Wander and Roam (Wander Series) Page 8

  We’re deep in the water, past the splashing kids and wading old people, far enough out that the mass of bodies fades away. I gently suck on his bottom lip while holding onto him even tighter.

  We barely need to move to stay afloat. I’m not sure if that’s due to the salinity of the water or the newfound buoyancy of my heart. All I know is I’m kissing Sage, he’s touching me, and we’re together in this wide-open sea.

  “I understand,” I whisper between kisses.

  He gently tucks a tendril of hair behind my ear. “Understand?”

  “The ‘now’.” I brush his upper lip.

  “We can wash away everything out here—the past and the future, problems and worries—so it’s just you and me. I’ve always loved that about the ocean.”

  And then he’s kissing me. Really kissing me. I cling to him as my last hesitations and doubts float away, until it’s just Sage and I swimming in the never-ending waters.

  When we finally break apart, I have no idea how many minutes, or hours, have passed. The lukewarm water only partially cools me. I’m not sure if it’s the sun’s relentless rays or Sage’s endless touch that has created this fire within.

  “Thank you,” he whispers. “I get to cross off one more item.”

  “What?” Words and thoughts slowly return to me. “We haven’t even started the hike yet.”

  “Making out with a beautiful girl in a beautiful ocean.” He grins.

  I can’t tell if he’s joking again or serious. “That’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”

  He brushes my lips once more.

  “I would’ve been satisfied with ‘swimming in the ocean.’”

  “How long has it been since you’ve swum in the ocean?” Sage’s fingers tease the soft, exposed skin around my waist.

  “Never.” I look toward the crowded beach, busy with families and sunbathers. “Beaches had too much sand and salt and stuff for my mother. As a kid, we would visit big cities like Toronto and New York. See the shows, eat at the fancy restaurants, shop in the high-end stores.”

  “Never?” His fingers still. “What about with friends? You must’ve gone on a spring break trip. Isn’t that the senior ritual?”

  “I never travelled with my high school.”

  “Not once? What about band trips or college campus visits?” Sage stares at me. He must realize something’s off about my answers. I won’t give him the opportunity to keep asking.

  “I wasn’t interested in extracurriculars.” I begin to doggy-paddle back to the shore.

  When I glance back, Sage is still treading water. He watches me. His eyebrows lift as if to ask, “What did I say?”

  “What about that beach-hopping hike?” I call before swimming away from the questions, away from the answers, and even further from Sage.

  SAGE WAS absolutely right. Everyone should experience the Bondi to Coogee hike at some point in their lives. Our walk up steep cliffs overlying the ocean, down to secluded beaches, then up again, leaves me winded.

  Well, I can’t actually tell if my breathlessness is due to the stunning scenery, the challenging hike, or Sage’s persistent kisses. If I have to be honest, it’s probably not the hike, as Sage stops me every few feet. He points out an orb-weaver’s web, a lone wildflower, and ancient rock carvings. With each stop, he strokes my cheek, brushes back my hair, or caresses my lips.

  As we come across the first beach, Sage spots surfers far out in the water. “Want to make a bet?”

  “What kind of bet?”

  “Who’ll catch their wave?” He points to the brightly colored bodies dotting the ocean. “You win, you collect a favor. I win, the favor’s mine.”

  “What kind of favor are you expecting?”

  His smile spreads across his face. “If I told, that would take all the fun out of it. Are you in?”

  “You’ll rue the day you bet me.” I turn my attention to the water. “You haven’t discovered my competitive side.”

  “You? Competitive? I don’t believe it.” Sage leads us off the trail and down to the beach. He finds a spot in the warm sand, not too far from the water, and sits.

  After settling next to him, I study the surfers. One who must be a newbie slips off his board before the first wave even hits. He’s easy to eliminate from my prospect list. Two others catch the wave but seem a bit wobbly on their boards. “Purple Shorts” and “Orange Wetsuit” are also crossed off.

