundredth time tonight, and I actually grip the door handle for support.

“Thanks again,” I say.

I twist the knob, but his hand flies to the doorframe before I can open the door. I turn and find I’m trapped. I’m pinned (but not complaining). And he’s leaning in. My heart pounds against my chest.

“Are you going to date other guys?”

“
What?
”

He takes a deep breath and exhales, holding my gaze. He smiles, that perfect smile that could make a girl say whatever he wants. “Are you going to date other guys now? You know, besides me.”

My mouth hangs open. Mind blank. Um, I have a boyfriend! True, there were moments tonight when I wished otherwise. Suddenly, I’m reminded of all the subtle ways I led Austin on tonight. Oh, what have I done? Now Austin thinks we’re dating, a notion I’m reluctantly excited about. I’m so confused that I stumble on the word before replying, “Y-yes.”

His voice drops to a dismal tone. “Oh.”

Something between dejection and tenacity washes over his face. I stand on pins and needles, wondering if I said the right thing. Finally, he smiles. “Well, good luck finding a night when I’m not around.”

It takes a second for his words to register. “What’s that?”

“You heard me.”

I start to laugh. Regardless of his wit, I have a feeling he’s being real. It’s flattering, actually. He’s vying for me. Might as well be honest in return. “I’d like that.”

He nods.

It’s a defining moment, I think, like we’ve both come to an accord on what we are. Too interested in each other to part ways, yet too committed to our separate paths to let anything happen.

Austin gathers my fingers in his and kisses the back of my hand, the touch of his lips sending a current through my skin. He looks up at me and winks. “Until next time.”

He’s already descending the porch steps before my lips can form the words. “Good night.”

I stare after him, pushing on the door several times before realizing I wasn’t twisting the knob. When I’m finally inside, I sink back against the door, listening to his motorcycle roar to life and wondering if I’ve ever felt quite like this. I’m unaware of anyone else’s presence until the familiar sound of my mom clearing her throat lassos my attention.

“Sienna?”

She stands near the stairs, her arms crossed, her green eyes focused on me like she’s been waiting there all night. Her silence is worse than a hundred sharp words, demanding an explanation.

“Yes?” I ask, stalling.

She throws a sharp glance at the window. “I thought you were going out with Brian.”

I didn’t lie to her. Not exactly. She didn’t really ask what my plans were tonight. I hung out with Brian earlier today, yes, and I told her I wouldn’t be back until midnight. Besides, I had my cell phone. She could have called. However, I have a feeling this has more to do with the fact that I was with Austin and not Brian.

My best friend Haylee and I always joked about my mom being obsessive-compulsive, hooked on me marrying into the Price family. Haylee used to tease me that if things didn’t work out with Kyle, at least I had one other option: Brian. It used to be funny.

Mom points a manicured finger at the door as if Austin is still on the other side. “Who was that?”

My mother, the master spy. She was watching us all right.

“His name is Austin. He played football with Brian on the beach the other day,” I explain, as though mentioning Brian will somehow lend Austin some credibility. “He just took me to get a bite to eat and—”

“On a
motorcycle
?”

I close my eyes, reluctantly admitting she has a point.

“Is one year all it took for you to forget? Don’t you remember what happened to your dad?”

She’s touched a nerve, one she twists all too often. I’m sick of it. “Of course I remember what happened! Do you think I’ll ever forget it, Mom? I was the one behind the wheel. Do you think I’ll forget fighting to breathe, drowning? You think I’ll forget Dad’s hand on my seat belt, unlatching it and pushing me out?”

“He didn’t unlatch your seat belt. He was already dead!”

“No, he wasn’t!”

Mom’s nostrils flare. I suddenly realize I’ve been yelling.

The pathologist who examined Dad’s body said his head wounds from the crash were severe enough to cause death. Dad might have died before we hit the water. Either way, Mom prefers to believe he was gone before we went under. The thought of someone you love spending their last seconds panicking for air is horrifying. Trust me, I came close to that end myself.

Still, I do remember my dad’s hand. Someone unlatched my seat belt, and someone shoved me out. Although the details of that traumatic moment are vague, I’m sure of his hand guiding me out.

I try to simmer down. It happened again. Somehow my mom pushed me to the edge, and I picked another fight. How he died isn’t going to change anything now.

My mom takes a calming breath. “Tell me how it is that you feel comfortable going out with some stranger, let alone on a motorcycle? Motorcycles are dangerous, out of the question. A motorcyclist killed your father!”

I killed my father
, I think. I recall the steering wheel in my hands, the fireworks coloring the dark sky as I drove down the highway. “There were two motorcycles that night.”

“What difference does it make?”

She’s right. It doesn’t make any difference, other than I’m still trying to work out the details of that miserable night. I think about them a lot, those two cyclists. I can omit one possibility; the motorcycles weren’t white. Seeing Austin’s sporty black and white motorcycle sparked that memory. They were two distinct colors, like . . . oh, why can’t I remember? One of them weaved right in front me, coming within inches of my Jeep. Probably drunk. I swear, he or she would be dead had I not swerved. Dead. But they lived, and they sped off. Who does that?

