Won't Let Go Read online

  And dammit, he nods again. “Sounds good.”

  I let out a humph, which is muffled by a yawn.

  “You’re tired,” he says matter of factly, getting up from the chair. The small wheels on the bottom squeal as it rolls towards the desk. He’s already at the closet door before I realize he’s actually leaving. “From now on I’ll knock,” he says. And as if my expression—though I don’t think it does—shows him I don’t understand, his knuckles tap the door as his other hand pulls it open.

  He doesn’t say good-bye and neither do I, but I watch him disappear through the door and it annoys me. He does it so human-ish. As if instead of vanishing on the other side he’s just leaving through the door, or window, like some normal guy would.

  Once he’s gone, I slide down the pillows and curl up, wrapping my arms around the duvet, curious if Oakley’s head nods and one-liners are a sign of how he acted when he was alive. If he was as quiet and reserved as he seems now, or if death changed him—made him...a little boring. Either way, he still needs my help and I’m determined to give it.

  Chapter Seven

  I wake up from another unusually fitful night. When my eyes flutter open, bringing in the morning, my duvet is tangled between my legs. I’m wrapped up so tightly in the covers, I could be a mummy, or a burrito, as Mom used to say when she tucked me in super tight. Untangling myself from the confines of my duvet, I slide off the bed.

  In the bathroom, I splash cool water on my face, waking myself up even further. Then taking my brush I work out the matt that has developed at the back of my head, another thing that tells me I tossed and turned a lot. But why? I can’t really pinpoint what I was thinking, what crept into my dreams, making me uncomfortable enough to try and strangle myself with a down filled duvet.

  While working through the knots, I realize something. I stink. And not in a putrid, bag lady from the streets way, but in a worked out hard during gym class way. After stripping off my clothes, I turn on the taps of the porcelain tub. It’s old, or one of those new ones that’s meant to look old. You know, bringing out the old charm. The back is high. The tub itself is deep. And holding it up, off the ground, are four golden clawed feet. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before. Then again, I suppose I’ve had other, more exciting things on my mind.

  Oakley.

  The water is hot, steaming up the bathroom. I tilt my head back and let the spray from the shower rain droplets all over my body. It’s nice. It’s quiet, and with each passing second I feel cleansed, both on the inside and outside. The water washes away everything, taking away my troubles, pooling them in the tub before they swirl down the drain. But like the swing did yesterday, it’s only temporary. Once I turn off the water, dry my skin and leave the bathroom, everything will come rushing back.

  I think I’ll only truly be relaxed when Oakley’s mystery is solved.

  After Oakley left last night, I thought about him, and not just about his personality. The fact that he's totally hot is hard to ignore. I don’t know much about ghosts, but I think if I—we—can figure out what happened to him, he’ll be free to move on. Maybe that’s why he’s still here. And as for me, I don’t think I can ever feel like this is my room or my own space until he’s gone.

  I toss on another pair of worn in, distressed jeans, cute socks with frogs on them and a faded Metallica concert T-shirt that I paid four-ninety-nine for at a thrift store in Hollywood.

  With my Converses in hand, I head towards the door, but pause, looking back at the closet and the fact that Oakley never showed up this morning. There’s a small pang in my stomach I quickly push down. He’s a ghost. He comes and goes as he pleases, and it shouldn’t matter to me what he’s doing or where he’s doing it.

  But it does.

  I’m curious, and as sad as it is, I’ve realized, so far he’s the only person I’ve—and I say this loosely—befriended here.

  “Where are you off to so early?” Mom eyes the sneakers dangling from my hand as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  She’s still wearing her fuzzy pink bathrobe and slippers. Her eyes are glossed and she’s not fully awake, but that’s what the cup of coffee cradled in her hands is for.

  “I’m going to explore the town,” I say.

  She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right now? It’s a little early isn’t it? Besides, I thought we could go pick out paint colors today.” Hope fills her tone, and it’s all over her face.

  “I want to get the lay of the land. I mean I only have a few more days until school starts up.” It’s a lame excuse, I know.