  “Ready?” Sage takes my hand. He focuses more on me than on the boarders in the water. His thumb caresses my palm, and the gentle touches make it difficult to concentrate on the surfers.

  “Stop, you’re distracting me.” I cannot remember the last time I had the freedom to let out my hidden rivalry. The heavy stuff has weighted down the last few years so much, I couldn’t think of winning and competitions. But here—now—nothing seems more important than winning our bet.

  After watching the surfers for ten more minutes, I have my pick. “Pink Board Shorts.”

  “Really?” Sage gapes at me. “My vote is with Brodie. I mean, ‘Black Suit.’”

  “You actually named your pick?” Both surfers swim deeper out into the water.

  “Naming my surfer guy feels more… dignified.”

  I giggle. “That may be the first time ‘dignified’ and ‘surfer’ have been used in the same sentence.”

  A large wave begins to surge. I grab Sage’s upper arm and squeeze. “Look!”

  “Surf’s up!” He teases me with his finger as he runs it down my leg to my toes. His gaze never leaves the water. “Come on Brodie!”

  “Pinkie, Pinkie, Pinkie,” I chant.

  The wave crests, and sure enough, Pinkie and Brodie are the only ones riding it. Until Brodie falls off his board and disappears into the water.

  “I win!” I jump up and dance around the sand in victory.

  “I was really hoping for that favor.” Sage draws me close. “How do you want to redeem it?”

  I whisper in Sage’s ear, “I think I’ll save it. You never know when you’re going to need a favor.”

  I place my hand in Sage’s and turn back toward the trail.

  The next beach lies deserted. Blue waves lap at the golden sand. After the crowded Bondi shore, this secluded patch calls to me. “Can we check this beach out?”

  Sage leads the way down a steep stone staircase built right into the cliff. He disappears from my view. I follow his path and find myself underneath a rocky overhang, completely hidden from the trail.

  “I would love to hang out for a few minutes.” I glance around. The back half of the nook forms a half-cave, but the front is open to the ocean.

  “We’re definitely hanging out!” Sage grins. “This nook has all sorts of possibilities.”

  “Oh?” I can’t help staring. He’s so cute when he gets this enthusiastic.

  He draws me close. The waves crash behind me. The sun angles into our hidden nook. Sage’s hands rest on my back, warming me even more. He plays with the thin straps of my bikini. “You’re missing the pretty view,” he whispers before spinning me around. Sage pulls me taut against his body, and we watch the ebb and flow of the waves. At least, I try to watch the water, but Sage’s closeness is so distracting, I cannot focus.

  His arms encircle me, and his hands rest on the sensitive skin of my belly. His warm breath caresses the back of my neck with each exhalation. He holds me so close, I can’t move or touch him back. I can only feel.

  “I want…” I breathe.

  “Tell me what you want.” His breath tickles my ear.

  I can barely breathe, let alone talk. Sage pulls me even closer. The word builds inside. I focus on the waves, on the cool sand underneath my feet, on the tiny sailboat that floats across the distant horizon.

  One caress of his lips against my neck is my downfall. A single word slips out, released to the world. “You.”

  Sage releases me immediately. My disappointment’s momentary, though, for he spins me around again then lowers his lip
s to mine. Throughout his endless caresses and kisses, not once do I feel the need to open my backpack for stationery.

  I LEAD the way along the next portion of the trail. After my unplanned disclosure, which surprised even me, I can barely look at Sage. He accepts my need for space and strolls a few yards behind me.

  I want… My cheeks warm at the memory. If Sage notices their flush, maybe—hopefully—he’ll attribute it to the hot Australian sun. I have never had that yearning with anyone. Not through high school. Not in my first year of college. Not even with Robbie.

  Robbie. I have barely thought about Robbie. He didn’t invade my thoughts in Sydney, and I certainly wasn’t thinking of him on that deserted beach. Surprisingly, I haven’t written one letter this weekend. Up to now, I don’t think a single day has passed that I haven’t folded my thoughts, my wishes, my dreams, into one of Robbie’s special purple envelopes. While a small part of me cheers, This is how healing works, another part has no desire to forget.

