Rewind to You (3 page)

A silent pause. “Alone?”

“Come on, Brian. Anyone tries to bother me I’ll rock ’em sock ’em,” I say. And I am now officially a nerd. Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots are weaving their way into my vocabulary, proof that I drove across three states next to an action-figure-obsessed eight-year-old.

“Do you want me to come get you?” Brian asks.

“What? No.” I almost laugh. I imagine his concerned face, like an older brother protecting his little sister. “That’s sweet, Brian, but I’m fine. Have fun at that party.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Sorry.”

Brian sighs. “Okay.”

Guilt pricks me as I detect his disappointment. “I’ll see you tomorrow, though.”

“Yeah?” Brian says with a hopeful lilt in his voice. “You wanna hit the beach together? Grab one of those hot dogs at the pier?”

“Those greasy ones my mom would kill me over if she knew I’d eaten?”

“Yep.”

I laugh. “You bet.”

Background music from the party jumbles his words, and the conversation comes to an abrupt end. I toss my cell in my purse and take a deep breath, inhaling the sugary scent of vanilla and pecans. It’s the smell of River Street.

Let’s make a pact.

The words I heard my dad speak when I passed out drift back to my mind. But what was our pact? A crippling ache seeps into my heart as a thought settles in:
I’m already starting to forget him.

I walk back toward my car, brushing these thoughts aside as I try to enjoy the simple things: birds chirping, an artist painting the Savannah River, a pair of shoes I’m tempted to buy. But I step in a wad of fresh gum and a bird craps in my hair like I was target practice, and I quickly admit this trip to River Street was a total waste. Darkness closes in, and streetlamps cast shadows around me as I walk back through the park, one heel sticking to the pavement with every step.

I distract myself with my phone in time to see a text from my mom.

Can u pick up some Lucky Charms on your way home? I forgot. Get a bunch.

Oh, man. The Legos thrown across our living room will be nothing compared to what will happen in the morning if we don’t have Lucky Charms. Not that I blame Spencer. If he didn’t put his foot down every once in a while, Mom would have both of us eating a bowl of hot wheat cereal and a green (aka grass) smoothie at every breakfast.

Knots unwind in my stomach when I spot the stone staircase that leads to my car. Ha!
Mom had no need to worry,
I think, pleased with myself.

The catcall whistling from the shadows doesn’t register until they step under the dim streetlamp, two of them. Despite myself, I gasp.

“Hello, sweetheart,” one of them drawls with a wink. “Wanna take a walk?”

Oh please. One whiff and I can smell alcohol on his breath.

I step back, surprising myself by how quickly I form a profile. Five feet ten inches, maybe. Baggy shirt and way too much cologne. The other guy is easily in his thirties as well, yet his spotty mustache makes him look fourteen.

“Excuse me,” I say, and move to get around them, but they shift to block my way.

Cologne jabs Mustache in the arm playfully. “Hey, the lady doesn’t want to be bothered.”

I welcome the slightest bit of reassurance.
There still are gentlemen in this world,
I tell myself just before they burst into laughter. I march a path around them.

“Aww, come on, baby. We’re just playing. You want to have some fun tonight?”

I step over a puddle of mud. “Absolutely not.”

By the time I look back up, they’ve materialized in front of me, blocking my way again. I glance around, searching for backup. Anyone. Like a slingshot snapping against my chest, anxiety seizes my nerves.

I clutch my phone, prepared to break into a run and dial for help if I have to. But who would I call? Mom? No way. Brian would rush to my aid, but he’d have a royal laugh after I so confidently assured him I’d be fine. And Kyle is three states away. 911 is always an option but a bit of a dramatic one at this point.

A group of people walk through the park within earshot. But they are laughing hysterically (probably every bit as drunk as these two), oblivious to the ridiculous fix I’m in, and besides, really, I can handle this. I hoist my purse strap on my shoulder and dig one hand into my hip, gathering gumption.

“Listen,” I say, hoping I don’t look as flustered as I feel. But Mustache drapes his arm over my shoulders, and a chill quivers up the back of my neck.

I slap his arm away. “Back off, Mustache.” The nickname slips off my tongue.

He gives an amused laugh. “Ooh, she’s a feisty one.”

