Amelia CLEAN SLATE

AS I PACKED MY BAGS in my room at the octagon house, the view of the sun glinting off the water so bright that I had to squint, Parker watched me quietly, sitting in a chair in the corner.

I had let myself do the unthinkable: I had let myself feel something for Parker. Not just in a neighborly way, but in a loving, warm, maybe-we-could-be-together kind of way.

And now I had failed him. I was mortified. Oh, the way I had gone on and on about knowing that I was pregnant. What an idiot. This year had been nothing but one huge failure after another, and I just needed to go. I needed a clean slate.

Parker could never, ever know what I had been thinking, how I had envisioned a future for us. He was Greer’s and Greer’s alone, forever. Anyone could see that. I had thought for a moment that maybe we could open up to each other, that the love of a really good man could heal my heart. But now that I had crushed his dreams in the biggest possible way, I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t face his pain and know that I had caused it.

One of my goals this year was to be bolder, braver, to take more chances. This was a big chance, but, really, what did I have to lose? Worst case, he wasn’t interested, and I could go home, nurse my wounds, and move on.

I wasn’t going to confess my undying love or anything. I just wanted to ask if he felt what I felt or if it had been the hormones. An hour earlier, right after we had gotten home from the doctor’s office, I walked quietly down the hall into his room, where I could see him standing, his back to me. When I saw what he was doing, I knew that there wasn’t a chance for us. In his hands was a picture of Greer. He had told me over and over that she was the only one for him, but I hadn’t quite believed it. But, of course, it was true. He had done all of this for her. I had been the one to crush his dreams.

She would never be just a memory, and I could never play second fiddle to a dead woman. If I ever let myself move forward, I wanted to be first in a man’s heart. I hadn’t gotten that with Thad.

Now, in my bedroom, folding the final few items to put into my suitcase, Parker looked at me expectantly, like maybe he was going to say something, like maybe there was something else to say. But even I knew there wasn’t. I was defeated, humiliated, and ready to go find my real life, whatever and wherever that was. I couldn’t believe that just a few hours ago I had been prancing around here declaring how pregnant I knew I was. Really, it had just been gas from too much produce. What kind of woman couldn’t tell the difference between gas and a baby?

The weight of it all hit me so hard that I sat down on the bed. I made the critical mistake of saying, “I’m so sorry, Parker,” which was all it took for the tears to start flowing down my cheeks.

He sat beside me, put his arm around me, and consoled me, like I knew he would. He pulled me close and said, “There is nothing to be sorry for, Liabelle. We took a chance; we rolled the dice. So we didn’t win this time. It’s okay. It isn’t your fault.”

He pulled away and looked at me expectantly, trying to discern whether he had mended my broken heart. He had not. Nothing could. But, on the bright side, I had an interview at Sea & Sky the next week that I would nail and get the job and all this would be a blinking light in my rearview mirror.

I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. I remembered those eyes when he was a child, how wild they had been, how blinking and shining and full. His face still looked young, like someone who could just as easily have been doing keg stands with his fraternity brothers as mourning the loss of his would-be children. But his eyes? His were eyes that had seen things, that had known things that eyes that age should not know.

It was those sad eyes that had made me want to do this in the first place. And now, instead of making those sad eyes bright again, I had only contributed to the very real longing that stood, plain as day, behind their oceanic blue.

A part of me—a very small part—wondered if I should offer to do it again. But the real me, who wasn’t as brave as she thought she was, knew that wasn’t a possibility. I couldn’t take those eyes.

I squeezed Parker’s hand, smiled at him bravely, and said, “Goodbye, Parker.”

He didn’t say a word. What did that mean? I turned to walk away, feeling sad and empty.

When I got to Dogwood, my mother was on the living room sofa with Aunt Tilley, who was wearing normal clothes for the first time this entire trip. I knew it meant she was having a good spell, but, even still, I missed her silly Victorian dresses. Mrs. Thaysden was across the room. They were all sipping out of tiny teacups.

“Darlin’, don’t go,” Aunt Tilley pleaded.

“Yes, please don’t,” Mrs. Thaysden added. “Having y’all back home has been too wonderful for words. We don’t want to go back to just us old ladies.”

“Well, you’ll still have Parker for a while,” I interjected as cheerily as I could muster. And Mason. But I had a feeling no one wanted to be reminded of that. I tried to keep the tears from coming to my eyes. I knew Mom would see them, and I didn’t want her to. I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be strong. And I felt neither right now.

“Parker’s going back to Palm Beach right away, sweetheart,” Mom said. “Didn’t he tell you?”

Now I felt even worse if possible. He had to go back there and tell his father-in-law that there wouldn’t be a baby. Poor Parker. The man truly couldn’t catch a break.

Parker was going back to Palm Beach. I was going to New York, to a fresh start, a new life. I had run from Palm Beach. Now I was running from Cape Carolina. And it occurred to me that, pretty soon, I was going to be all out of places to hide.