Take Me Away (Everly Place Book 1) Page 3

  Chapter Four

  I wake up early Monday morning and take the twins’ car to pick up my cap and gown. Midway, I stop at a little coffee shop on the corner by school and get an iced coffee. I never used to care for coffee, but this past year, I have really taken a liking to it. While I'm there, I grab one for Dad along with a premise sandwich and make to drop it off at the farm for lunch.

  When I reach the property, which is actually next-door our house, I find him standing there talking to the owner, Mr. Radley, and a couple of gentlemen that are dressed way too nicely for a farm. They must be making a business deal. I don't want to interrupt, so I just tap him on the shoulder and hand him his coffee and sandwich, and tell him I’ll see him at home.

  Walking back to the car, I stop and take a look around. At one time, this was our farm. I stop at the old oak tree I planted and run my fingers over the trunk, feeling connected to the changes that it has endured over the years. Where once was a fragile, tiny tree now stands a strong force of nature.

  It seems like a distant memory—all the days and nights spent here doing chores and playing in the pasture. When Mom got sick, Dad didn't have the time or money to keep up with it, so he sold it to Mr. Radley. It couldn't have gone to a better man, though. Mr. Radley even allowed me to keep my sheep, Betty, there until she passed away two years ago. We used to visit all the time—at first—but after a while, we started going less and less until we never went at all, unless it was to see Dad. I was so grateful when Mr. Radley offered him a full-time job; if he hadn't, we probably would have lost the house, too.

  If I push through the fog of distance, some memories are clear and sharp as yesterday. I can still hear Mom yelling from the gate to come home for dinner, and I can still smell her sweet banana bread infusing our home. Knowing I will never hear that voice again brings tears to my eyes.

  I wipe them away and give myself a look in the rearview mirror to make sure my pain isn’t noticeable. I don't like to show emotions. Maybe it's because—for my whole life—everyone I love has had to pick me up off the floor whenever I got teased or when I cried, and in some sense, I feel like I became their burden. Since we lost Mom, I’ve shut these feelings off from others, hidden my tears and bumps. I’ve needed to be strong for Dad, and my sensitivity isn’t a weight he ought to bear.

  The house is quiet, so I assume Lily and Rose are sleeping. I put the car keys on the kitchen counter and write a quick note to tell them I’ll be back later. Then I grab my sitting blanket and I walk back out the door, toward the lake, coffee in hand.

  The rain has stopped, but the roads are a muddy mess, so I stay to the shoulder since I'm only wearing flip-flops. I immediately spot Clay lakeside, sitting up against the big tree I sit by when I’m reading or writing. His legs are bent beneath his laptop.

  "Oh, hey," he welcomes me, lifting his head from his computer.

  I lay the blanket down next to him and take a cross-legged seat.

  "Let me see what you have so far." He passes his computer into my reaching hands. I read his letter; there are a lot of grammatical errors, but the wording is decent. I can feel the burn of his eyes as he stares at me while I read. His hands are propped behind him and he looks more vulnerable without the laptop.

  "It sounds good. I was expecting worse." I chuckle. "You may want to add something in there that explains you’re pursuing a degree in Environmental Science."

  We pore over his paper until we both agree it sounds good, and he shuts the laptop.

  Clay makes a joke about going swimming as he looks over at the lake. I didn't bring a swimsuit—but even if I had, I wouldn't dare go swimming with Clay alone. It would be too awkward.

  "How is Lexi?" I ask, curious if they are still together.

  "I don't know; I haven't spoken to her in two months. Since she cheated on me,” he adds, incidentally, pushing his hair back.

  "Ahh. Sorry to hear that." (I'm not.)

  We sit in silence until I finally break it. "Why did you really ignore me at church on Sunday?" I ask, picking at the grass to avoid eye contact.

  He lies all the way back across the ground and runs his hands over his face. "I don't know. I just didn't feel like hearing Luke tease me." Those hands find their way under his head, pillowing it as he stares up into the boughs hanging over us.

  "Why would he tease you about getting help with a letter for a job?" I wonder, now looking down at him. He is so close that I can feel his body against my legs.

