Between Now & Never (33 page)

His brow twists in confusion when he sees me.

I hold up the SIM card, feeling the sting of tears in my eyes and wondering if I should have gone behind his back after all. But he’s my brother. The only sibling I have.

“This is it, Vic,” I say. “Cody’s recording of the drug deal. It wasn’t thrown away after all.”

Vic sits up, his feet touching the floor as he buries his head in his hands and exhales.

I brace myself for his tirade. “Cody doesn’t know I have it.”

Vic stands. I swallow hard, reminding myself to be strong. He walks toward me, navigating through the piles of laundry and trash on his floor.

He plucks the SIM card from my fingers, towering over me.

“It will catch up to you someday, Vic,” I say past the lump in my throat. “One day, sooner or later.”

Cody’s argument about right and wrong comes to mind, and I agonize over whether I’m doing the right thing. I close my eyes as though I can block out reality. Here I am handing this valuable piece of evidence over to the person it incriminates. How can I go on being Cody’s friend keeping this piece of the puzzle from him? He was the victim that night. The truth is the least he deserves.

Vic’s fingers touch mine, and I open my eyes. He places the SIM card in my palm and closes my fingers around it.

He nods once. Twice. “I know,” he says. “And this belongs to Cody.”

Brushing past me toward the bathroom, Vic leaves me in his open doorway without another word.

I
stare at the box in my closet.
Cody’s Room: Jimmy’s things.
I slide the lid open with ease this time, knowing Jimmy would have wanted this. Forgetting, I’ve learned, is rarely the solution. He would have wanted me to remember all the times we shared, from the very best to the bitter end.

The deck of old-fashioned baseball cards rests on the top. I smile. I shift through the Ninja Turtles, spotting a few other action figures I hadn’t noticed before. And then the time machine. My smile broadens.

“
It’s a time machine
,” Jimmy had answered my questioning stare when I found him hunched over the LEGO creation.

“You traveling ahead in time, Jimmy?”
I’d teased him.

Jimmy was a lot of things. Humble wasn’t one of them.

The sketchbook is the hardest part. My hand brushes over the thick cover, wiping away some dust. I open it at last, finding one of Jimmy’s earliest sketches of our family. The second is a sketch of him as a kid dressed in full Luke Skywalker attire with Yoda on his back. Another of himself with a bat raised over his shoulder on home base. The picture of the Scottsdale Stadium catches my eye, the one I watched Jimmy draw on his eighth birthday.

I smile at the caption above the next drawing. The sketch is of me as an adult wearing a red Chicago Bulls jersey. It’s a pretty good depiction of me, actually, the older me Jimmy never saw. I turn the page to find another time machine picture. This one is of me behind the wheels of a nice sports car. So far, I’m loving the future Jimmy drew for me.

Page after page, picture after picture of the future as Jimmy saw it. I’ve never seen these until now.

There I stand with my gun drawn, an oversized badge at my hip. But where is Jimmy? I turn the page, finding it blank. This was it; the last picture Jimmy drew. I flip back and stare at Special Agent Cody Rush again. It’s only me, no Special Agent Jimmy Rush at my side. In fact, every time machine picture has only one person in it: me.

A few other odds and ends are scattered along the bottom of the box: a Buzz Lightyear and some plastic binoculars I remember getting in a kid’s meal. I place everything except the sketchbook back inside. Time machine. Ninja Turtles. Baseball cards last of all. I situate the lid on top and put it back in my closet. Things Jimmy would have wanted me to keep.

I take the sketchbook to my desk and place it where I can see it. Today. Tomorrow. Maybe I’ll leave it there forever. Special Agent Cody Rush stares back at me from the page.

He should go inside.
I recall the thought I had that day when Jimmy and I were pelting lizards with our airsoft gun in the backyard, the day he got sick. I ignored that instinct and it’s haunted me for years.

I grab my wallet and keys, glancing back at my room as I shut the door. There will always be too much quiet, a voice that’s missing, empty spaces where Jimmy’s things would have been. But maybe, as his time machine pictures suggest, Jimmy was okay with that.

I brush my teeth before heading out for the night. Hot date. Nine o’clock. I spit and rinse, placing my toothbrush back on the second shelf from the bottom as always. A new brush rests on the shelf below mine. Unwrapped but unused. Like it has for the past eight years. I take in a deep breath and let it go—everything. And I put the toothbrush in the trash.

 

“Have you been in here before?” the dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty asks me from across the counter.

I lean up against the display of chocolates and work up a mischievous grin. “Unfortunately, I don’t remember.”

It’s true; I still don’t recall coming into The Chocolate Shoppe that night or taking the photo-booth pictures.

Julianna places her palms on the counter and leans forward, a flirtatious smile playing at her lips as she inches toward me. “Hmm, well, you’re missing out.”

“Am I?”

She nods, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth in the enticing way that makes me want to pull her right up over the counter and kiss her breathless.

“So, what can I get for you?” she asks as she puts on a new set of gloves. “Are you buying for yourself or someone else?”

“Someone else.”

“Someone special?”

I nod, crossing my arms and leaning on the counter to bridge the distance that’s been between us for far too long. “She has no idea.”

Julianna smiles, the corners of her lips curving into her ever-reddening cheeks. “Well,” she says and stands tall again, digging her hand into her hip. There’s that attitude I love. “Then you’d better buy her some chocolates to let her know.”

“Think that’ll do the trick?”

“Mm-hm.”

