I was once troubled by the many paths that lay before me so I decided to be admirable at everything.
–Cyrano de Bergerac
“Night, Beast.”
Lucas passes me on the way to his car, and I throw him a two-fingered wave, waiting until his door is closed before shoving the key in my ignition. But before I put the truck in gear, I check my phone.
I miss you.
It’s two a.m., way too late to write back. Or too early. Four a.m. in New York. My fingers hover over the keyboard. But then I toss the phone down on the empty seat and get moving.
Driving home from work isn’t the same without Fred next to me. I glance over at her side of the cab.
Nothing is the same.
School is starting next month, and I’ve been trying to distract myself until then by working as many hours as possible. When classes start, I’ll still work part-time, helping after school in the kitchen at Bodean’s for a few hours each night. Anything to keep my mind from lingering on the woman with a boy’s name, the heart of an angel, and a tendency to ramble when she’s nervous. It would take me a full twenty-four hours to reach her if I kept driving.
When I pass the tree where we used to park, I almost give in to the urge.
But when I reach the turnoff that stretches down to the ranch, I take it.
The next morning, Grace is in the kitchen, sitting on the counter with her laptop open next to her.
She jumps down when she sees me. “You want coffee?”
I nod and she practically flies to the machine to pour me a mug.
She’s been doing this ever since Fred left.
“How was work?”
Fine, I sign.
“Are you hungry?” She smiles at me. “I can cook something for you. I’m really good at slapping together sandwiches and pouring milk into cereal.”
I shake my head no.
Her smile droops and she pivots away, facing her laptop.
I grimace and rub a hand through my hair. I miss Fred. It’s difficult to pretend otherwise. Grace has been doing her best to be positive and upbeat and make me feel better, but I know it’s only because she’s harboring guilt.
It’s not Grace’s fault. She’s just a kid who already has enough to deal with. Staying is my choice. But part of me wishes I could leave. If I knew Grace would be okay, maybe I would go to New York.
I set down my coffee and walk over to her, leaning back against the counter so we’re facing each other.
Are you coming with me today? I sign.
She nods. “Of course. I have an appointment later, too.”
According to the doctors, my larynx is weak from disuse. The larynx itself is a muscle that houses the tissues and vocal cords used to create sound. I’ve got to strengthen those muscles in order to produce anything more than moans and shrieks. But first, I have to push through the swamping anxiety that threatens me every time I try.
After Fred left, I upped my sessions to three times a week. More than anything, I want to be able to talk to her. To call her.
Texting hasn’t been completely awful. Some of the pictures Fred has sent me, along with the more explicit messages, are exhilarating, and yet they make the hole in my heart that much bigger. She also texts photos of landmarks, excited to show me every part of her city whenever I can visit, but I just want to spend that time with her in bed, exploring the parts of her body in the other photos she’s sent.
I have to delete everything so Grace doesn’t come across them while snooping on my phone. She doesn’t do it to be cruel or anything, it’s just part of her—tech is something that gives her a measure of control when the rest of the world feels like it’s spinning out of it.
Even with the therapy, pushing anything through my throat continues to be difficult. It would be laughable if it weren’t so pathetic. But difficult doesn’t mean impossible. It’s getting better—especially since meeting Fred—but loving her isn’t a cure-all. There is no magic button. Every day, it will get a little bit better as long as I roll with the inevitable setbacks.
Setbacks like Fred’s absence. Since she left, everything has been harder. Touching her helped. Taking care of her helped. Her taking care of me helped. Being understood, accepted without judgment. Not once did she make me feel less than, even when she knew everything.
The rest of my family helps, too, but it’s not the same.
I’m going to get chores done before we leave, I sign to Grace and she nods.
“Beast,” she calls before I can make it through the door.
I stop and face her.
Her mouth is a thin, colorless slash in her normally expressive face. “You’re not happy.”
I’m fine.
She sighs. “Make sure you close the coop door if you’re checking on the eggs. Kylo Hen’s been more ornery than usual.”
Two weeks later, things are better and things are worse. I spoke a word in therapy. One clear, careful word, with proper enunciation and everything.
