Page 83 of The Americana Playbook

“Come on.” Fitz lands beside me.

From the relationship I drew up.

There’s a mischievous look on his face, one I haven’t seen in a long time, not since we were young before Honey died, before he drifted away—before everything went to shit. The wave of nostalgia he carries is soothing to my burning throat that stings from the scream it holds. It’s calming to my heart that’s sounding the alarm through my veins no one else hears.

“Kind of looks the same,” Fitz says.

Apart from the now-paved driveway and the missing window decor, the outside of the house is the same—still gray shingled with white trim and somewhat uneven stone steps that should lead up to the iconic robin’s-egg blue door.

But now that door is red.

I stuff my still-fidgety hands into the pocket of my navy slacks. As we round the house, I catch sight of the dock and the water and the tree that used to hold the weight of our clubhouse as kids, which my mother promptly had disassembled when my parents inherited the house.

“Enough with that eyesore,”she said the day I came home, finding workers tearing it down.

I grow dizzy at the memory and fling my hand out of my pocket to grab onto the railing that lines the path leading to the steps up to the back porch. And while the driveway has lost its pebbles, the path hasn’t. I’m wearing a pair of camel-colored flats, but the moment I step on the path, I might as well be barefoot, just as I was that night when I flung myself from the grasp of the man who carried me kicking and screaming, begging and pleading.

I ran then. And now? I run too.

Fitz jogs after me. “Where are you going?”

“I came, I saw. I’m leaving,” I spit out as I prepare to heave myself over the wall.

Lifting my hand, I go to grab the top but am stopped. And though I’m aware it’s Fitz who places his hands on my arm, the gentle touch is still too much. I rip my arm from his grasp.

The wound of my rejection mixed with confusion is written all over his face. “Parker?—”

“I’m allowed to change my mind. I want to leave.” My words are rushed, evicted from my mouth by pants.

I look away from Fitz because his hurt is an added piece to this puzzle, one that doesn’t fit, one I can’tmakefit. That’s because I don’t fit here. Not anymore. I probably never did.

He comes into view slowly, and I don’t know if it’s because we’re face-to-face, but breath by breath—mine and his—I find myself a little more grounded, a little less overwhelmed when I have him to focus on. And yet, it’s still not enough.

“I…” I hang my head, grabbing his hand and placing it to my chest. “Please, I can’t breathe. Please,” I cry. “Please, take me home. I need to go home.”

I don’t blame Fitz for not understanding my sharp turnaround. But he does what he said he’d always do. He believes me.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

“Let me get up first and help you.”

And that’s what Fitz does. From the top of the wall, he give me his hand, a gentle lift.

But I climb over the wall myself.

* * *

I pick up a saturated cotton pad, bringing it to my eyes to melt what I haven’t cried off of my mascara.

“You already checked.”

The only times I’ve left my room since we returned to Boston late this afternoon was to check the door after I heard Fitz go upstairs a little after ten. Before I heard the padding of his feet on the stairs, he left another gentle knock. There had been many over the few hours we had been home, along with several questions asked through the shut door.

Was I okay.

Did I feel like eating.

I just feel… nothing beyond shame and stupidity.

---