“We’re on then,” I say. “Get me a box of nothing but the best.”

Julianna points out her favorite chocolates, boxing each one. Plenty of milk buttercream and lots of Rocky Road.

“Throw in a few of those almond buds, too,” I say.

She lifts a skeptical brow. “You sure this girl of yours likes nuts?”

“Those are for me.”

She laughs. We both tease and laugh as we close down the shop for the night and head out. We eat chocolates and take photo-booth pictures, recreating our first unofficial date. I plan on never forgetting this one.

Picture number one: chocolates in our mouth.

Picture number two: chocolate-covered smiles.

Picture number three: a chocolate-tasting kiss. I could get used to these.

I interlock my fingers with hers, drawing her hand up between us like that day in my backyard when we were covered in mud. Julianna looks into my eyes and whispers, “I love you, too.”

The machine flashes. Picture number four down.

“I should have told you that night at homecoming,” she says.

I look at our hands, enjoying the feel of her fingers in mine.

“And I wanted to tell you thank you,” she continues. “For the other night at the pageant. For coming. Thank you for everything.”

“I only wish I could have been there to hear you sing again,” I say, recalling the day she sang while I played the guitar.

“How about a personal performance sometime?”

I smile. “We’re on.”

Julianna’s expression turns solemn. She lets her hand drop. “I have something for you. Vic and I have something for you.”

“Vic?”

She nods. Takes a deep breath. She reaches into her purse and draws something out.

“What is it?” I say, unable to see what’s between her fingers in this dark photo booth.

She grips whatever it is in her fist before turning it over to me. “It’s yours, Cody. You didn’t lose it. Turn it in to the police; give it to your dad—whatever you need to do. Vic knows, and he’s ready to face the consequences.”

I stare at the tiny SIM card in her palm. A SIM card. For an iPhone.

I look up in disbelief. “Is this . . .”

She nods.

“How?”

“You gave it to me that night, only I didn’t know. You hid it in the stuffed dog.”

“What stuffed dog?”

She pulls the curtain aside and points to the stand of stuffed animals down the hallway. “You can buy me another one if you really want to re-create that night,” she says, one corner of her lips curling up playfully.

“The recording,” I say as I take the SIM card. Here it is. Solid evidence that will answer so many questions about that night. I look back at her, carefully reading her expression. Turning this in can only mean more heartache for her family. “Are you sure?”

She nods.

“Is Vic sure?”

Again she nods.

Dad will be happy, satisfied even. Julianna’s turning this in will sway his opinion of her for sure. Mom, Lizzy, and Rachel all love her. He’s bound to come around after this.

“Come on,” Julianna says, pulling back the curtain and climbing out.

I follow her, stepping on some type of card on my way. Trash, probably. A punch card for the carousel or a food court restaurant. But as I step away, the card catches my eye and I can’t look away.

“Come on,” Julianna calls out, already ahead of me. But I can’t stop staring at it. What are the chances?

“What is it?” Julianna asks, back at my side. She bends down, picks it up, and flips it back and forth like a piece of junk she’s considering tossing. “Hm, a baseball card.”

She tucks it into the front pocket of my shirt and gives my chest a pat.

I look down at the pocket, frozen. Deep in thought.

Our discussion of right and wrong, mercy and justice weighs on my mind. Julianna was right. Life isn’t fair. I’ve known that ever since Jimmy died. But I’ve learned a few things since that first night here in the mall, things I don’t fully comprehend and may never really understand. That maybe life isn’t all chance. Maybe some things happen for a reason. Maybe, even, Julianna and I were brought together that night by a force beyond our control.

“You were right, you know,” I say.

“Right about what?” Julianna asks. “That you’re a pretty boy?” She snags the photo-booth pictures from my hand and throws me a wink. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

She grabs my hand with a flirtatious smile and leads me to the exit.

“So, what now?” I ask. “My part of the date is over. The second half was yours to plan.”

She holds up a plastic bag. “Two cupcakes, specially made. Then basketball at a park. I wore my tennis shoes.”

I throw her a curious glance as I open the mall door for her.

“Don’t judge,” she says and steps out. “After spending everything on that pageant, I’m tight on funds again. Had to get creative.”

“Basketball, though?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

She pinches the rim of my hat and tugs it down. “The sport might be growing on me.”

Cupcakes and basketball? My luck keeps getting better.

“You know, I can take you to a show or something if you’d rather—”

“Uh-uh.” She cuts me off. “I expect you to bring your best game. I’ve never seen you play and I’m curious to find out if you’re as good a ball player as you are a kisser.”

“So this is
that
type of competition?” I ask, receiving a playful nod from her in return as we walk to my car. Her bottom lip is pulled between smiling teeth.

Game on.

Read on for an excerpt from Laura Johnston’s evocative young adult
novel
Rewind to You,
available now in ebook or print on demand.

One last summer before college on beautiful Tybee Island is
supposed to help Sienna forget. But how can she? This is where
her family spent every summer before everything changed,
before the world as she knew it was ripped away.

 

But the past isn’t easily left behind. Especially when Sienna
keeps having episodes that take her back to the night she wants
to forget. Even when she meets the mysterious Austin Dobbs,
the guy with the intense blue eyes, athlete’s body, and weakness
for pralines who scooped her out of trouble when she blacked
out on River Street.

 

When she’s with Austin, Sienna feels a whole new world
opening up to her. Austin has secrets, and she has history.
But caught between the past and the future, Sienna can still
choose what happens now . . .

 

 

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.