Page 1 of From Asher, With Love

ONE

CHARLEIGH

August 17, 2014

Four words can change everything.

Unless you’re my mother, screaming, “I want a divorce”to my father for the millionth time.

The echoes of her cries can be heard from my favorite spot behind the large oak tree in our expansive backyard. The soft, damp soil is pressing into the knees of my overpriced, torn, faded jeans. Absentmindedly, I half twist my body to face the tree and push my finger under a piece of loosening bark. The sharp edges dig under my nail as I lift it free from its home. The deep, earthy scent fills my nostrils, warming the places in my soul wishing I were far from the mingling shouts and bellows of my fighting parents.

Four words can change everything. Unless you’re my mother.

My finger is laced with shredded bark while I beg for it to ground me to this place. I close my eyes, feeling my connection to the earth. The peace it brings. As I do every time, I close my eyes and imagine myself somewhere far from here. For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of escaping my small town in Connecticut and making it to New York City. While the cityisn’t far from my home, it’s always been the one place I’ve felt is within reach. A place I’ve always known that, if my lavish upbringing as the only daughter of Michael and Florence Keeler was suddenly ripped out of my hands, was still possible. If I didn’t have a penny to my name and couldn’t afford to go to my dream school, I could still make it in New York City and build a place for myself—one surrounded by flowers and plants and earth.

So, for the past several years, I’ve convinced myself that even in a jungle of concrete and metal, I can bring nature to its gray expanse. Senior year is the only thing left standing between my dreams and me.

I’m imagining the dozens of arrangements I’ll create in my future flower shop, when my eyes snap open, immediately darting to the sound of the enormous, glass, French door sliding open. My mother’s shoulders rack with sobs as she darts down the stone patio and into the backyard. She runs, her long legs stretching with every step. Her long, brown hair whips behind her, and her bare feet meet the damp grass with fevered measure. She’s wearing a long, flowing skirt and a silk blouse—a staple for her everyday look. Tears streak down the front of the blouse, staining the shiny, pale blue material.

My mother is beautiful. She always has been.

To the entire world, she’s poised and perfect, but behind closed doors, or even in our backyard, she’s anything but.

With a broken heart, she eventually slows, collapsing once she’s made it fifty feet away from the house. She falls to her knees and covers her face with her hands, muffling her cries.

I stay where I am, tucking myself farther behind the safety of my favorite tree, even though I peeled a piece of its bark. I cling to that piece, hoping it can feel how much I appreciate it in this moment. Every time I hear the first words of my parents arguing, I sneak out to the backyard, using this tree as a shieldfrom my reality until the coast is clear. Within those minutes or hours of they’re fighting, I simply don’t exist. A fact I’ve grown to appreciate.

The sky is blanketed in heavy, gray clouds, not quite yet giving way to more rain. My skin prickles with a chill as the late summer breeze blows in the air. I grip onto the bark and peek around the trunk, watching my mother, who is hunching over. Her perfectly long, manicured nails dig into the dirt as she screams and cries, not caring if our neighbors on the other side of our wrought iron fence can hear her.

A knot builds in my chest, and a magnetic force tugs at my heart. Instinct pulls at me to crawl out from behind the tree and go to her. In another life, I could wrap my arms around her and tell her it will all be okay, but after years of the same old argument and problems between her and my father, I don’t. I stay in the safety of where I am and watch in silence, as usual.

My mother’s long, dark hair curtains her face, shielding her from me, but I can still make out how wide her mouth opens with another sob.

After a few seconds of crying, she keeps her head low as her breathing evens out. Once she’s calmed down enough, she finally lifts her head and looks up at the sky, gasping for air. She inhales, counting to ten with every breath she takes, then looks down at her hands. Holding them in front of her, she stares at her dirt-covered skin. With shaking fingers and a trembling chin, she slips her four-carat diamond engagement ring off her fourth finger, and she gently drops and traps it in her palm. Silently, and with more calm measure, she uses her free hand to dig a hole into the soft ground. Satisfied with its depth, she sets her ring in the hole and slowly sweeps the dirt back over it.

I’m watching my mother stare at the mound of dirt she’s used to bury her wedding ring when I spot a familiar bit of blackfrom the corner of my eye. Air sucks deep in my lungs when I snap my head toward the front of the yard.

I rest my face against the jagged bark and watch as the boy I’ve come to know over the past few months makes his way down the street.

This is my favorite part of my day.

He’s walking slowly, his worn-down boots scraping against the asphalt. His faded black shirt hangs loose around his torso, and his jeans have far too many holes to be considered fashionable. It’s the same outfit I’ve seen him wear every single day, and each time I see him wander down our street, it’s as though he doesn’t stick out like a bright, neon flashing light, screaming he doesn’t belong here.Iknow he doesn’t belong here, but my heart races every time at the sight of him. Like my favorite tree, he’s my escape from the ugliness that hides inside the four walls of my parents’ idyllic mansion. Even if his presence lasts only a matter of minutes. He’s still a glimmer of light in my dark world.

Thunder rolls in the distance, and my fingers claw into the bark a little deeper, anticipating the boy’s next move. We’ve never spoken to one another. I don’t know what his voice sounds like. I don’t think he even knows I exist.

The boy stops in the middle of the street and, sticking with his usual routine, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small, spiral notebook and pen. He slowly spins in a circle until he stops and faces the neighbor’s house next to ours. Although his hood is up covering the top of his head, his gorgeous face is still visible, but covered in shadows. I study him as if I’m trying to ingrain him into my memory. The sharp plane of his nose to the shape of his bottom lip to the smooth curves of his jaw. He looks the same age as me. I don’t know a single thing about him. Until a few weeks ago, I’d never seen him before. Not even at school.

Biting on my bottom lip, I watch him as he studies theneighbor’s house before looking down and scribbling across the furled pages of his worn notebook.

When he’s done, he looks up to study the house again, but stops when he catches me staring at him. His eyes dart in my direction, finding mine. Heat immediately consumes my cheeks, and I slink back, tucking in to myself with embarrassment.

He’s never noticed me before. He’s never once looked at me. I feel the heat of his stare from this distance, and although he’s far away, it’s as if he’s peering inside my soul. Like he’s able to see and touch every feeling and thought I’ve ever had. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating.

My nails dig into the bark as I hold my breath. Same as my mother, I count my breaths, whispering them into the cool breeze. The boy just stands there with his pen poised over his notebook, his eyes narrowed as he studies me.

Then without looking down at his paper, his pen resumes gliding across the paper. Once he’s finished, the corner of his mouth turns up in a small smile. With the pen still pinched between his fingers, he lifts his hand and gives me a gentle wave.

A sharp burst of air slams into my lungs before I find myself returning his gesture. I lift my shaking hand, knowing I can hear my heart beating loud and clear, reminding me to keep breathing.

---