  "It's not the help he would tease about."

  "What is it, then? Me?” I ask sternly, slapping my hands on my hips.

  "Sort of. He's always giving me shit about you and I try to avoid it." He says this casually, like his words have no effect on me.

  "So you try to avoid me because you don't want your brother to make fun you. Am I really that humiliating?"

  "What? No!" Clay sits up quickly.

  "Am I joke to you?" The anger prickles to wetness in my eyes, and I quail at the thought of Clay Keller seeing me cry. "Am I just that poor kid who lost the farm? The weird, stupid girl with the bad clothes and the dead mom?"

  "You are…" A pause, as if he’s run out of words to shrug me off. "Perfect,” he blurts.

  I turn to face him and realize, looking straight into his eyes, how close he really is. His face is only a couple inches from mine. I could bury myself in those eyes.

  "Perfect? Are you trying to mock me?" I manage, still staring.

  His eyes flick down to my lips and it sends a shiver through my spine. He brushes a strand of hair from my face and then turns away from me, gazing someplace far over the lake. "I don't know, Iris. I guess I just don't want you to think that me occasionally avoiding you has anything to do with you, personally."

  I stand up.

  "Occasionally?" I squawk and laugh at the same time. "You have ignored me ever since we were kids—unless there was something in it for you." My eyes lock pointedly on his computer. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Or we wouldn’t be here, in the first place.”

  Clay stands up, too, and grabs my arm to turn me towards him. "I'm sorry if I've made you feel... inadequate. That was never my intention," he assures me, but I’m not reassured. I'm confused with this whole conversation and by these subtle touches on my arm, my hair, my forehead. This is the most we’ve talked in the last two years.

  Feeling a little brave, I pull away, and then I turn away. "Your words and your actions don't ring true. They never have."

  I try to look down—to sink into the ground and cross my arms and anchor there, like a tree—but Clay puts his hand on my waist, and turns me back towards him. He rests his hand on my cheek and pulls my head to his and kisses me.

  I've kissed Clay before, so I recognize the wave that engulfs my body, but that kiss was nothing like this kiss. It's hard and passionate. The sweet taste of mint on his mouth is inviting, I bring my hands up around his neck and tremble with delight. My heart begins to race and it lasts for what feels like forever. I want more, I need more— but I just stand there frozen in silence after he finally releases me.

  Clay picks up my blanket and shakes it off before handing it to me and then grabs his laptop. "I'll see you Saturday?" he hopes.

  "Umm… yeah,” I stutter. “Saturday.”

  He walks to his truck and gets in.

  I stand there, frozen, unable to speak or move as I try to comprehend what just happened and what this might mean.

  Chapter Five

  The rest of the week goes by slowly. I spend the majority of it working on my speech and preparing for graduation. As excited as I am for the ceremony, I think I'm more excited for Clay on Saturday. I can't help but wonder if there will be tension and awkwardness. Either way, I just want to see him and hear his voice. Our last moments together consumed me for days afterward until I felt like that love-struck child again, standing there in the woods with scraped knees and the ghost of a first kiss.

  My family notices something’s afoot. They ask me what’s cha
nged, who this new Iris is. I just keep telling them I am in love with life, which makes them question me more, until I feel like a character conjured straight from the pages of my books. I haven't read at all in three days. (I did, however, write a little bit on a story of my own.)

  Lily and Rose are taking me to Wenatchee today to look for a car. Dad was a little skeptical—he thinks three young girls will get ripped off—but I know my sisters, and they have good bargaining tools.

  The drive to the dealership goes quickly. I spend the majority of it writing and daydreaming. Adele's “Water under the Bridge” plays on the radio and, for once, the song makes me think not of novels but of my own life.

  I can only hope that, if Clay doesn't have genuine feelings for me, he tells me honestly and lets me down gently. As much as I want him to want me, I would rather him be truthful before my heart gets too invested in the impossible.

  We pull up to a used car lot, and a man with a big belly hanging out of his shirt and a beard approaches us.