  She releases one hand from her coffee filled mug and gestures to the kitchen. “At least have some coffee first? Maybe some Apple O's?”

  I relent and walk towards the kitchen, Mom close on my heels. If this will get her off my back, it’s the least I can do. A morning at the hardware store perusing paint chips is not my idea of fun, at all.

  Mom grabs another mug from the cupboard next to the sink. It’s one of those photo mugs. You know, put your silly family picture on it and give it to someone as a gift. The idea always seemed tacky to me. However, one year for Father’s Day Mom dragged me to the mall, stuck me into one of those photo booths, and together we took some pretty funny pictures just so we could have mugs made for Dad. Of course, he loved them. Forever I am imprinted on a mug with Mom giving me bunny-ears, or my tongue lolling out of my mouth like a dog.

  The coffee mug she sets down in front of me is actually a nice one. Mom and I are smiling at the camera. I was twelve, and it was before my friends took over my life. I have a huge gap in my teeth—an awkward phase every kid seems to endure.

  I press my lip to the rim of the ceramic and blow lightly. It creates a wave of ripples, pushing the steam away. “Would you like one of those muffins you bought yesterday? They are delicious.”

  “Okay,” I say. She opens the plastic container and puts a muffin on a paper towel she’s torn off the roll. Setting it down, she sits on the stool next to mine. I feel her eyes on me. “What?”

  She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s an ochre color because she’s smothered the flavor with cream. “I just thought we could have a girl’s day is all.”

  Girl’s day. If Mom had it her way, she and I would spend every day giggling over chick-flicks, gossip magazines, or getting pampered at the spa. Sometimes I think I’ve been a bit of a disappointment to her. Being the only child, I think she assumed we’d always be close, I’d always think she was the greatest person in the world, and like everything she does. I still love her, but that’s just not me. I don’t like getting pampered. The odd manicure here and there is enough. Besides, I can paint my toenails just as good as anyone else can. I’m just not the girly-girl she’d hoped I’d be. I’m also not sure I’m ready for a whole day commitment. We’ve strayed over the years, and though I’m working on closing up the rift, patching the holes and making it so we can float again together, I’m not quite there yet. I can’t handle being a disappointment because I haven’t been the best daughter, and I don’t like the same things she does. But soon. Soon, I tell myself. We’ll get there.

  I pick at the muffin. It crumbles onto the paper towel and stains my fingers purple. “Maybe some other time,” I sigh. Taking a final sip of coffee, I push the mug away. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Okay, have fun.”

  As I get up from the island and head to the door, she doesn’t even look up. A twinge of guilt hits me in the stomach. My stomach’s getting quite the work out these days. I sigh.

  I park the Mustang in a random spot on Main Street. It’s the first I saw, so I took it. In L.A. that’s what you did. Parking is a hot commodity. But now, as I make my way down the street, it’s apparent that this really isn’t LA. I pass by dozens of empty spots. A good walk never killed anyone. Besides, I have no idea where the library is. I assume Willard Grove has one, and I assume it’s somewhere in the vicinity. I can’t wait until the cable and Internet gets hooked up. Google Maps would h
ave made this endeavor much easier.

  I turn onto another street, walk by the donut shop I noticed the other day, a thrift store I make note to come back to later and an appliance store. At the end of the street, lo and behold, a tall, almost church like building—complete with a steeple but no cross—grabs my attention like a beacon. In thick blue lettering Community Library hangs on a sign just above the entrance. I wonder how I missed that earlier.

  My easy stride picks up pace as the finish line is in sight. But I’m forced to stop when loud thumping footsteps and a voice calls out, “Alex? Alex, wait up!” Slowly, I turn on my heels. Allison, the grocery store clerk, is bustling up the street towards me. Her face is flushed, and she’s huffing and puffing as she draws nearer. I’m not surprised she’s out of breath. Slung over her shoulder is a very large, very heavy looking designer bag. Is that thing filled with rocks?