  “Best view forevermore,” Sage calls. “Lucky guys.”

  I’ve been so lost in my thoughts, I haven’t even paid attention to our surroundings. When I look up, expecting more coast and wildflowers and interesting cliff formations, the actuality of what looms in front of us freezes me.

  I stare. I just stand along that terribly cruel trail and stare. I try to move, to think, but my body freezes, and my mind numbs. Row after row after row of gravestones rise out of the ground to the right of the trail. Hundreds, no, thousands of graves mock me.

  Silently, I hike off the trail and through the old metal gates. A sign, preserved with time, reads, Waverly Cemetery. Somehow, I’m walking among the graves. While some of the tombstones are the modern kind, flat slabs of marble resting on the ground, the majority feature elaborate stone statues and carvings rising high above my head.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  I walk faster, read dozens of names as I pass by. No matter how fast I walk, I cannot escape the reminders. Finally, I break into a run then sigh as the names morph into a long, etched blur.

  Until two interlocked hearts, engraved into one statue’s marble, catch my eye. Our symbol. I stop to glance at the stone, which is a terrible mistake, for my pause is long enough to read the first name. Robert. His name.

  While the centuries are different, the continents are different, the combination of that symbol and that name are my undoing. I collapse to the manicured grass, lie across the sun-warmed stone, and sob. Long, painful wails combine with raspy gasps for air. Liquid grief pours down, covering my face, sliding down my neck, soaking my shirt.

  Muted footsteps pound the cement path. Hands hold my heaving, aching body. A voice says, “Abby, oh Abby.”

  None of it helps. I couldn’t care less about Sage’s soothing words, his loving hands, or his comforting body. I tried to run. But my grief has finally caught up with me, even though I’m half the world away. I guess sorrow is one of those inescapable things.

  So I lie across the cool marble and whisper my apologies. Even though it’s the wrong Robert, I imagine my words carving a path straight through the earth. Waverly Cemetery, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia to Holy Souls Burial Ground, Cleveland, Ohio, United States.

  When I’ve cried every drop out, when my body cannot heave a single more time, I finally stand. Sage sits quietly upon a bench, far enough away to give me privacy but near enough that I can easily spot him. He watches, still and silent, as I approach.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know.”

  “H-how would you?” My throat’s raw. “I don’t talk about my past.”

  “Ever?” Sage searches through his backpack until he finds a water bottle.

  I take the bottle that Sage offers. The cool liquid soothes the parchedness, but my abused voice still sounds raspy. “S-since he, you know, d-d…”

  “Died?” Sage whispers.

  All I can do is nod. Since Robbie died. After all these months, all these years of knowing and expecting the inevitable, why can’t I speak the words?

  “That’s what you’ve been running from?” Sage studies me, but he doesn’t try to touch me, thankfully. I don’t know if I could bear his affection in front of the other Robert’s grave.

  “I-it happened last summer. I shut down. We were together for nearly five years, since my sophomore year of high school, and then he was just gone.”

  Sage studies his shoes, as if he’s searching for the right thing to say. “An accident?”

  I take a few moments to gather my thoughts. I’ve never told anyone the story, not the complete one, anyway. “Can we talk somewhere else? Away from—”

  Sage jumps up. “Absolutely.”

  As we head to the next beach, visible on the horizon, I think of where to begin. “I met Robbie in my algebra class, freshman year.”

  “Was he a freshman, too?” Sage studies me, checking that his question was okay.

  “He was a sophomore. I’m hopeless at math, and he volunteered as a tutor. We met twice a week for tutoring sessions after school.” The memory of a younger Robbie, more boy than man, floods me. “We goofed around and told jokes and got a little math done.”

  Sage sits along a flat section of rock, worn smooth by weather. I settle next to him but leave a gap between us.

  “I didn’t see him at all the first summer, and I missed him.” Missed him from the perspective of a young teen, who had no idea what truly missing someone really meant. “When he saw me, the first day of my sophomore year, he asked me out. He said his summer was lonely without me.”