  "How can I help you lovely ladies?" He flicks his cigarette to the side.

  I tell him I want to test the blue Chevy Malibu to the left, and he gets me the keys. Lily and Rose ride along. We agree; it's a good deal. The car has some rust and a lot of miles, but my price range is pretty low, so I can't be too picky.

  After finalizing all the paperwork, I leave the lot in my "new to me" car, grinning ear-to-ear. Rose accompanies me because I am still a little nervous about the drive. I don't have much experience on highways; I usually stick to the back roads at home in Dad’s truck.

  The feeling of having my own car opens my mind to a whole world of possibilities. I am able to go anywhere I want, whenever I want. I crank up the radio and let out a shriek as I tap my fingers on the steering wheel.

  "Let’s go to the mall,” I tell Rose, turning the volume on the radio back down.

  "Ooh, yes. We can get new suits for the pool party Saturday." She claps her hands together before settling into her phone. "I'll text Lily."

  Next on my list: a cell phone.

  Rose informs me that Lily will meet us there. We stroll in and head straight to Dillard's so I can get a new dress to wear under my graduation. I settle for a white one with spaghetti straps and a floral imprint, paired with white sandals.

  "What is this pool party you were talking about?" I ask Rose while we rummage through racks of one-piece swimsuits.

  "The Kellers’ pool party. After dinner Saturday?" She looks at me as if I should know what she’s talking about.

  "Well, I wasn't invited, so..." I walk away from the swimsuits.

  Lily pulls me back to them.

  "You. Are. Going."

  I don't see why I would if I wasn't welcome, though. Clay would have mentioned it if he wanted me there.

  "Iris, it's a small town. Everyone is invited. It's not like anyone hands out personal invitations," Rose snickers.

  "Maybe you would know this if you got a Facebook account. The event has been posted for weeks." Lily holds up a neon pink bikini top and tilts her head.

  I shake no. It's awful-looking. She puts it back and keeps pushing through hangers, yanking a light blue bikini, instead. I nod yes, and she hands it to me.

  "For you." She smiles.

  I laugh hysterically because I have never worn a bikini in my life. I am a one-piece wonder. But my sisters both insist that I just try it on, so I give them the satisfaction, and retreat to the dressing room.

  The bikini’s a little tight and not enough coverage for my taste, but I can't deny that I look pretty hot in it. I may not have much confidence in my appearance, but I do have a decent figure. I walk out into a chorus of the girls’ shouts.

  "Yes,” they cry, “you are getting that!" Lily whistles, and I laugh. I humor them and buy the swimsuit, but it will take a lot of convincing before I’ll actually wear this thing in public.

  After we all check out, I am officially broke, and realize I need to pick up more hours at the diner.

  When we get home, I am exhausted, and so spend the rest of my night lying in bed and mentally preparing myself for tomorrow.

  A breath from midnight, I am drifting off to sleep when I hear a thud on my window. I ignore it and shut my eyes until it happens again. I climb out of bed, bedraggled from the long day, and walk over to my window.

  Clay is standing outside with his hands in his jean pockets.

  I pull the window open and lean forward. "What are you doing?" I whisper loudly.

  "Can you come down and talk to me?" Clay stands still with both hands still firmly planted in his pockets.

  I push the sill back down, throw on a sweatshirt, and leave out the side door.

  The night air feels nice, with a slight chill and I rub my eyes so my sleepiness isn’t too noticeable. Clay waits for me, and as I approach with my arms crossed over my chest, I tell right away he’s been drinking.

  "Hey there, old friend." He pats my back.

  I smile awkwardly because I have no idea why he is here.

  "I got the internship," he blurts the next instant, clearing my confusion, and throws his hands up so exuberantly it sends him staggering in an effort to keep balance.

  "That's great. I'm proud of you,” I shriek with excitement, and put my arm out to catch him before he almost falls.

  The sky is clear tonight, and you can see the stars. The only light belongs to the street lamps down the road and a couple solar bulbs in the flowerbeds. I can smell burning and assume someone is having a campfire nearby.

  "I couldn't have done it without you." Clay pulls me in for a hug.

