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I was up late last night preparing for the conference I’d be attending tomorrow. We had to leave for the airport this morning at seven, and I hadn’t fallen asleep until after two. While the rest of them were on vacation, I had a reason to be here. Sure, Pepperdine wasn’t my first choice of school, but I still needed to make a good impression in case my other options fell through. Plus, I didn’t think I’d mind living here all that much.
When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that I was cozy. While hammocks are relaxing, and the weather is wonderful, an outdoor nap shouldn’t be cozy. I opened my eyes and realized I was covered in a knitted blanket.I don’t remember bringing this out here with me.I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time. It was just before six. I rubbed my heavy eyes and tumbled out of the hammock, wrapping that blanket around my shoulders before walking over to the edge of the veranda, peering down at the beach below it.
I didn’t bother looking back to see who else was outside when I heard a door shut and heavy footsteps made their way toward me. A moment later, Carter was standing next to me. I took out one of my ear buds when he asked, “Sleep well?”
“Mhmm.” I smiled sleepily.
He chuckled. “Good.”
Chapter Fourteen
Carter
IDON’TKNOWWHYI kept stepping out onto the patio to check on her.
The first time I brought her a blanket when I realized she was sleeping. Later, I walked outside again to make sure she was still okay. Maybe I just liked watching her sleep. She looks unchanged from the child who used to nap anywhere at any time. I’d watch her sleep in the car on family trips or in her dad’s lap after dinner. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find her sleeping outside now. I still find myself walking the fine line between the Penelope I used to know and figuring out the person she is now, but when she’s asleep, she looks exactly like her younger self.
I was there the very first day she came to live with the Masons, before she was their daughter. I remember the horrified look in her eyes. The way she seemed far too tired for any seven year old to be. Far too drained of life for any child. She was so fragile. She was broken.
I didn’t fully know why she was broken for several years. Not until my own father felt that I was old enough to comprehend her story. Something she actually had to live through at seven, my father felt I wasn’t mature enough to even hear about until I was twelve. Even now, I don’t think I know all of it. I’m not sure anyone does except for her. I was too afraid to ever ask her about it, too afraid to bring up the hauntings of her past.
I’ve always felt protective of her. From the moment I first looked into her grief-stricken eyes. Though, when I finally understood the true reason for her fragility, it was the only thing I could see about her for a long time. Protecting her became my primary instinct. I never wanted her to hurt again. Even in the way of a fight with her brother or kids being mean to her at school. I couldn’t stand it. I was so caught up in protecting her that I forgot how to do anything else.
I forgot how to be her friend.
Now, I think I realize that everyone who loves her feels the same way I do. I think that her brother was so focused on repairing her that he forgot to accept her for who she is. Her parents were so focused on making her feel loved that they forgot to teach her how to love herself. Her friends were so focused on making her feel accepted that they forgot how to have fun with her. I think everyone around her treated her with kid gloves. I think she grew so tired of it that she literally ran away the first chance she got.
Now that she’s back, she's grown. Whatever she did on the other side of the world has clearly taught her how to protect herself. Though, I’m not sure she ever learned how to accept herself, how to love herself, how to have fun. Maybe I could be those things for her. I could be the person to teach her all of that. I still feel there is a line to walk between what I think she needs and what she wants.
Now, I see the way she looks at my body with fervor, and I know what she’s thinking. I try—without words—to make it clear that I want her too. When I kissed her all those years ago, I thought it was selfish. It was what I needed, not what she needed. That’s why I stayed away for so long before it. Why I never tried. I never thought I was what she needed. At least, not in the way that she was what I needed.
But now, I think I may be exactly what she needs.
She yawned again, and I noticed the ear bud that she was holding in her hand. Its pair was still in her ear, and I realized she must’ve been listening to music while she was napping. My curiosity peaked and I plucked it from her hand, putting it in my ear. “What’re you listening to?”
She shrugged. “It’s just a random playlist of songs that remind me of my mom.” By the way she said it, I inferred that she wasn’t talking about Jenna, the mother I knew. She was talking about her birth mom.
“You never talk about her.”
“I don’t remember much about her.” She sounded so sad when she said those words. I felt my chest quiver. My instinct was to comfort her, to change the subject to something lighter.
I reminded myself that wasn’t what she needed from me anymore. She knew where to draw her lines. Maybe what she needed more was to talk about her mother. Maybe speaking about her would breathe life back into those memories.
“You’ve never told me the story about your adoption,” I said apprehensively.
“I figured someone would’ve told you,” she murmured.
I shook my head. “It’s nobody’s story to tell but yours, Pep. I wouldn’t allow anyone to tell me somethingyoudidn’t want me to know. The only thing I knew was that your mom died.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and I wondered if she was about to stop the conversation short and tell me she didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, she looked at me with that same admiration in her green eyes.
“The hard thing is that it’s not really my story, either. I don’t remember a lot from before I was adopted. I just have glimpses of things I think I remember. They feel like dreams. I remember my mom singing when she did laundry. I remember her reading to me all the time. I remember her telling me she loved me. I remember she had red hair like mine. She told me never to change it because I’d never be able to get the right color back. I remember her being sick a lot. I remember the day she died. Sometimes, though, I wonder if I make up the good memories to replace the bad ones. I wonder if I’m imagining things.”
I looked at her and her face was stern, like she was having an argument inside her mind. Arguing whether to tell me about the day her mom died. I looked up at the sky above us.
I won’t push her on this.
“Do you look up songs because you remembered your mom singing them, or do you just happen to come across them one day and they remind you of her?”
“Depends. There was one song that I could remember the lyrics to but not the song. One day the lyrics were floating in my head, so I googled them. When I heard it, it felt like I was hearing my mom’s voice again.”
