Page 6 of The Backtrack
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Grandma Pearl, as it turned out,hadbeen on her usual walk around the neighborhood, but failed to see a newly formed crack in the sidewalk from the roots of a nearby gum tree. She’d fallen forward, caught herself with her hands and broken a wrist in the process. After four hours in the emergency room, she was back home and sitting at the kitchen table with her arm propped up in a neon yellow cast, like one enormous highlighter.
“The doctor said I have to shower with a trash bag over my arm. Am I supposed to wash my hair with my feet?” Pearl lifted both feet off the floor for emphasis. She was a short, petite and feisty woman, with Birkenstock sandals and faded tattoos that crawled up her arms. She’d taught herself how to boogie board when she was fifty, was the first woman to run for mayor of Tybee—but lost, sadly—and had won a beachside fried shrimp-eating competition in 2003.
Sam’s grandma wasn’t exactly the cookie-baking, nurturing type that you’d expect from a name like Pearl, but Sam had always liked that she was a bit eccentric.
“Salon de Sam is open for business.” She winked at Pearl, but her grandma did not look amused.
“That’s not reassuring, considering your hair right now.” Grandma Pearl pointed to Sam’s ponytail. Sam reached a hand up and felt the undeniable halo of frizz. She held back an eye roll as she smoothed a palm across the top.
Her grandma could also be totally vicious.
“Hey, at least you didn’t break a hip.” Damon shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, which made his triceps flex. Sam tried not to stare. “Could be worse, right?”
“Not all old people break their hips.” Pearl tsked. Then she got a little glint in her eye. “But you know who did? Peggy Clemens. And you know what? She’s dead now.”
“Jesus, Grandma,” Sam said.
“What? It’s true!” Pearl threw up both hands, then winced as she remembered how heavy her cast was. “So, yes, it could be worse, to your point.”
Damon gave her an amused smile. “My mom’s going to make you more food, too.”
“Please tell her I’m fine.” Pearl’s lips closed into a thin line.
“You know Cathy,” Damon said. “She’s going to insist.”
Damon’s mom had basically been made in a 1950s lab for stay-at-home parents, if that lab was also run by vegans. She was always cooking something for her kids to eat—her tofu muffins were legendary—seemed to be at every school function, and would bring Sam homemade “chicken” noodle soup at the first sign of a sniffle. The opposite of Sam’s mom.
“I’ve gotta get back to the brewery before closing. We’re always slammed on Saturdays,” Damon said as he glanced at his phone. “Do you need anything before I head out? If you have questions, you can call. Or text. I know everyone hates calling. I don’t know why I said that.” He avoided looking at Sam as he puffed out his chest.
And for a moment, she found herself unable to speak. Damon used to be such a goofball, which was one of the things they’d bonded over. He never took himself too seriously, but here he was seemingly self-conscious about an offhand comment.
“We’ll be fine,” Sam said quickly.
He gave a faint smile, then headed to the door.
“Sorry you came home to a mess,” he said low enough for only Sam to hear. “Are you really going to be okay?”
NowthisDamon was one she recognized—ever protective of her.
“Thanks, but we’ll figure it out. If I can fly a plane, I can help Pearl. I think.” Sam shot a look at her grandma. The thought of having to clean out the house and assist Grandma Pearl with showers was already feeling heavier than the pressure of flying through an electrical storm.
“I was starting to think I wouldn’t see you again.” His expression turned somber, and she saw another flicker of the Damon she knew from high school.
“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you sooner,” she said. And while she thought she was just reciting one of the many lines she’d rehearsed for this visit, she found that shewassorry. Because even though they’d only been together for a few minutes, there was a long-dormant part of her lighting up with the familiar warmth she’d always felt whenever she was with him.
He let out a long-suffering breath before the next bit. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“Right.” Sam coughed as her throat went dry. She should’ve known better than to think he wasn’t hurt. That she could just show up here and not be questioned. Still...could she crawl out of her skin and leave her body? Was that an option? She’d rather be permanently trapped in an airplane bathroom than face whatever Damon had to ask. But she was stuck there, and for longer than she’d originally thought.
Sam pulled at the end of her ponytail, hoping an escape parachute would open up and release her from this moment. None came, though, so she said something to buy herself time. “I’m just a little jet-lagged from the flight and the drive.”
“I can imagine.” His jaw clenched, which only did him favors in highlighting the dimples in his cheeks. “We don’t have to figure everything out right now.”
Great. She searched his eyes, waiting to see if there was anything more he wanted from her in that moment. And, apparently, there was.
“Oh, almost forgot.” He slapped his hand on the door frame, then turned toward the driveway and waved for her to follow. He took her to his jet-black, flame-decaled motorcycle. He’d lost the red streaks in his hair, but put it on the side of his bike, apparently. He opened the back storage attached to the seat and pulled out a six-pack of beer. She took the pack, and the cold soothed her clammy hands.