I’ve video messaged with Fred three times, which is wonderful and weird all at once. She’s been practicing her ASL and we spoke using a combination of hands and texting, but at least we could also see each other. Her beautiful smile filling the screen is a double-edged sword of pleasure and pain.
The next morning I’m cooking breakfast for Jude and Reese. Jude levels me with a penetrating look. “Not sleeping?”
I shrug. I’ve been having problems falling asleep and staying asleep. It’s something that used to be an issue, years ago. It had gotten better, but now . . .
“You smiled more when she was here.”
I cut him a sharp glance.
“No reason to get cranky, big fella, that wasn’t judgment upon your current level of stoicism.” He pats me on the shoulder. “You have options. No one is forcing you to stay, not even the teenage menace to society.”
My jaw clenches and I scowl at him. He knows why I can’t leave.
Jude lifts his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I’m just sayin’, we would all understand if you had to follow your own path. We won’t ever stop being your family. Where you live isn’t important.”
I wish it were that easy.
Later in the week, my therapist prescribes me an anti-anxiety medication to help with the ongoing cognitive behavioral therapy.
Part of me recoils at taking pills, not only because of the side effects, but because I should be strong enough to work through things without medication. Physically, I can take on anything. I’m not used to feeling weak. But I know that’s pride speaking. If it will allow me to progress to the point where I can speak with Fred, I’ll crawl through broken glass to make it happen.
And then one Sunday, everything changes.
Granny has allowed me to take over Sunday supper duties, a miracle in and of itself.
She and Grace are target shooting in the backyard and I’m braising short ribs on the BBQ when Grace comes pounding up the porch, out of breath.
Are you okay? I sign, but she doesn’t appear injured. She’s smiling.
She shoves a thick white envelope in my hands. “This came for you today.”
The return address is in New York.
I stare at her long enough and hard enough that she smacks me in the arm. “Open it.”
As I tear open the envelope, the words on the paper blur before my eyes. It’s an acceptance letter to the CIA, in New York. The one Fred told me about.
I blink to clear my vision, emotion gripping my throat, but this time it’s not because of anxiety or apprehension.
My gaze flies back to Grace and holds.
She bites her lip. “I’ve been selfish. I can’t hold you back from what you want. I love you. I care about what you want more than what I want. And you will be happier wherever she is.” She swallows and then talks in a rush of words. “So I might have sort of hacked into your computer and stolen your résumé and sent it in. If you love me, you’ll go. Because nothing is more important than your happiness. You are always looking out for everyone else, and it’s time that someone looked after you.”
I put my hands up to sign, but she stops me with a shake of her head.
“And it might be possible that the time you applied to that other culinary school in Dallas, maybe I made sure you wouldn’t get in. But that was wrong, and now I’m trying to make it right. Besides,” she continues, “if you had gotten in to the other place, then you never would have met Fred, so really I did you a favor.”
Okay, even I can admit that’s stretching. But still.
“It’s my turn to sacrifice something for you,” Grace says. “Just like you did when we lived with he who shall not be named.”
I smile. Fred made Grace watch all of the Harry Potter movies over Christmas break. And then a week later, during a fit when Grace threw her laundry at Fred, Fred danced around yelling, “Dobby is free!” and Grace laughed so hard she cried.
I blink through a film of tears. Shake my head. How can this be real?
I sign, How can I leave you behind? And I still can’t talk.
“Don’t argue with me. A lot of people don’t talk. And you’re learning. You will talk. I know it. There’s no reason you can’t continue your voice therapy in New York. And maybe,” she bites her lip and her head droops, “maybe I need to learn how to be on my own, too. But I’m not really on my own. We will always have each other no matter where you live. Jude and Granny and the rest of them won’t let me be lonely. And I’ll visit you. Please, Beast, follow your happy.”
I yank her to me, hugging her tiny frame. When she was born, she almost fit in my hand, she was so tiny.
She pulls back first. “I had to pull some strings to make sure you could start when the next term begins in a month. And Granny wants another party before you leave, so it’s going to get busy. Are you going to call Fred?”
My grin is so wide it hurts my cheeks.
Fred was the hero in her story, and now it’s time for the rest of us to follow suit.