  I look around to make sure his truck isn't here. He most definitely should not be driving like this. "Did you walk here?"

  "Yep, walked from right over there." He points to the left. "Or was it over there." He points to the right. "I don't know." He throws his arms up again.

  "Come sit down." I tow him over to the gliding swing in the yard.

  "I love you, Iris!" He says it jollily, jokingly. His hand slides around my shoulders. My goodness, this boy is drunk.

  "What are you doing here, Clay?"

  "You are the only person who never judges me. My mom, my dad, my brother... they all think I have to live my life the way they want me to. But not you." His pointing finger finally finds its way to me. "You've always been a good friend.”

  If only that were true. I've judged him many times in the privacy of my head, but he doesn't know it. I also don't think he realizes that he plays mind games with me that confuse me to the core. I'm not very good with words, so I don't know what to say, and to tell the truth, I don't feel much like keeping the conversation going with him in this state.

  "Let's get you home." I pull him up and put my arm around him for balance as we walk to my car, then open the passenger door to help him in. "Stay here. I'll be right back," I explain, and shut the door so I can retrieve my car keys.

  I should feel happy that Clay came here. He must have been thinking about me to go through all the trouble of walking over this late. Instead, I feel baffled. There are so many questions I wish I had the nerve to ask. Why did he kiss me only to call me a friend? Why is he going out of his way to see me at such odd hours? Does he need another favor?

  Whatever the reason, I'm sure I'll find out eventually. I always do.

  I go back to the car and get in the driver’s side—and Clay is gone.

  I search through the darkness outside the car and I don't see him. I get out and walk around the house, and he's not there, either. So, with nothing else to do, I decide to drive down the road. The thought of him being out there this drunk worries me a little bit. What if he falls and smacks his head or gets hit by a car?

  About a quarter-mile down the road, I spot him, walking in the same direction I am driving. His black hood is pulled over his head and his hands are stuffed in his pocket. I pull up beside him and roll down the passenger window, but he keeps walking, so I drive slowly with him.

  "Get in the car,"
I yell as he stalks on, kicking rocks along the road.

  "I can't. You need to stay away from me, Iris." He's stammering and veering all over the road now. I pull over and get out, leaving my car running.

  "Clay, stop!" I shout after him, hurrying to catch up. I imagine I look pretty ridiculous, chasing a drunk guy down the road in my fuzzy pink pajama pants. "Stop!" I say again, grabbing his arm by his sweatshirt.

  He turns around to face me. It's so dark, but the headlights give us some light. He closes his eyes. "You're too good for me."

  "What are you talking about? You're not making any sense." I'm still holding onto his sweatshirt.

  "You," he sighs, as if by way of explanation, poking his finger into me.

  And this is exactly why I’ve stayed away from alcohol. I can only imagine how crazy drunk-me would sound. The thought makes me laugh a little, despite everything.

  "Just come with me. If you don't, I'll call your Dad." I pull him towards the car and—thankfully—he follows, but I don't let go because I'm afraid he’ll try to make an escape. Not until I open the door and guide him in again.

  His head lies against the window. He sounds faraway, as if murmuring across a lake. "Why do you even want to be my friend?"

  Knowing that he won't remember any of this, I gather my courage, and ask him, "Why don't you want to be mine?"

  "I do,” he swears, lifting his head. “I always have." The weight of his hand on my leg is sudden and sad. I can't explain the feeling that takes over me. I try not to think too much, because I know he’s intoxicated. I know I’ll sound insane in the morning if I bring it up.

  "What makes you think I don't want to be?" he asks as he traces his fingers on my thigh but I pick it up and drop it back in his lap.

  "I don't know. Maybe because you don’t say a word to me if you think someone might notice," I snap as I pull off to the side of his driveway. I dim my lights so I don't wake his parents.

  Clay turns his whole body towards me. "I'm sorry." He strokes my cheek and his eyes are half-shut at this point. Drunk or not, the way he is making me feel is indescribable, and I fight it with every brick I’ve got in my wall. "I talked to you at the party."