  I lift up my hand and give her a small wave. “Uh hi, Allison.”

  Just as Allison reaches me, the bag falls from her shoulder. She grabs the straps and hoists it back up. “I thought that was you.” She smiles.

  I look over my shoulder, at the library. I can almost feel my body being pulled in that direction.

  “Are you busy? We could grab a coffee?”

  I give her a once over. I can’t help it. The designer bag of bricks isn’t her only fashion statement. She’s got on a very slim pair of black skinny jeans, making her legs look long and lean and a cute pair of red heeled strappy sandals. This girl is way too perfect. Her shirt, though stylish, is a little off-putting considering the warm spring heat. Can we say pit stains? Cause that’s totally going to happen. It’s a thick long sleeved v-neck. It really hugs her in all the right places so maybe it’s a style over comfort thing. And the big splash of color in the form of a vintage-style rose attracts your attention to her ample chest. Even her hair is perfectly smooth, cut just so the angle in the front delicately frames her oval face. Her make-up is simple and clean. The entire package forces me to look down at my own tattered, plain jeans and T-shirt. I doubt I’ll fit in with her clique.

  I want to say no—about the coffee. I really do. I look again at the library. It’ll have to wait. Besides, there’s a good chance Allison might be able to help me out. What’s that old saying? Something about the locals knowing everything? “Sure.”

  I fall into step with Allison as we backtrack to the donut shop I passed earlier. She opens the door and ushers me inside. The aroma of sugar and yeast fills my nose as a waft of warm air encircles me. I step up to the counter. A large back-lit menu board is hung against the wall. To my left, there’s a case full of donuts, muffins and cookies behind handprint smudged glass. Allison jumps in, ordering a double-double and an apple fritter as I try to make up my mind. She pays, takes her coffee and soggy looking fritter into her hands and steps to the side.

  The counter person shifts and sighs, waiting to take my order. It’s funny, this place with its yellow walls, cracked tiled floor and slightly grimy everything is trying to be a Starbucks but to no avail. They offer fancy drinks, but when I order a Macchiato, like the menu board promises, the know-nothing barista stares at me with confusion. She, black hair pulled up into a net, brown visor and dirty apron, says, “Coffee’s fresh.”

  Taking this as a sign, I order a black coffee. I always wondered why people drink coffee, if only to mask the flavor—like Mom does—with sugar and cream.

  I toss over a crumpled five dollar bill and accept my change. At least the prices aren’t like the fancy coffee back home.

  We sit by the window. My chair is hard, worn wood, and the table’s unlevel, tilting precariously to one side. I have to put my foot on the base just to steady it.

  Allison digs into her fritter, and with a mouth full of dough and apple, she says, “I’m so glad you came.”

  Looking out the window, I nod. I can’t look at her. Who talks with a mouth full of food? It’s apparent her grocery packing skills aren’t the only things lacking. Then I chastise myself for being such a—nit-picky freak. I thought I was going to work on that too, wasn’t I?

  This time she swallows down her food with a swig of coffee before she says, “So, how are you liking it here? I mean it’s no California.”

  “It’s quaint.” I take a sip of coffee. Watered down and piss warm. Then it hits me. I don’t think I ever told her where I was from. “How’d you know?” I ask, surprised.

  Allison’s head tilts to the side. She waves me off. “A hunch,” she says. “It was either that or Florida.”

  I nod. Then I say, “I haven’t had much time to look around, yet,” with a smile, realizing I should try to fit in and not completely alienate myself.

  “Oh, well. There’s not really too much to see. I mean, I like it here, but I bet it must seem tiny to you.”

  "It's quiet." I take another sip of coffee. My foot begins to fidget. The table begins to vibrate as my impatience gets the better of me. So much for trying to steady the table and make small talk. Suddenly I wish I had said no. I’m not sure if Allison can help me out. Nor do I think I want her to. But that doesn’t stop me from trying. I push my own feelings aside and remember I’m here for Oakley, if nothing else. “So, I was wondering, I just moved into that house, at the top of the hill on Elm—”

  She leans forward, and taking a napkin from the dispenser, brushes her fingers with it.

