Wicked Restless

“His brothers and mother and step-father—they’re all really close and amazing dad. That isn’t fair. That wasn’t fair!” I shout, glad to be alone, free to be angry and feel.

“I know that now. But your mom…she was sick, and I just couldn’t risk it. Oh god, Em…I’m so sorry. I was so scared, and I didn’t want to lose you too…” My dad’s words end with his crying, and I hear him let out heavy sobs, miles away from me, nowhere near me so I could hug him and assure him I was still here, even if I was angry with him. I got it.

I get it.

“I’m glad you didn’t throw them away,” I whisper as he grows quieter. “I’m glad…I’m glad Mom told you to keep them.”

I listen to my father breathe, and I lay back on my bed that isn’t really mine and wait for him to speak again. A few minutes pass before he finally does.

“Did he tell you that he came?” My eyes pop open, and I sit up straight.

“After Lake Crest? Yes…” I say, wondering if there’s more to the story, if there are parts Andrew didn’t tell me.

“Oh, no…not then. I didn’t know…I didn’t know he came then. I meant a couple days ago. He visited me, wanted to know why his letters never made it. He…he could have hit me he was so angry. I could tell,” my father says. “But he didn’t. He took everything in, everything I had to say, and as much as it wrecked him to know the truth, he respected me, and my bad decisions. I was wrong, Emma. And I’m sorry you didn’t know about the letters before.”

“I know now,” I say in a faint voice. “I know now.”

My eyes close at the thought of Andrew, at how much he cared for me then, and how much he must care for me now—even after so many wrong turns.

“Did he tell you why he went to Lake Crest?” I say, my eyes still closed, picturing everything that happened that night—picturing the resolve on Andrew’s face when he told me to trade him places.

“I know, Emma. And even if he wasn’t drunk or high at the time, it still…it still sticks with me that he was driving you around that way—” I cut my father off, before I lose the courage to tell the truth—the first time I’ve done so to anyone but Andrew.

“He wasn’t driving, Dad. Andrew traded me places. I was the one who wrecked the car, and he…” I start to choke as the tears rush my face. “He took the fall for me, Dad. Andrew didn’t want me to face any repercussions—and even though he didn’t know it was my heart I was afraid of losing, he knew I was afraid of something. So he gave up a year of his life for me. A year, Dad.”

“Emma…” my dad’s breathing stutters as he tries to catch up to the truth, to soak in everything I just told him. “Emma?”

“I was driving. And that man stepped out in front of me, in the dark. And all I could think about was how any kind of misdemeanor or indiscretion would make Dr. Wheaton change her mind, would take me off the list. I was selfish, Dad!”

“Stop it!” my father yells on the other end. “Don’t you dare think that, Emma Jane. Don’t you ever call yourself selfish. You were scared, and it’s okay to be afraid when you’re sixteen and looking at the possibility of—”

“He lost so much, Dad…” I cry to my father. “So much…”

“He did,” my dad agrees. If only my father knew how much Andrew truly lost—how much of himself was gone.

Another long silence passes while we both sit together on the phone, both of our thoughts consumed with Andrew Harper I’m sure—both of us thinking of the good he has to offer, the good he gave, and how very ungrateful we were for it.

“Thank you for giving me the letters,” I say finally, sitting and looking at my stuffed bags at my feet. I look around the room, and I think of my friend that I’m leaving behind, but when I look at the clothes I’m in, I think of the friend I’m running to, and I consider how my life seems to need to be in balance—to always give me something, but lose something else in return.

I will never give Andrew up again, though. But I want Lindsey, too.

I don’t say it to my father aloud, but I think it: I am selfish.

* * *

Andrew

Somehow, I was on point today at practice. I have no idea how with the mess swimming in my head right now. I’m too distracted by everything to attend class, which was the first thing Coach brought up as I passed his office in the locker room. My mouth almost made it worse when my argument for him was that I didn’t really need my advanced calculus classes, because I could build a working rocket out of the parts from his car right now—and ensure it had enough power to reach the stratosphere. He told me I was a smart ass and better show my face to my professors tomorrow. He’s right, on both counts.