The Day That Saved Us (34 page)

I’M DOING PHYSICS
homework in my bedroom when my mom comes to tell me about Jon. Her face is tearstained and blotchy. She tells me to get in the car, that we’re going to the hospital. My heart races. I don’t really know what to think.

He had a brain aneurysm? How does that happen? What causes it? Can you survive a brain aneurysm?

My dad drives the four of us to the hospital. He remains the picture of calm and collected, while my mom sobs in the passenger’s seat. He reaches over to take her hand and doesn’t let go. Carter tries asking questions, but they don’t know enough to give him any answers. I stay silent in the back seat, anxious to be with Peyton. She’s probably a mess.

When we enter the waiting room, Peyton is there with both sets of her grandparents. She looks up as we walk in. While she looks sad, she’s composed, but when our eyes meet, she crumbles. Like her tears were waiting until she couldn’t hold it together anymore to release. The dam collapses when she sees me. She stands, and I rush to her. Though she has no strength to hold me in return, I tightly grip her to keep her from shattering.

It’s not long after when Olivia comes to us to tell us they had to take him off life support. Just like that.

Peyton and Olivia cry and hug. It feels like our little world, the one where we were safe and nothing bad could ever happen to us, ceases to exist. It’s the first time I realize it only takes an instant for change. One second and we could all be irrevocably altered.

I’VE WONDERED IF,
on the day Jon died, my dad thought, “This is my chance.” It’s a selfish, horrible thought, so I’d like to believe he didn’t. I saw him that day. I remember his grief well. My dad lost his best friend, and it hit him hard. Tears were shed, and days were taken in solitude. I’d like to think he mourned the loss of Jon first, that he didn’t think of pursuing Olivia until that summer, but I don’t think highly enough of him to give him that kind of credit.

PEYTON AND OLIVIA
are out searching for a venue that is willing to take them on this close to the wedding. Peyton will most likely get her beach wedding if they can’t find one. My dad and I are having a guy’s night. When he asked if I would come over for burgers on the grill and
Die Hard
, I couldn’t turn him down.

The movie is queuing up when I ask, “When was it that you knew Olivia was who you wanted?”

My dad slowly turns his head. He doesn’t look upset that I’m asking, merely confused as to why I’m asking now. “Are you asking me when I first knew that I loved her, or when I decided to…stray?” Meaning, one question he’s willing to answer, the other not so much.

“At what point did you decide you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her?”

I can tell he’s not sure how to answer this, or if he’s not sure he wants to tell me the truth. The truth can be sharp and bitter on the way down.

He clears his throat before answering, “I’m not sure that there’s a specific moment. It built up for years, but it was put on hold for quite a while until that summer.”

“Why didn’t you fight for her? If you loved her before you loved Mom, why didn’t you fight for Olivia before you met Mom?” Then all of this could’ve been avoided.

“I wasn’t man enough.” I’m surprised by this answer. Not because he wasn’t man enough, but because he’s willing to admit to it. He’s come a long way from the man who refused to apologize for loving another woman. “I was scared, too worried if she turned me down my pride would be damaged forever.”

“So, you let another man fall in love with her and marry her?” I can’t imagine loving her that much, yet being so willing to let her slip through his fingers.

“I knew Jon was a good man. And she loved him. Once I realized how much she loved him, I knew I was too late. She wasn’t marrying someone who didn’t deserve her.” I think he’s caught on to what I’m getting at. “If I had even the slightest inkling that Jon wasn’t good enough for her, I wouldn’t have given up until she chose me.”

I nod. “If you could do it all over again, would you do things differently?”

“If it meant I didn’t get to be the father of you and Carter? No. Not in a million years. I want you to know that, even if I could’ve had Olivia, I wouldn’t choose her over you. Don’t ever question that. But if it meant I could keep you, yes. I’d never have let her go.”

I hope he never tells Mom that.

“Do you regret the affair?” I’m not asking to cause contention, and I think he realizes that now. I just need to know.

“I regret what it did to us.” He looks pointedly at me. “I regret how it hurt your mother and Carter. How much damage it caused to so many people.” It almost looks like he might cry—making it the first time I’ve seen him show this kind of emotion through this whole thing. “But I can’t regret Olivia. I love her.” He’s says it so matter-of-factly. It’s a simple truth he can no longer deny. “She’s my first love, the love of my life.”

THE MOVE TO
Boston sneaks up on me. I’m heading out first thing in the morning to make my way to Durham, so I can caravan up the coastline with Brooke. She planned out a route that will give us pit stops along the way in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York—places neither of us have ever been. It’ll take us a few days, but I’d much rather have breaks along the way than drive the fifteen hours straight. I’m still not finished packing, so Peyton is taking a break from the wedding planning and helping me clear out the rest of my bedroom.

Peyton and I have been spending most of our days together, surfing and wandering around downtown when the surf isn’t good enough. We’ve lived in Charleston our whole lives and rarely explored downtown. So, when Peyton called me
bored out of her mind
, we decided to do all the things we’d never done before. The Battery, Rainbow Row, Waterfront Park, The City Market. Conquering Charleston one cobblestone street at a time.