Rock ’em sock ’em? That’s a joke. I clench one fist, wondering how much damage I could do. I tighten my grasp on my purse, wishing I had some pepper spray or an umbrella or even a high heel I could wield as a weapon. Still, one scream and someone will surely hear.

“C’mon, sweetheart. We’re just having some fun,” Cologne slurs.

“And I don’t want any part of it, so get out of my way.”

Mustache sighs. “Aww, you’re going to miss the fireworks.”

Fireworks.
My eyes lock on the space behind them, caught in an abrupt trance. I’m speechless. Immobilized. Oddly numb to everything going on around me as the suppressed memory of fireworks crashes back to the forefront of my mind.

Please, no. Not fireworks. Despite the muggy air, goose bumps ripple up my arms as the chilling memory creeps to the surface. I jolt as a sharp crack rattles my ears. A burst of light illuminates everything, casting a red glow on the faces of the two men. I shudder, daring a glance at the falling specks of fire.

Today is June fifth, a Friday. I forgot. The first Friday of every month, fireworks shower the sky over River Street. Fireworks rupture above me, an explosion of colors. Thundering. Crackling. Fizzling. Just like they did
that night.

My heart slams against my chest. Suddenly I feel as though I’m sinking in water with no way of swimming out, fighting to breathe. Another explosion splits the dark sky, and like a cannon, sends a crack pulsating through the air.

It happened almost one year ago on the Fourth of July. We should have been here in Georgia, but we weren’t. Because of me.

I picture my dad and me in the Jeep that night, the smiles on our faces. Images flash through my mind, dulling my vision. The fireworks were so intense I could almost feel them vibrating my Jeep as my dad and I zipped over the bridge. Fireworks so stunning, I didn’t see the motorcycle veer into our lane.

I jerked the steering wheel instinctively. I overcorrected, glimpsing the two motorcyclists the second before our Jeep tipped, rolled, hit the barricade, and then—

They say we hit the barricade mid-roll and flipped right over it, vanishing from the sight of any witness on the highway. As for myself, I can’t remember anything between that and the moment I woke up with water spilling into my mouth, as the river swallowed our Jeep. The windshield caved in, and water flooded in so fast I never got that last breath.

The tart smell of fireworks saturates the muggy Savannah air, so thick I can almost taste it. Cold sweat creeps to the surface of my skin, like it did earlier tonight when I looked at the picture of my dad and me. Right before I fainted.

Spots begin swimming across my field of vision. Numbing tingles course up and down my arms.

Not again.

This silly trip to River Street isn’t only a waste, it’s a disaster. I feel a hand wrap around my arm, but their words and laughter are as muddled as my vision. They pull me along. I draw in a shaky breath. “Leave me alone!”

I fight against them, but the blood rushes out of my head, my arms, my legs, leaving every muscle useless. I’m like some stupid damsel who can’t do a thing to save herself.

“Let go!” I hear the shrill pitch of my voice and realize just how terrified I am. But the seconds stretch on, and I know I’m alone.

In the corner of my blurry field of vision, I glimpse another figure advancing, someone who must have heard me yell. Mustache backs off after my scream, but this timely hero yanks him away regardless and shoves him to the ground.

“Hey!” Mustache yells, climbing to his feet. Cologne comes to the aid of his pal, seizing a fistful of this guy’s shirt and yelling something up into his face. Mustache and Cologne look like dwarfs compared to this guy. I try to steady myself so I can get a look at this saint of a man who is helping me, but all I can make out from his blurred silhouette is that he’s tall and seriously built and he wears a baseball cap.

I grab my head and try to pull myself together, my lungs short of breath. I’m angry at how weak I feel, how useless. Voices argue, short and to the point. The last thing I see before my legs melt into numbness is how fast Mustache hits the pavement after my baseball cap hero punches him.

My dad. Although reason fights against it, it has to be him. This feeling of calm. Safety. His arms barely catch me before I hit the ground. He leans over me, cradling me in his arms.

“Are you okay?” His voice comes as an echo, something barely there and fading quickly.

Then a bright light replaces everything.

“Are you okay?”

My heart squeezes at his voice, and my head jerks up. The blinding light surrenders to the scene before me and I see him clearly.

