AllFreeNovel
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“Let’s go, Gavin.” Dad nudges me and tilts his head toward the plane’s exit.
I swipe my backpack from under the seat in front of me and shuffle out of the cramped seating. Once we deplane, I hang ten feet back from my parents. Let the throng of people separate us on occasion. Although my mom’s promotion is a good thing for her career and our family, I am beyond irritated with this whole situation. The only way to express my anger and frustration is to ignore them.
Is my logic juvenile? Yes. Do I give a fuck? No.
As we walk through the airport, Mom and Dad take turns peering over their shoulder every other minute. They have concerns, I get it. But where the hell am I going to go? Not like I can jump on a plane and leave. I have no clue where I am. Nor do I know anyone here. All my friends live in Florida. Every part of my life exists on the opposite side of the country. The one person that matters most, the one I left my heart with, is thousands of miles from here.
I grind my teeth so hard my jaw aches. The thought of making new friends sends a fresh wave of irritation through my veins. Feels as if I am entering kindergarten all over again. The new kid. In the middle of high school. Just before the school year ends.
Complete and utter bullshit.
We reach the baggage claim and wait like fish for bait. The metal carousel circles around a continuous loop. I lean against a far wall and watch as my parents patiently wait for our two pieces of luggage. Normally, I would wait beside them. Offer to help. But seeing as I hate this whole situation, I choose to stand here and go through my notifications.
Micah sent a text while we were in the air.
Micah: Let me know when you land bro. Can’t believe your gone. Who am I going to do stupid shit with now?
I type out a quick reply to him and tap send.
Gavin: Right? At least you know other people there. I’m a loner here. Fucking hate it.
My parents step up to me, but I keep my eyes on my phone as if unaware. How long can I avoid eye contact with them? At this rate, weeks seem probable. If I piss them off enough, would they let me go back to Florida? Maybe, but I highly doubt it. Micah’s parents would probably let me stay with them if we asked nice enough.
“Gavin, we’re leaving. Put your phone away. You can text your friends later,” Mom snaps.
Is she pissed at me? Good. Maybe a dose of her own medicine will do her some good. Because pissed is all I have felt since she told me we were moving to this shithole. Since the moment she told me I didn’t have a choice—or voice—in the matter. She didn’t even give me a chance to protest. Her word was the final say.
Fucking bullshit.
I follow in my parents’ wake as we exit the airport and my Dad hails a cab. After our luggage is crammed into the trunk, I slide in front beside the driver rather than sit with one of my parents. I have no animosity with Dad, but it seems only fair I treat them equally. After all, they are a team. And they made this decision together. Without me. Without taking any part of my life into account.
We drive away from the airport and I lean against the window, staring at nothing. I don’t care if this place holds good qualities. Mountains or celebrities or monuments. None of it matters. Because I don’t want to be here. An hour later, the cabbie parks in “our driveway.” He helps Dad get the luggage from the trunk before driving away a minute later.
I stay rooted at the end of the driveway and stare at the house I will never call home. A desert-colored Spanish-style house with vines growing up one side of the exterior. Large, grassy plants rest along the front edges of the structure; red rocks fill in the plant bed. The grass mowed with perfect precision. Sporadic large windows fill the walls with the occasional extended half-round window. A small iron gate encloses the driveway from the house to the set-back garage.
Nothing about this house resembles the home we left behind in Florida. This place feels like something to flaunt. A dollar sign. A pretentious badge of honor. Nothing about it could ever be homey. The core of it too frigid and formal. Too “look at me and the salary increase I just earned.”
My stomach roils at the idea of my family becoming snotty or ostentatious. Of throwing black-tie parties and drinking with our pinkies out and tilting our noses higher.
When did my parents become these people?
Several minutes pass before I decide to go inside. My parents nowhere in sight when I enter. No doubt they are wandering the property and making sure there is no damage. I scan the bare interior, the moving truck not arriving until the day after tomorrow. Fucking bullshit. We have to sleep on the damn floor until our shit arrives. Could we not even get air mattresses?
I walk down a hall and find the room Mom said would be mine. Once inside, I shut the door and lay on the tan carpet. No matter how many photos or posters I add to the walls, this room will never be mine. At most, I will only live here the next two years and then fly back to Florida. Back to Cora and Micah and everything I love.
I crawl over to the suitcase deposited in my room—probably by Dad. Unzipping the case, I riffle through the contents until I locate what I search for. Tucked between my jeans is a small wooden box. I trace my fingertips over the lightly stained grain, a tear slipping from my eye as I stare at my most prized possession. My favorite birthday present from my favorite person.
The box is about the size of a novel, but deeper. Cora used a wood burning tool and inscribed our names on the top surface as well as the date when we became official. Then she got artsy and added a beach sunset.
I brush my fingers over our names and the tears spill heavier. Not even a full day has passed and I can’t breathe. The constant warmth I once felt beneath my sternum is now cold and sunken and empty. Without Cora nearby, the world wobbles off-kilter. Revolves slower. Shifts to an endless night.
Flipping the small latch, I open the box and stare at the contents. Lose focus as the one person who means more to me than anyone else is just a memory in a fucking box. One by one, I pull each item from the box. One by one, I cry a little more. So many photos. Of us together—laughing, kissing, watching television. Of Cora by herself—some posed, some candid. Goofy faces, serious faces, expressions she reserved only for me. Drawings she did on napkins, scrap pieces of paper and other random types of paper. Some folded, some small enough to sit open in the box. Most she doesn’t even know I possess. Small tokens of her I kept since the day we met.
Pieces of her. Pieces of us.
I set the drawings on the fluffy carpet and spread them out so I have an unobstructed view of them all at the same time. Once I have them all spread, I go back to the box and take out the next items. Photos.
Polaroids and regular four-by-six printed images. Cora almost always had a camera with her everywhere we went. She kept it stashed in her purse or backpack, taking it out whenever an opportunity presented itself. Most of the photos on her camera—an older, thirty-five-millimeter film Nikon—were of places, things or other people. Every once in a while, I would snatch her camera and shoot pictures of her. And every once in a while, we were able to get someone else to take a photo of us together.