  Sage waits, watches, and does not try to touch me.

  “When we figured out we really liked one another, he told me about his kidney disease.” I glance at Sage, who clenches his fists so tightly he must be carving nail marks into his palms. “That long ago, it didn’t seem like a big deal. Robbie needed to be on some medicines, and he was really careful about his diet, but he seemed healthy enough.” My words pour out. Once you turn the faucet on, the water just wants to flow and flow and flow. “Everyone thinks they’re invincible at that age, right?”

  “Invincible, yeah, I guess.” Sage stares out at the ocean.

  “But the following year, Robbie’s senior year, his symptoms grew worse. His kidneys slowly shut down, and he was able to do less and less. Finally, he went into renal failure.”

  “He passed that long ago?” Sage asks in a quiet voice.

  “He spent the next eighteen months on the transplant list. During my senior year, I spent as much time at the hospital as I did at school. Robbie was on dialysis three days per week, four hours per day.”

  “You went with him?” Sage sounds surprised.

  “Of course. I spent every possible minute with him.”

  “No spring break, no extracurriculars, no wonder.” Sage’s eyes widen. “You sacrificed your high school years for him, didn’t you?”

  “Of course, he was my… everything.” I run my hand along the warm stone. “I wanted to switch schools, attend the local community college, but my father insisted I attend the university I’d been accepted into.”

  “You would’ve given up—?”

  “I should’ve been there for his last year.” Tears begin to fall once more, although I have no idea where my body summoned up more liquid. “I should have been there.”

  “Shh.” Sage embraces me, and I yearn so badly for comfort, I accept his warm, strong hug. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “He was on the transplant list.” I sniffle. “When they found a match, we all had so much hope.”

  “What happened?” Sage holds me even tighter.

  “After a few months, his body rejected the kidneys then shut down, one part at a time. Within the week, he…”

  The tears return. Tears of guilt for not being there that first year of college, tears of grief for remembering those beautiful, awful times, and tears of relief. I’m finally able to talk about Robbie.

  Maybe, if I’m ready to talk about ou
r relationship, I’m also ready to say my goodbyes.

  I grab my backpack, sling it back over my left shoulder, and step onto the trail. Not heading forward, but backward. Back to Waverly Cemetery, back to the tombstones that haunt me, back to what I’ve spent the past six months running from.

  “Where are you going?” Sage calls as I force myself to take one cautious footstep after another.

  “Wait here. I need to be alone for a while.” Each step takes me closer to what I dread, what I’ve hidden from, what I need to do.

  Finally, the metal gates appear. I stare at the endless rows of graves. A single flower rests in a weighted vase upon a nearby stone. Its petals flutter in the salty breeze.

  I look for the two interlocking hearts, the familiar name etched in stone. Earlier, my flight through the cemetery had been so frantic that retracing my steps is hard. But after forty-five minutes of searching—looking at each name, reading each date, honoring each memory—I find the heart-carved stone.

  I open my backpack, pull out my notebook, and free my pen from the wire spiral. How can I possibly begin? How do I say goodbye? While I’ll never be fully ready, this farewell needs to happen. I cannot live my entire life as a shell. Robbie would want me to have closure.

  I hold pen to paper, remember our love, our time together, us, and write.

  Dear Robbie,

  You’ll never imagine how I spent the day, crying in an Australian cemetery over someone else’s grave. Those two interlocking hearts were my undoing. Did I ever tell you how your mother let me choose the symbol to be etched onto your gravestone? I think she felt it would bring me closure. I agonized over my choice, before settling on the two hearts. Just like we used to draw in each other’s notebooks. Just like we carved in that tree in the Cuyahoga Metropark.

  My mother said it was a sign for an old married couple who planned on being buried together, but I didn’t care. I wanted you to feel my love for eternity.

  But I cannot hold onto this love forever. I’m sinking, Robbie. The grief, the loss—of you, of us—carries me down. I love you, I will always love you, but I remember your last words, “Live, for me.”