My dad
.

The sight of his deep, caring eyes renders me speechless.

Dad gestures to my leg. “Are you okay?”

I glance down, feeling the pain at last. Fresh blood seeps from a cut on my shin.

“Oh, yeah—” My voice breaks. I clear my throat, and as I do, the weightlessness of the moment sucks all the pain of the past year away.

He’s here.

This may only be a dream, but he’s here. My dad is behind our home in Richmond with a shovel in one hand and a glass of apple juice in the other. And then the recollection strikes.

I saw him like this earlier this evening, after I fainted in the beach house. A hint of apple juice reaches my nose, the perfect blend of sweet and sour, and it all comes back. He was holding the juice when I fainted the first time, too. Juice squeezed from apples off our trees. Nothing could be more vivid than that scent. But what are the chances of having the exact same dream twice in one day?

He takes a sip, lets out a sigh of satisfaction, and offers the tall glass to me. I glance around at the garden we stand in. Our garden, the place where I used to sneak my dolls out for a tea party. This was a place I could get muddy and my mom couldn’t protest. Our property was always immaculate, fruitful. I never understood how Dad did it. Life and happiness flourished around him, something I miss.

I look down at my muddy shovel, suddenly remembering that time I whacked myself in the shin with my own shovel. Memories flutter in, scattered pieces filing back into place. This incident in the garden occurred hours before the accident. How could I have forgotten?

I smile. “If we don’t suffer a little, we won’t remember it, right?”

Dad smiles and extends the juice again.

Cold liquid trickles down my throat as I drink, as refreshing as the memories it evokes. I’m at a loss for words, shocked at what’s happening. So I lean back against the picket fence and decide to simply relish this miracle.

Dad shifts his gaze to the sunset just visible above the thick trees. “You know, Sienna, there aren’t too many moments quite like this.”

I nod, because whatever is happening right now is definitely not normal. It feels so real. I wish it would last forever.

“Let’s make a pact,” he says, and I feel seven again, making a promise with a best friend. “Let’s remember it, okay? This moment.”

Ah,
the pact
. I look around, the beauty of this place sinking into memory with ease: our tiered fountain, the apple trees, the vines around each post of our gazebo. Finally, I nod.

“And when times get rough,” he says, “we can rewind to this moment and remember the taste of a job well done. We can remember how great this day was.”

A lump swells in my throat as I recall who was behind the wheel that night:
me
. “Okay, it’s a pact.”

I’m so focused on my dad that I don’t notice the white speck flittering across my vision, then two and three specks. My dad becomes a blur, and a wave of nausea hits my stomach as I’m jerked away from him, swept away from the garden altogether.

“Can you hear me?” someone asks. I feel a hand on my shoulder and another one cradling my head. I open my eyes, totally confused as the blurry outline of a figure bent over me comes into view. And the baseball cap.

“Hey, there you are,” whoever is holding me says, his voice lowering into a tone of relief. With a twinge in my heart, I realize it isn’t my dad. My balance stabilizes, my body grounded again in reality. Besides a pounding headache, I’m pain-free. My shin is fine.

“Ugh.” An ugly-sounding something stumbles from my lips as the nausea dissipates. I blink, remembering that I need to get home. I try to push myself into a sitting position, but before I can, he scoops me off the ground. Startled, I reach for his shoulders for balance. And
oh my
. Something about the muscles beneath my fingertips makes me draw back and then wish I hadn’t.

I open my mouth to assure him I can walk, but I glimpse his sharp jaw and strong chin, and the connection between my mind and my mouth floats away. My eyes travel over his lips and then to his eyes, and my heart freaks out. Skips a beat. The most impossibly blue eyes I’ve ever seen stare back into mine, and I lose not only my train of thought but all control of my gaping eyes as well.

One side of his mouth pulls into something of a grin, his face inches from mine. His eyes trace the outline of my forehead down to my chin and linger on my lips. Then his gaze meets mine again. He raises a brow. “Are you all right?”

“Y-y-yes.” My voice comes out like a frog’s croak. “Fine. Thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Mm-hm.” Another attempt to steady my voice. I try to get my flirt on, flashing a smile as I assure him, “The ground can walk just fine.”