“Even if the accident hadn’t happened, Sienna, you know how your father and I felt about motorcycles. What’s worse, going out with someone you hardly know!”

“He’s a good guy, Mom.”

“Oh? And how long have you known him?”

Shoot. “He’s from Virginia. He played football against Kyle.”

“Yes, and you’re
with
Kyle.”

I massage the pressure in my forehead, remembering Kyle and the way I’ve been too distracted lately to reply to his texts, remembering my feelings for him. One week; that’s all Austin and I have had. Kyle and I have so much more.

Dad always encouraged me to date a lot of guys (and, come on, I’m two months shy of turning eighteen), so I know Mom can’t argue with me as I reply, “It was just one date, Mom.”

She crosses her arms, fighting the expression of defeat threatening her face. At last, she starts up the stairs, but she turns to have the final word. “Make sure it’s the last.”

CHAPTER 14

Austin

I
t happened on a cloudy day in mid-March, eight years ago. Our ghetto neighborhood looked just like it always does. I had no forewarning of the change that had already taken place at home.

I opened the front door, dropped my backpack, and sprinted to the back door, paying no attention to the broken glass on the kitchen floor. “Hey, Mom
,
” I called out. She sat at the kitchen table, silent. I shoved the screen door open. Ran out to play with Turbo. He was only a pup when Dad brought him home on my ninth birthday.

Turbo’s miserable attitude should have been a dead giveaway. They say dogs have a sixth sense. They know when something’s up. I’m convinced it’s true. Turbo knew. Of course, he’d seen it happen, my dad being arrested.

I started back inside as the sun set, wondering why Dad wasn’t home yet. “Hey, Mom. What’s for dinner?”

I glanced around the kitchen, stunned. Nothing had been cooked, a total shock to a kid whose mom had fixed a home-cooked meal every day of his life. As I looked around, our house suddenly felt like a crater. Empty. Desolate. That’s when I knew something was up. Mom’s lips formed a stiff line, her eyes set on the St. Patrick’s Day leprechaun thing on the table. I still remember that stupid leprechaun, smiling up at me like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Mom,” I finally broke the silence, “where’s Dad?”

Had she already decided to lie, or did she use that brief silence to decide exactly what she would and wouldn’t say? I’ll never know for sure.

She finally came to. Folded her arms like she was protecting herself. “He went on a last-minute business trip.”

“Oh,” I said.

But I took note. Saw everything. The broken glass on the floor. My mom’s hands, shaking. She hadn’t budged since I got home from school. I can picture it now: officers knocking on the door, ordering my parents to open up. At first sight of the police, my mom must have dropped the glass in her hand before she had a chance to pour that pomegranate blueberry juice she always drank. Disgusting stuff.

“Hyrum Dobbs, you’re under arrest for—”

This is where I really have to use my imagination. I suppose I should have noticed the warning signs: my dad’s bloodshot eyes, mood swings, weight loss, and seriously lousy coordination when throwing a football around the backyard. All these signs came on gradually, though. Sure, home wasn’t always perfect, but whose home ever is? Whose dad never loses his patience?

Now, looking back, I remember some weird stuff. Questions my mom asked that seemed out of the blue. Questions about money that was unaccounted for, questions that often went unanswered. Still, nothing serious enough for me to suspect he was inhaling, smoking, sniffing, whatever. Hard core. A total druggie. Who knows what else he did.

Things start to happen to a kid when his dad is arrested, especially when his mom keeps insisting he’s on a business trip. Well, I finally took the hint and quit asking questions altogether. My mom’s like that. Quiet. Won’t talk about anything that could breach the walls she puts up.

Then some lady came over, dressed all businesslike, asking me questions. Acting all friendly. Child Protective Services. Asked me what home was like and whether I felt safe. I think Mom bit off all of her fingernails while that lady was there. Mom really never was the same after that.

Yeah, things got worse between us. Big time. She became more withdrawn, only taking genuine interest when we’d talk about her one hobby, cooking. I swear she should have had a girl, one who loved aprons and baking and stuff like that. Instead she got me, a rowdy menace who rolled around outside with the dog and slept with a football in the crook of his arm.

Other things got worse, too. No more little league baseball, no swimming lessons. And when the car broke down, we had to wait three months in the middle of winter before we could afford repairs. She picked up extra hours working retail, and from then on we scraped to get by.

Make a kid scrape by for eight years, and you can bet he’s going to resent his dad for leaving. And I did resent him. With every passing year I hated him more. I never looked for him, and I never looked back. I hope I never see him again.

Although I hate to admit it, in a way I became more like my mom after he left. Kept to myself. Hated talking about anything below the surface. I preferred hanging out with friends who were the same—the kind whose parents were divorced or dead or in jail. Like Reg and Leo here in Savannah, and my friends Landon, Evan, and Jake back in Richmond; they didn’t ask questions. We didn’t try to solve each other’s problems. We kept to ourselves, and although I didn’t mind it at the time, now I realize it was a lonely way to grow up.