Page 51 of The Backtrack
She missed her bed with the fluffy comforter she’d bought from a French flea market, and the gray morning light that streamed through her one enormous window. She missed the copper teakettle she used to make slow-drip coffee, and the smell of fresh baguettes from the bistro at the bottom of her building.
Instead of waking up rested in Paris, Sam was hungry and groggy in Tybee. She stretched her legs and arms until her fingers and toes reached the ends of the mattress. When she stood up, she was wobbly from all of the sleep. Still, she managed to make her way out of the room and into the hall. She paused at Pearl’s bedroom door, peeked through the crack and heard the unmistakable sound of her rainstorm white noise machine.
Sam switched on the overhead light in the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge. She pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea and the leftover rotisserie chicken Grandma Pearl must’ve brought home. She sat at the table and ate cold chicken and drank down two tall glasses of tea, focused on nothing but feeding herself.
When she was done, she wiped her greasy fingers on the front of the newspaper Pearl had left out, smearing the headline about an approaching tropical storm. She listened as the waves from the ocean sloshed onto the shore.
This was the first day she hadn’t seen Damon. They hadn’t even spoken to each other. Sam unplugged her phone from the charger, but there were no new messages from him, just a text from Rachel to let Sam know she’d made it home to her wife, and that the turkey sandwich from a new kiosk in Terminal A was worth the trip. Sam gave the text a thumbs-up.
Isolating herself from Damon was likely for the best. This way there would be no more distractions, just packing and leaving. She could get back to the life where she was a respected pilot, where she didn’t have to think about high school. Pearl would be taken care of, and Sam would find ways for them to see each other without having to step foot in Tybee again.
Sam put the remaining chicken and pitcher of tea back in the fridge, flipped the light off and walked back to her room. The glow from the lava lamp spilled into the hallway, like a beacon. She was ready to get back into bed.
When she pushed her bedroom door open, it wasn’t just the lava lamp that glowed, though. There was an eerie light from her desk drawer, too. When she opened the drawer, her eyes met the silver of the CD player. She took a step back.
So now it was just running by itself?
Sam shouldn’t touch it. But then again, the thing glowed up and begged her. Her hand didn’t wait for Sam to decide, apparently, because she reached right for it.
21
Sam immediately recognized the rapid strumming of the electric guitar, followed by the steady drumbeat, as “Maps” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs began. The lead singer’s emo bangs had inspired Sam to make the mistake of cutting her own. Plus, Sam had loved this song written by Karen O about her then boyfriend, Angus Andrew. She’d figured out before Damon that “Maps” was an acronym for My Angus Please Stay, and that the lyrics pleaded with Angus not to leave.
Sam took in a deep breath and closed her eyes as Karen O’s sweet voice sang to her. Like awhooshof air leaving her lungs, her whole body lightened. The unmistakable give of powdery sand made Sam’s eyes shoot open as she clocked that she was on the beach. She pushed herself up to standing and glanced around at the long stretch of tumbling waves.
The light was soft and warm, the way it changed as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. A strong sea breeze blew hair into her mouth and she coughed. She tugged the headphones off and threw them, along with the player, into the sand.
She caught a glimpse of a figure marching near the shore, and when she took a closer look, she recognized Alligator Alice pumping her arms in a red-and-white-striped Adidas tracksuit.
“Hey, you sure you’re okay?” Damon’s voice came from behind Sam.
She turned as Damon stepped off the nearby boardwalk with Alt-Sam at his side. Damon was in dark blue nursing scrubs with a low ponytail and slightly longer hair. Not a terrible look for him, but achoice.
Alt-Sam wore a rather questionable snake-print halter dress. Her long red hair was swept up into a bun, with two tendrils styled around her face, framing the matching red-stained lip.
“Remember what the doctor said? After a miscarriage, they recommend you rest for at least a week,” Damon tried again.
A miscarriage?
Alt-Sam’s expression darkened as she glanced away from Damon. “I remember.”
Sam’s heart sank. She hadn’t wanted Alt-Sam to be a teen mom, but a miscarriage was...awful, she imagined. She’d known women who’d been through the same thing—Rachel’s wife had tried to conceive with IVF for the past year, and they’d had one miscarriage that was so traumatic they’d put their fertility journey on hold. How was her eighteen-year-old self handling all this?
Not well, judging by the tension between them.
“Okay,” Damon eventually said. “We can go home. Just say the word.”
Alt-Sam kicked a spot in the sand and glowered. Damon looked like he was about to hug her, but that was when Farrah’s voice broke through.
“Time to party!” Farrah tucked a loose strand of hair into her newsboy cap as she bounded onto the beach. Her airbrushed tee read, “Farrah,” in a swarm of puffy clouds, and the gold belly chain hit just above the start of her gaucho pants.
Farrah opened her small shoulder bag and took out a flask. “Happy first day of nursing school, little bro!” She handed Damon the flask. He glanced at Alt-Sam before taking it.
“Sorry, but I couldn’t fit a full bottle in this small-ass purse.” Farrah shrugged.
“Is this one of your moonshine brews?” he playfully asked.
Farrah pulled out another flask and shook it at Alt-Sam. “Thisis a delicious pale ale that I’ve been perfecting. How about you, Sam-Sam?”
