Fly Away Home - - (tharntype novel english TXT) 📗

I WAKE TO THE SONG of cheerful birds. A ray of sunshine peeks through my window. The tireless attempt at inducing a good mood still isn’t working. I fling the covers off with determination, gearing myself up for the task ahead of me. Lizzie timed her midmorning trips to coincide with optimal lighting conditions. Based on the current position of the sun, it’s time to go.

I haven’t talked about the situation with her yet, and I will, but there are more important things to tackle first. Returning Jack’s sketchbook is the main purpose of my visit, but there’s more to it than that. He needs to be supplied with a healthy dose of what it means to be the adult when interacting with teenagers.

I could drive but walk instead. Should I rile myself up or calm myself down? I’m not sure which would be more helpful. Focused on my thoughts, I don’t notice the friendly greetings from others until they’re past me. I rehearse the questions hissing inside my head.

Why didn’t you tell me?

What were you thinking?

What else are you hiding?

Did I imagine . . . everything?

Strike that last one. My personal feelings will not cloud the purpose of this undertaking. I’m an adult, responsible for Lizzie’s whereabouts and safety. I should have been more careful and aware of what was happening around me. After letting my guard down, I am as angry with myself as I am with Jack.

All my questions are rhetorical. I don’t expect answers. I only want to read the look of surprise on his face when he sees me. It’s my way of knowing whether any part of this perceived connection was ever real.

I arrive at the bridge before realizing it. He’s not here. Does he know? Is he now trying to avoid me? He can’t and won’t. I recall the perspective Lizzie was painting. Looking up at the stone structure with midmorning sunlight peeking through the trees. I know where I need to go. The small footpath running along the side carves a trail downhill, to the stream babbling below. I step tentatively around the roots and rocks that keep me from doing what I need to do.

He’s sitting on a tree stump, knees pulled toward him with a new sketchbook in his lap, drawing something from memory.

Focus, Claire. These are the thoughts that got you into this situation to begin with.

I slide my shoes along the pathway, allowing the shuffle of dirt to announce my presence. He grins, never looking up from his sketch. “Did you bring me more of those delicious peaches?”

So that’s where they’ve been going. “No, but I brought something else you seem to have misplaced.”

Jack closes his sketchbook, as if concealing more. Hasn’t he hidden enough already? The look on his face says everything, revealing that he’s been found out. I’m not sure if it’s better or worse this way. If he attempted to handle the situation casually, I could rationalize naïveté on his part. But the fact he looks guilt-ridden? He understands what he has done, the trust he has violated.

“Why?” Of all the questions I’ve thought about and rehearsed, this is the single syllable that emerges. And all the emotions that have been fighting for control over me? The one I least expect to win traces a path down my cheek. Sadness.

“Claire, I can explain.”

Those are his first words? Not I’m sorry? All he wants to do is justify his misguided choice. “I’m not sure I want you to explain anything. I just came to give this back to you.”

For my entire childhood, I lived in fear. Never knowing what might happen next, I was always darting looks over my shoulder. I am grateful Lizzie has not been subjected to growing up in that type of caustic atmosphere. Still, I can’t shake those traumatic memories from my mind when situations like this arise. I took for granted that I knew what she was doing and where she was going. It was only supposed to involve a walk down the sidewalk and back. What if she found herself in danger? What if something went wrong? How could I allow myself to become so sidetracked with my personal emotions and issues? I failed to look after the teenager left in my care.

I thrust the sketchbook at Jack, as if touching it for any longer will send a crippling electric shock through me. A peculiar energy and sense of courage emerge after releasing my grip on it. My decision to let go has freed me from his beguiling influence.

“How could you do this?” The words spew from my mouth with conviction. While that final word, this, pertains to this particular incident, it runs much deeper, and he knows it. “I thought . . .”

No, don’t go there. “I’m responsible for Lizzie. I’m the adult, not her.” How could I allow the innocent charm of small-town life to cloud my judgment? “How did you think this was okay, hiding this from me? Why did you feel the need to?” He’s staring directly at me, eyes connected with mine, trying his best to see what’s inside me. “Are you going to say something? Anything?”

“I . . .” Another shuffle behind us comes at the most inopportune time. It’s probably a fisherman looking to snag a catfish for dinner tonight. The footsteps stop moving, and all I hear is the stream gurgling past. If only I could toss all these confusing emotions into the water and allow the current to carry them far away.

Jack looks over my shoulder, to the place where the stranger waits to pass. “Hi, Hank.”

Hank? I turn around to find an equally guilty look on his face, along with a bag of peaches in his hand. “What are you doing here?” If my feelings are a jumbled mess, my understanding of what’s happening is even more confusing.

“I guess Lizzie’s not coming today.” I can’t tell whether it’s a statement or question.

“That would be a safe assumption.”

“It was Lydia’s idea. Sort of.” Please, someone give me the strength to understand these cryptic words. I cross my arms and stand waiting. My posture and silence let both of them know I want an explanation. Now.

“Lydia kept looking for new things that Lizzie might want to paint. But I could tell her heart was being pulled elsewhere.” He shifts the bag of peaches to his other hand. “When Jack arrived in my shop at the same time Lizzie was there, we . . . I had an idea. We meant to include you, but . . . well . . . we didn’t.”

So Hank is as much to blame as Jack? This situation has moved from bad to worse. Someone I thought was a trustworthy friend has gone behind my back. For something I probably would have allowed after a proper discussion.

“Claire, I’m sorry.” At least Hank has the courage to say those words.

I glare at Jack, wondering if he’ll follow suit. When he doesn’t, I redirect my focus to Hank. “I trusted you.” I know there’s hurt in my voice, vulnerability exposed again. I can’t stop it this time. Flashing another quick glance at Jack, I notice genuine regret in his eyes. “And I wanted to trust you.”

I won’t remain here any longer. I climb the uphill path toward a town that now feels less like home.

“Claire, wait.” I pause for a short second, contemplating the urgency in Jack’s words. With determination, I march forward, never turning around. I’m done waiting for things to go right for me.