  “Do you know anything about it? I mean its history?”

  She thinks about this for a minute. “Oh, it’s got history, just not the historical kind.”

  My eyebrows furrow. Is there any other kind of history? “What do you mean?”

  “Well—” She wraps her hands around the coffee mug and brings it to her lips before setting it back down on the veneered table top. “I’m surprised you don’t know, being its new owner and all.”

  “Please, enlighten me,” I say. Quickly I put another smile on my face, trying to be more personable.

  The mug of coffee finds its way to her lips again. “It’s quite sad really. Shook the whole town up.” She pauses.

  I lean in, folding my arms on the table, silently begging her to spit it out, because my head is coming undone with all sorts of scenarios, all of them involving Oakley. I wonder what he’s doing right now...

  “A few years back, maybe four or five, the two brothers who lived there got into a fight or something. I think one of them died. I don’t really remember much. It was a long time ago, and the boys were quite a bit older than me.”

  “What?” I’m in shock. My hands tremble as I pull them from the table and slide them into my lap, wringing them together. I can’t imagine Oakley getting into a fight. He’s so—so I don’t know...I just can’t see it. Allison also sounds unsure, like she’s grasping at the memory, but might not have the facts right. Four or five years ago I was in middle school, so was Allison. Something like that, in the news, wouldn’t hold much interest to a preteen.

  This, however, is the only pseudo lead I have, the only local I know, so I press for more facts. “Can you think of their names? I mean you know the house, you might know the names of the people who lived there, right?”

  Allison holds the mug, about to take another swig. She shakes her head. “No, not really, it was...a long time ago. Do you know what classes you’re taking this semester?”

  “No, not yet. I’m supposed to get my schedule first day back. How about someone else I can talk to? Don’t you have an older brother or sister?”

  “Uh, nope,” she says quickly. Her right hand leaves the mug and tucks some hair around her ear.

  “Can I talk to your folks? I mean they’d have to remember—”

  “You can’t. They’re...on vacation.”

  My eyebrows rise. Odd. I shake out the trembles in my hands, grab my coffee cup and chug it down. “I’ve got to get going,” I say hastily.

  Now, more than ever, I want to get to the library and figure out once and for all what happened. No matter how sad it is, if Oakley was killed
by his own brother, I need to know.

  I’m already pushing my chair out, standing up when Allison says, “O-Okay, well I’ll see you around?”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks for the coffee.” I make a beeline for the door, push it open and step out into the warm April air. I don’t bother looking back, I’m pretty sure if I did, Allison would be staring at me, mouth open—probably thinking I’m one rude California girl. And I almost feel bad for leaving that impression. On a good day, that’s not who I am at all, not anymore, at least.

  Chapter Eight

  The cool air of the library instantly tickles my skin with goose-bumps as I step through the door. The climate difference, from smouldering hot to cold, makes me wish I had a hoodie or long sleeves. But I know this is only temporary, that soon enough I’ll be back outside, suffocating in the heat. I settle for rubbing my hands over my bare arms as I walk towards the information desk.

  I’m not sure what it is, but all libraries are the same, the smell of paper and glue assaults my nose. The so-quiet-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop makes me want to hum a tune just to make sound.

  At least librarians are friendly, eager to please, and Willard Grove’s librarian is no exception. As I approach the desk, my sneakers making suction sounds against the polished floor, the woman behind it looks up. Her long slender finger quickly reaches up, pushing her glasses tight against her head. Only they slip slightly down the bridge of her nose, again. Her smile is warm, inviting, and her eyes gleam behind thick lenses.

  “Welcome, can I help you find anything?” she says with a small voice. It matches her small frame that swims in her oversized gray cable-knit cardigan. And peeking out from beneath the wool and buttons is the frill of a pink silky looking blouse. Apparently she missed the memo that librarians no longer need to look like ‘50’s schoolmarms.