Page 63 of True Abandon

She widens her eyes, letting me know my sass is not welcome this morning. With eyes darting to the man behind her, she says, “My boss.”

Roland gives a half-hearted wave with the hand still around Kelli’s waist and then resumes holding her and eating.

“Okay, then. I’ll be in my room.” I grab my purse and look around for my phone and keys.

“Are you going to the bonfire tomorrow?” she asks.

When I located my keys and phone, I look at the screen on my cell and see I have zero missed calls or texts.

“What did you ask?” I turn my phone off and toss it into my bag.

Kelli’s eyes narrow. Her glossy, short brown hair is perfectly straight and hanging by her chin as she stares at me. “Everything okay with you?”

“It’s late, and I’m exhausted. I’m gonna go to sleep.” I thumb towards my room and start to walk away before I remember my manners. “Nice to meet you, Roland.”

“Same here.”

Kelli contemplates me with her head tilted to the side. I’m usually not so kind to her guests. Probably because they’re usually some tourist, passing through for the evening. A stranger who could have an aversion to steal or kill. I mean, really, you never know.

The fact she brought her boss home could be a good thing or, she could do something royally stupid and be out of a job. Either way, I’m just not in the position to voice my opinion—my own matters of the heart are a bit all over the place.

In my room, I toss my bag on my bed and then my body. Staring up at the ceiling, I try to remember when I felt so…numb.

I lift my hand to my chest and fumble for my pendant—it’s not there.

With a gasp, I sit up and cover my face with my hands, and my elbows fall to my knees.

I can’t believe I let it go.

I let him go.

I let all of it go.

Dropping to the ground, I look under my bed and pull the box out from beneath it. My hands still at the top, unsure if this is really what I want to do. And then, I rip open the lid and unlock my past.

I haven’t touched a thing, and my eyes are already blurred from moisture that building. I shake it off and lift the photo at the top.

It’s my Jackson—eighteen years old and in the driver’s seat of his brand-new car. His baseball cap is on backward, and his shaggy hair peeks out from the edges. He has one hand on the wheel, and the other is holding mine. He’s laughing—God, he has a great laugh. I haven’t heard it, really heard it in years.

The next pictures are of us—selfies before that was even a thing. Everywhere we went, we took pictures together: duck faces at a concert, cheek to cheek in front of our old school, fists bump after a big lacrosse win, glamorous at his prom, his diploma when he graduated, and my favorite, the two of us kissing by the lake.

The last one in the stack nearly steals my breath away. We’re standing at a grocery store, Jax’s holding me from behind with his nose buried in my neck and an infectious grin plastered to his face. I have on zero makeup, my hair is in a messy bun—but that girl, she’s full of life, joy, and most importantly, love.

Concert tickets and dried-up rose petals. A napkin from that ice cream place where he first kissed me on the cheek, and a Coke can I saved from the day he asked me out in the school cafeteria. I even have the movie stub from our first date. I was fifteen and delirious with excitement that the Jackson Davis had asked me out.

We dated for six months. So many dreams were shared, secrets admitted, and kisses stolen.

There’s a bunch of hand written notes—love letters—at the bottom of the box that he used to leave in my locker. Nostalgia washes over me at the sight of his messy handwriting that once made my heart soar.

I can’t help the grin that lifts my lips at the doodled initials along the border of the page—not from me, but him. What boy draws hearts and letters like they’re carved into a tree? Jackson did.

Can you see the ridiculousness of what you’ve done to me? I’m sitting in Mr. Cal’s trig class + writing Jackson loves Trish all over my paper. What is wrong with me? Don’t answer that. I know there’s a shit ton wrong with my head. If there wasn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here thinking about how I’d escape if our school was overrun by terrorists. For the record — I’d play dead and wait until they left the room assuming there were no survivors. I’d use the letter opener on Mr. Cal’s desk to pry open the air vent and climb through it to get to you in American History. The letter opener doubles as a knife so if I have to kill, I will just to get you out of there. Again, do you see what you’ve done to me? In my master escape plan, I’m trying to find a way to save YOU before I make my escape. Don’t worry - I’m working on how to save Ella next. So, yeah, I think it’s safe to say I’m kinda of obsessed with you. In a good way. I promise I won’t become some crazy stalker. Well, I might stalk a little.

I surprise myself by letting out a loud laugh. God he’s cheesy. There are a dozen notes here. Some sentimental and other are kinda lame, in an adorable way. I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me he grew up to be a musician. He never had a problem putting his thoughts and feelings to paper. I open up the next one—it’s short but impossibly sweet.

Fact. Our kids will have brown eyes. Learning a lot today. Since neither of our have parents with blue eyes, we are destined to have all brown eyed children. See, don’t ever say I don’t pay attention in school. Now, I’m trying to figure out how to make sure they don’t get your nasty toes. ; ) The genetic Gods will prevail!

That note was written before we even had sex. A time when joking about what your kids would look like was funny because you’re not worried about the what-if of it really happening. That was the note that caused me broach the topic of when I might be ready. I wasn’t then but told him I would be soon.