Every day with her has been refreshing. We managed to see each other almost every day without the past looming over us. She doesn’t bring up Tyler again after the movie night, and I only bring up Brooke when Peyton asks. I have to wonder, if we only get along when we’re not talking about our significant others, how we are going to manage when they’re permanent fixtures in our lives?

There are no cheesy pick-up line challenges, which is harder than I thought to stop. I’ve had a few come to mind and kept them to myself. We make new inside jokes and memories to push us forward, not draw us back.

Now we’re separating the things I’m bringing to Boston with me, things I’m throwing out, and important things I’m leaving with my mom so I don’t end up losing memories she’s made a point to save.

“I can’t believe you kept these.”

I look over to see Peyton sitting cross-legged on the floor by my open closet door with one of our old yearbooks in her lap. It’s got some notes she used to give me during passing periods.

I forgot all about those.

I walk over and hover over her shoulder. She opens one that’s yellow around the edges. “Oh my gosh.” She laughs. “This is from freshman year.” I see my name written in bright permanent marker at the top of the note. I’m pretty sure she spent more of her time in class writing my name in intricate designs than actually writing the note—or paying attention in class for that matter.

“You used to make my name all cool.”

“Geometry and Spanish were so boring. I had to do something.” She laughs to herself. Peyton finds another yearbook with more folded notebook paper. I kind of just shoved some of her old notes that had designs I thought she spent a lot of time on in each yearbook.

I watch her skim through them one by one. “In this one I was complaining to you about Brock Weckerly.” She covers her mouth to suppress her laughter. “Remember when I dated him our junior year? He was such a jerk.” She shakes her head as she folds the paper back up.

I forgot about him. He never opened any doors for her or paid when they went out on dates. I wasn’t his biggest fan, either. Her track record with boyfriends isn’t the greatest, I guess.

I let her continue separating stuff in my closet while I search under my bed. Missing socks. Old candy wrappers. Books I forgot I even had. I was such a slob.
How did I not clear this out before college?

I’m crawling out from underneath my mattress when I hear a quiet intake of breath. I twist around on my hands and knees to see Peyton is still sitting in front of my closet. Her hand is pressed against her mouth, but she’s not stifling laughter this time. When I get closer I see my handwriting scribbled across some notebook paper. I know exactly what it is the moment I see it, and it’s not a note. It’s the makings of the lyrics for the song I wrote her that summer. But she’s not seeing the final lyrics. She’s seeing what they used to be, what I never sang to her.

When you’re here with me,

There’s no other place I’d rather be.

Then he takes you away,

And I can’t think straight.

What can I do

To deserve you?

I’m so broken,

Without you near.

What can I do

To deserve you?

I’m so broken,

Won’t you be with me?

My Peyton.

On cold Hatteras nights,

He holds you so tight.

Then I stare into your eyes,

And that’s when I agonize…

(Chorus)

Be with me.

So, I wrote this song,

For you.

I wrote this song,

For you.

I wrote this song,

To tell you,

I need you.

(Chorus)

I can’t believe I thought those were good lyrics. Granted, for an amateur lyricist, I think I did pretty well.
Why did I keep those?

“When did you write this?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

My mouth feels like I’ve been in the desert for days without water. It’s so dry.

She turns to me. “Brodee, when did you write this?” I can’t tell if she’s mad or sad, but her jaw is clenched, and she looks like she’s getting ready to cry.

“A couple weeks before the party at Marcus’s house that summer.”

That eases the furrow in her brow, making me think she thought I’d just recently written the lyrics. Peyton looks away, back at the sheet of crumpled paper in her hands. She releases her grip so she’s no longer wrinkling it. “Before?” It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer her. I’m not sure what the right move is here.
Am I supposed to comfort her?
Or explain how she had ensnared my heart as soon as Rylie dared us to kiss?

“That’s why lucky and Peyton didn’t rhyme in the chorus,” she concludes. I can’t believe she remembers any of the lyrics I wrote the second time. I only sang it for her a few times in Hatteras. “When you said the lyrics weren’t quite ready, you were still trying to find a better word to rhyme with my name.”

“Peyton isn’t the easiest name to rhyme with, surprisingly enough.” I crack a smile, and she lets out a breath of laughter.

“I think we need a break from packing,” she says, getting to her feet, cutting the tension. “Dinner?”

“Good idea.”

AFTER WE EAT
and pull into my driveway, she uses her thumb to point to her house. “I’m going to head home. I need to call Tyler, and my mom had some things she needed my help with before the end of the day.”

This is it. The last time I’ll see her before I’m gone.

“You’re leaving in the morning, right?”

“Five o’clock. Bright and early.”

Peyton reaches out and hugs me. “Drive safe.”

I inhale and wish I hadn’t. I’m blasted with coconut and memories. The hug lengthens, and it feels like she needs it as much as I do. We hold each other. I don’t know what the exchange means, but it hurts. It’s more than a goodbye.
What are we doing to ourselves?
She squeezes me tightly before she drops her arms. I should’ve let go first.

“See you at the wedding?” She smiles, but it falters.

“The wedding,” I breathe with a nod, my lips tightening.

“Let me know when you get to Boston, so I know you’re safe.”

I salute her. Not sure why. But it happens. “Will do.”

“Goodbye, Brodee.”

“Bye, Pete.”